I was going through some stuff and found this little rant I wrote my brother while I was living on the opposite end of the country and thought it may hold some relevance to any of those who enjoy surfing like I certainly do. There is no qualm that surfing is a greedy sport. The drive to get more waves, to get more of that magic feeling, to travel to far off places for waves with no intent or regard to help or better those destinations, to wake up at the crack o dawn to get out before the rest of the guys do to get more waves and more of that undeniable ,unexplainable soul settling stoke is in all of us. We can't help it, it's an addiction no doubt about it, it's a feeling that can make your day from just a sheer ten second ride of weightlessness and total detachment from everything in life that is for certain.
Well for a while there I got the privilege of having empty, heart pounding, hooting to yourself sessions in some pretty surreal places with just a couple other rubber clad troopers here and there. Often times I came to feel that deserted island effect, no one there to share the stoke, no friends to compare notes and baffle in astonishment with. Nobody to watch on the paddle back out that you know exactly how they're feeling and how their surf life is changing at that moment. I think there is selflessness to this whole thing for certain, watching your pals ride waves and seeing that focused eagle eye look as they blast past is undeniably exciting. After all I can't remember 90% of my rides but sure have a good memory log of my friend's killer ones. Maybe the other half of our addiction is having someone to share it with, give praise to, compare perceptions with and watch when they're high as a kite. Thanks for listening, - Kenny B-
I Pulled down the coast after I talked to you, all lurked out on a solo mission, half blown from an early morning poke of the smoke. Driving into the thickening fog on a winding road to the edge of the world it felt, enticed by each new corner and the discovery of the next craggy beach with promise of some sneaky peak with no one out that might make my day. Checking spots that are more mysto than Carmen San Diego, eager to make the trek through the reeds down the gravel roads past the no trespassing signs to get some. I knew I'd score, the buoys were twelve at fifteen and Micheal Glassoff was definitely still dwelling in the straight. I couldn't help but keep heading west, totally intrigued and curious with definitive clues to crack the case wide open. The random action vehicle seeming as it wanted more of that winding wet road, psyched to be a part of the mission and get the man where he needed to be. Two hours from home out west on the last sliver of the mainland I felt like an explorer, a fearless ambassador with big balls and an innate sense for danger and discovery...until a westy full of dudes and surfboards rolled by. Alas I pull over the last cliff and peer down over the tree tops onto the most gut dropping set up I've ever seen, A frame explosions washing up on the shore and three faint specks bobbing at the base of a fifty foot rock wall, holding position in the foamy backwash current waiting for their pick of the litter. I jolted, sped the car back down the road a bit and stuffed it into a tight squeeze along the highway. Frantically pulling five mil rubber on all my parts, I had cracked the case wide open! What happened after I trekked a half mile through shin deep mud down the enchanted napali-like trail that spilled onto that hidden cove was the most special moment I've ever had in the ocean and on my surf stick. It took until about yesterday to digest all my thoughts and the meaning of that session, when It happened and even now it was missing depth, like the best t ball game you ever played except your parents weren't there to see it. I know now that an experience is a bit void if you got no one to share it with, as I sat out there alone I thought a lot about you and what if you were there, you even made me miss waves damn it! I feel like there's blank pages in the story of that day, you weren't there to write em, I guess you can't be an author without any characters. Words don't do it. Miss you man, love you!