Pet Cobra

The Surf Report for Sunday, October 29: Confessions of A Veteran Kook

Some of you who read this may be laboring under the impression that I'm a good surfer. Rest assured that's not the case; more accurately, it's no longer the case.

Back when I first started, I was an obsessive machine. I'd go out every day, regardless of the conditions, for hours at a stretch. It was easy - I was younger, in great shape, with a job that allowed for dawn patrols every day. And I had an extremely forgiving board, my first, a 9'2" Brewer performance longboard. It was maybe too easy - the time to challenge myself on new equipment and in bigger surf was squandered; I got comfortable, and had that board not been snapped in two on a particularly big day I probably would've ridden that board, or copies of it, right up to the present. I used to think it was two things - my choice of equipment and the fact that I'm no longer in the water 2 to 3 hours a day, five to seven days a week - that led to my decline. Not the case, as I realized yesterday.

Whiff and family came down to Casa Avant for the big Halloween weekend festivities, thus I got the chance to paddle out with the man himself on Sunday morning. We did the north coastal sweep, checking out spots that will remain unnamed, finally settling on one of my new favorite locations, Semi-Secret Beach Break (henceforth known as SSBB). Sometimes the mornings here even impress me, and here we had the makings of a Perfect Day - offshore breeze, brilliantly clear water, a handful of guys in the lineup, and ridable stuff.

Ridable, that is, unless you're me.

The session was a struggle. Out of position (too far outside), weak-ass paddling (to be sure, I was hungover, and I strongly suspect that I've got some sort of rotator cuff issue, but that's no excuse - hell, there was an Old Guy on a log paddling with one arm behind his back - literally! Whiff will back me on this! - and catching waves), too far back on the board, leisurely pop-ups...all of which I could have gotten away with on the longboard, but the weapon of choice was the Hogfish, and you don't fuck around with the Hog. I got my shit together on one wave, enough to actually get up and make the drop. I've had a couple of decent sessions on the thing, but yesterday was not one of them. (And by "not one of them", I mean "absogoddamlutely mortifying".) At least Whiff caught a few, and got to experience north coastal San Diego surfing.

But every surf session affords one the opportunity to learn something. The lesson: the good ride is earned, not given. At one point, I made an offhand comment to Whiff about my poor wave selection; his response was along the lines of "I just go for everything." (And catches it, too. "Novice Surfer" my ass.) The truth was found on that one wave that I caught - it wasn't so much technique, or timing, or the wave itself.  It was a brief flash of razor-sharp focus and intensity - when people talk of "hard-charging" surfers, that's the ineffable quality of which they speak -  and that's something that I seem to have forgotten.  Too busy trying to compare dawn patrols with walks along Walden Pond, I guess...

The Surf Report for Thursday, October 26: Solitude

Out the door at 6:45 this morning. The sun was just starting to emerge, illuminating a cloudless sky. Quick glance at the palm trees in the front yard - immobile. No wind. Nice.

I headed north, around the bend to Home Break - nothing. Then south, down the PCH to a new, Semi-Secret Spot. Some promise - the occasional two-to-three footer pushing through, needing more tide, as Surfline likes to say. But there was a hint of an offshore breeze. Nothing for it but to surf, as I like to say. There was one other guy out. I suited up - DAMN chilly morning air - and surveyed the stretch of beach. The other guy was mostly missing the incoming waves, but I decided to give him some distance and paddled out a few hundred yards north of his position.

I do this every time I come across a solitary surfer. For a number of reasons, not the least of which being that on my best days I'm merely competant in the water and have no business trying to jockey for waves with better surfers. There's a deeper reason, though. There's nothing better than having a spot to oneself; the senses become sharper, the sounds, sights and feel of the ocean more vibrant. Most of us get so few chances to be alone - our days are spent sitting in traffic, standing in lines, struggling to stay focused through endless meetings and conference calls, floating in lineups alongside forty or fifty of our closest friends. Thoreau said that he never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude; I don't know if I'd go that far, but I do like the occasional Alone Time, and I try to avoid fucking up others' whenever possible.

The two guys that paddled out soon thereafter? Not trancendentalists. I watched from a comfortable distance as they pulled up right alongside the other guy, and immediately began the classic buddy box-out and drop-in routine. The lone guy gave up; he caught one and paddled in. As it happened, the surf settled down; I took one in and continued south, down the jam-packed freeway. An unproductive session as far as actual surfing, but a nice morning date with no one but myself.

Mo' NaNoWriMo

See that icon I added? Scroll down a bit, past the picture of me (a still from the A-Ha video I starred in back in the 80's - apologies in advance for getting that fucking song stuck in your heads for the remainder of the day)...there. National Novel Writing Month starts in a couple of weeks. And again I've answered the call to glory, only for reals this time.

Unlike last year, I have the book stashed between my ears. Plot, themes, characters, title, all there. Just need to put it on paper. I'm told that's the easy part. We'll see. I'm a very critical reader, and I'm going to hold myself up to some serious scrutiny.

Writing for me is a Big Deal. My day job...it pays the bills, and that's the depth of my feeling towards my profession. I took the plunge into the world of professional authorship earlier this year, and while it hasn't gone as I'd hoped (yes, the proposal is still in circulation with some interest but no takers), the feedback I received on my contribution to the book set the hook firmly in my jaw - I can do this. My "real" (don't take offense to that, blogger compadres o' mine) writing style is much, much different than what I present to the Internets; I don't write like I blog, and I'm excited to unleash that particular beast. And nervous - there are elements, and people, that are going to be based on real life. ( I'd love to ask Tom Perrotta's wife what she thought about Little Children.)

As things progress, I may post sections of the book on this site. I'm debating the merits of this; while I'd love for people to read it and hear what they think, there's pitfalls in getting feedback on fragments of a work in progress.  I'm getting started this weekend. Wish me luck.

Gigantic

I'm not feeling well. Thanks for stopping by. I feel bad that I have nothing to offer you today. Well, except maybe this. (Thanks, Kurt.)

Sophomoricistication

I'll preface this by saying yes, I completely agree with you - there's nothing as ass-puckeringly boring as a blog post about blogging. But before I get to the point of this post, I need to mention a couple of things - a little backstory, if you will. First, I was on a work errand for most of last week. The company sent me up to Cal Poly San Luis Obispo for a job fair. Fortuitous, that - I have family a stone's throw away, and so Beth and Lucas accompanied me in the Audi. We took the scenic route, the 101 to the 154, straight through the Los Olivos wine country, where we sampled some wares. We're becoming Wine People - these days I find myself saying things like "It's good now, but we should probably lay it down for a year or so" and "this red's a bit hot" and "2004? I don't want old wine! Bring me some FRESH wine!" Second, the wine thing played a big part in the dinner we attended on Saturday night - we went with some friends to a place called The Wine Vault and Bistro, where we took part in a tasting/pairing meal. It was decent, made more so by the fact that each of us put away the equivalent of a full bottle, plus a hefty shot of pear-flavored Cognac. (In other words, the last course could've been Beef-A-Roni served cold out of the can accompanied by a glass of warm Night Train and I would've given it an enthusiastic thumbs-up.). During the course of the evening I rambled on to my buddy Hardy about the whole blogging/writing thing. "Kids", I slurred, "are the LEAST interesting element of a parenting blog. They all pretty much do the same things - they say/do cute/funny/sweet/horrifically embarassing stuff, and while as a parent I can totally relate, as a reader, I'm much more interested in the parent."

Part of what we all go through when we have kids is the need to keep at least some of our old identity. I've noticed a steady increase in visitors here, partially due to the fact that some very nice folks have added this site to their blogrolls. This presents a problem - I don't really see this site as being a "daddy blog" or "parenting blog". This site serves a dumping ground for whatever happens to be on my mind when I flip open the laptop; maybe it's the kid, maybe it's surfing, maybe it's my struggle with the fact that I abhor people who take handicapped spots when they are clearly not and yet every time I go to take a dump in a public restroom my first choice is ALWAYS the handicapped stall because a fella can really relax with all that legroom and what kind of hypocritical bastard am I? The point, and I do have one, is that there's lots to write about.

So, that said, and without further adieu, a bit about my kid. The other day, he was sitting in his chair, making grunting sounds - "UNNNNNGH. UNNNNNNNNNNNNNGH." "Lucas, are you trying to poop?", Beth asked. "NO!", he cheerfully replied. "I'm trying to fart!"

I Don't Read, I Watch TV

A scant 60 minutes before the Lost! Season! 3! Premiere! kicks off, so I thought I'd chime in and tell you what new shows you should be watching.

Kidnapped: Jeremy Sisto is cool. We know this because we had a Random L.A. Star Encounter with him at a Valley coffee shop one morning, and in real life he does dress like every guy he plays on TV, with the possible exceptions of Jesus and Caesar, although it's Hollywood, so you never know. Jeremy Sisto + Delroy Lindo? You could store a side of beef atop your fridge, such is the coolness.

Heroes: C'mon - you think I wouldn't watch this? The writing's a bit uneven, but enough twists to keep it interesting, and one can't discount a superhero show that the wife enjoys.

Studio 60: The pilot was great, the second ep less so, but Matthew Perry and the guy who would destroy Billy Madison (oh yes, you can run from your past, Josh Lyman, but you cannot hide) are really funny, even if their fake "SNL" knockoff is not (and really, it isn't; the skits that the series depicts are as lame as the real ones. Speaking of, glad that Bill Hader was kept on - his Al Pacino is hilarious.)

Friday Night Lights: The best sports movie ever made is hands down the best new show of the season. (Wow - I should write copy for NBC promos.) The last fifteen minutes of the pilot were gut-wrenching, transcending the cliche of (SPOILER) untried-quarterback-steps-in-and-saves-the-day. I'll admit - I got verklempt.

So set your DVR's for those; lots of good stuff, which makes me less squeamish about copping a Warhol quote for this post's title.

ETA 10/5/06: So. The Lost! Season! 3! Premiere! Excellent. Tattooed sharks and random polar bears explained. James Ford is not smarter than the average Ursus maritimus. That Jack's hair refuses to grow still remains a mystery.

The Surf Report for Monday, October 2: Freedom In All Its Forms

This is working out nicely. I was on the road at 6:30 this morning, work clothes stuffed into a duffel bag, longboard atop the Xterra. I decided to check a couple of spots, one semi-secret, the other not. Semi-Secret was a bit too mixed up, so I continued on, southbound to The Pillbox. Here conditions were only slightly better, but as it was nearing 7:00 a.m. I had to hit it. Again, lack of crowds made up for marginal conditions - there were three guys on the beach checking things out, but they weren't into it.

The sky was Jovian, swirling low clouds painted by the sunrise, a mixture of pink and orange and blue and white. At one point a squadron of pelicans flew in low and fast over my head, just out of reach. Gutless surf - not much to do other than drop in, make a bottom turn, and kick out. Still, can't beat a pre-work surf session. Reminds you that you can break free of schedule and routine. Very liberating.

I was back in the office at 8:30; a quick shower before getting down to business. Oh, and I forgot to bring underwear. As it turns out, also very liberating.