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Showing posts with label quad fish. Show all posts
Showing posts with label quad fish. Show all posts
Smiling Dutchman
In a merciless display of God's cruel irony, or perhaps some sort of conspiracy plot by those dastardly, ever-conspiring Masons, Northern California has been basking in a freakish run of good waves and unbelievable weather. This, while the rest of the nation hibernates under an impenetrable 'blanket' of continually building snow and ice.
Sorry, rest of the nation, but we're doing what we would want you to do of you were in our flip-flops: applying sunscreen, ordering surfboards, and shredding (without our hoods!) our local waters.
Like Dutch here, with his new quad fish.
But have no fear East Coasters and Midwesterners, we will get our comeuppance: I think I saw some clouds in the forecast for late next week or something.
Sorry, rest of the nation, but we're doing what we would want you to do of you were in our flip-flops: applying sunscreen, ordering surfboards, and shredding (without our hoods!) our local waters.
Like Dutch here, with his new quad fish.
But have no fear East Coasters and Midwesterners, we will get our comeuppance: I think I saw some clouds in the forecast for late next week or something.
The Perfect Storms
Who was it that said, "I love it when a plan comes together"? Hamlet?
FDR?
B.A. Baracus?
No matter, the enduring aspect of a quote isn't the first person to speak it, but the latest person to speak it. Up here, it's got to be Northcoast shredster Shawn, who just got this:
And along comes this:
And this!
Up here NotB, we have a name for this trifecta of stoke: The No Fu@#ing Way, or the NFW.
In Shawn's case, it would be uttered slowly, almost breathlessly, with emphasis on the final syllable.
Other instances the NFW could be employed are when the wife/girlfriend tests positive for impending daddydom--correct pronunciation in this instance would be long pauses between each word accompanied by a wide-eyed stare into the distance.
Or, a macking set on the horizon with you in exactly the wrong spot. In this specific case, there is no preferred pronunciation--elocution will be specific to the size of approaching set, quality of the utterer's wetsuit, and one's personal prediliction for being held down in the dark, dark, cold, deep for extended moments.
Hope you score some.
FDR?
B.A. Baracus?
No matter, the enduring aspect of a quote isn't the first person to speak it, but the latest person to speak it. Up here, it's got to be Northcoast shredster Shawn, who just got this:
And along comes this:
And this!
Up here NotB, we have a name for this trifecta of stoke: The No Fu@#ing Way, or the NFW.In Shawn's case, it would be uttered slowly, almost breathlessly, with emphasis on the final syllable.
Other instances the NFW could be employed are when the wife/girlfriend tests positive for impending daddydom--correct pronunciation in this instance would be long pauses between each word accompanied by a wide-eyed stare into the distance.
Or, a macking set on the horizon with you in exactly the wrong spot. In this specific case, there is no preferred pronunciation--elocution will be specific to the size of approaching set, quality of the utterer's wetsuit, and one's personal prediliction for being held down in the dark, dark, cold, deep for extended moments.
Hope you score some.
War Pony Chronicles: Cars and Stripes
Aloha amigos, much going on up here NoTB. For starters, the recent south swell seemed to offer many things to many surfers—from glassy peelers to dredging sphincter bombs, depending on where, when, and whether or not there were any eyewitnesses. The Gulf of Alaska is quietly waking up, eyeing the California coastline lying next to him in bed, and thinking, “Let's do this.”
It’s been many moons since we’ve seen ‘overhead++’ on Surfline’s Northern California forecast (though not so many moons, perhaps, since Surfline overcalled a swell), so our fingers are crossed, our minds already selecting boards, breaks, and tidal conditions.
As if this isn’t enough—the bounty of Fall is indeed colossal!—the fourth annual Great Handcar Regatta takes place this Sunday, September 26th, from 10am until 6pm in Santa Rosa’s historic Railroad Square. In case you’ve been stuck on the 101 for a year, the Handcar Regatta is like a shot of Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade dropped into a hot glass of Burning Man, then chased with a nose-clearing dose of what would happen if Federico Fellini and Tom Waits made a baby. Handmade and handpowered rail cars, unwholesome costumes, belly dancers, freaks on stilts, outmoded facial hair combinations, nipples, and more ass cleavage than a whole season of NASCAR.
This year’s theme is Magical India, whatever the hell that means.
Here’s a sample :
This turning of the seasons also requires a tuning of the quiver, and Dr. J’s new War Pony will take him through all of Autumn’s graces—from doily, bubblegum and lace southswell playthings to, stomach-churning, sawed-off, deep water discharges.
Plus, it’s got stripes.
It’s been many moons since we’ve seen ‘overhead++’ on Surfline’s Northern California forecast (though not so many moons, perhaps, since Surfline overcalled a swell), so our fingers are crossed, our minds already selecting boards, breaks, and tidal conditions.
As if this isn’t enough—the bounty of Fall is indeed colossal!—the fourth annual Great Handcar Regatta takes place this Sunday, September 26th, from 10am until 6pm in Santa Rosa’s historic Railroad Square. In case you’ve been stuck on the 101 for a year, the Handcar Regatta is like a shot of Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade dropped into a hot glass of Burning Man, then chased with a nose-clearing dose of what would happen if Federico Fellini and Tom Waits made a baby. Handmade and handpowered rail cars, unwholesome costumes, belly dancers, freaks on stilts, outmoded facial hair combinations, nipples, and more ass cleavage than a whole season of NASCAR.
This year’s theme is Magical India, whatever the hell that means.
Here’s a sample :
This turning of the seasons also requires a tuning of the quiver, and Dr. J’s new War Pony will take him through all of Autumn’s graces—from doily, bubblegum and lace southswell playthings to, stomach-churning, sawed-off, deep water discharges.
Plus, it’s got stripes.
The Latest
Over here at HeadHighGlassy we like to keep things light—a quick shot of handcrafted boardporn, and perhaps a few musings on our shared experience as surfers in the 21st century. However, for the last seven or eight weeks, I’ve been sick. Comically at times, but mostly not. Mostly sick in the way that saw my wife and I using vocabulary normally heard in bad medical dramas. Sick in the way that that last week’s lab technician grimaced when she saw the constellation of blood-test punctures dotting my arms. Sick in the way that, over time, the radiologist running the cat-scanner and I learned each other’s work schedules, favorite books, children’s soccer achievements.
As I regain health, I’d love to pen a flip account of my last two months—ending with But Boards Must Go On!—were it not for the fact that I can recall, exactly, how terrifying it all was.
But it’s true, Boards Must Go On. The moon pushes and pulls, tides rise and fall. Pulses of energy gather into waves, hurl themselves at distant shores, reconstitute in different forms. For the briefest of interplanetary eye-blinks, some of us get to tap into that energy, and surfboards are a simple, ingenious way to do this. So while I’m humbled by many things lately—my wife and her infinite stores of patience and love, my mom’s homemade chicken pot pie, caregivers, viruses—I’m also thrilled to be harnessed by something larger than the self. To be a part of a community of weird, inspiring people who call or email or stop by to demand, in no uncertain terms, that their surfboard needs be met. Fortunately, they’re also patient, and this afternoon as I popped in the iBuds and stepped into the shaping bay for the first time in a month, I paused to feel this transference of energy. This live-wire scream of the planer, these grains of foam dust whirling through spider cracks of light, this unshakable throb of possibility. Health waxes, illness wanes. Boards are shaped. Handed over. Ridden. We are immersed, enslaved by joules and the law of conservation. Sometimes this doesn't work to our favor. Sometimes it does. And sometimes it just feels pretty fucking good.
Onto the boardporn!
Esteban's new double-wing quad stealth fish.
The stealth designation is given to any board that immediately goes into a board bag, is sneaked past any economically co-dependent members of the household, and is incorporated (with crossed fingers) into the existing quiver without mention or fanfare.
Although it's doubtful this one will escape notice, a man's gotta try.
As per usual, Leslie Anderson at Fatty Fiberglass makes the stuff pretty. All color, except the resin pinlines, done during the lamination. Badass.
I hope you are all well.
As I regain health, I’d love to pen a flip account of my last two months—ending with But Boards Must Go On!—were it not for the fact that I can recall, exactly, how terrifying it all was.
But it’s true, Boards Must Go On. The moon pushes and pulls, tides rise and fall. Pulses of energy gather into waves, hurl themselves at distant shores, reconstitute in different forms. For the briefest of interplanetary eye-blinks, some of us get to tap into that energy, and surfboards are a simple, ingenious way to do this. So while I’m humbled by many things lately—my wife and her infinite stores of patience and love, my mom’s homemade chicken pot pie, caregivers, viruses—I’m also thrilled to be harnessed by something larger than the self. To be a part of a community of weird, inspiring people who call or email or stop by to demand, in no uncertain terms, that their surfboard needs be met. Fortunately, they’re also patient, and this afternoon as I popped in the iBuds and stepped into the shaping bay for the first time in a month, I paused to feel this transference of energy. This live-wire scream of the planer, these grains of foam dust whirling through spider cracks of light, this unshakable throb of possibility. Health waxes, illness wanes. Boards are shaped. Handed over. Ridden. We are immersed, enslaved by joules and the law of conservation. Sometimes this doesn't work to our favor. Sometimes it does. And sometimes it just feels pretty fucking good.
Onto the boardporn!
Esteban's new double-wing quad stealth fish.
The stealth designation is given to any board that immediately goes into a board bag, is sneaked past any economically co-dependent members of the household, and is incorporated (with crossed fingers) into the existing quiver without mention or fanfare.
Although it's doubtful this one will escape notice, a man's gotta try.As per usual, Leslie Anderson at Fatty Fiberglass makes the stuff pretty. All color, except the resin pinlines, done during the lamination. Badass.
I hope you are all well.
The War Pony Chronicles: St. Valentine's Edition
What a weekend for surf enthusiasts in Northern California.
The sun stopped pouting and came out of its room, waves of varying size and life-ending potential were served up like scripted folksiness in a Sarah Palin speech, and sweet sweet love was in the air.
Managed to score some waves, spend some time in the shaping bay, lunch on some fish tacos, take the girls to the park, fire up the grill and crack a local zinfandel with m'lady--and that was just yesterday. Feels like spring!
The local beachie, where waves are like a box of chocolates.
The surest sign that spring has arrived, however (besides asthma), is the first time the fan cranks up in the shop. Although scientists earlier today created the hottest temperature ever (4 trillion degrees celsius), my shop's come pretty close. Nowhere near that on Sunday, but it's always comforting to hear the soft whir of the fan over my industrial-strength earphones...
Anyway, forged from the heat of spring, the bittersweetness of dark chocolate valentines, and the birthdays of presidents 1 and 16 was local she-ripper Caroline's 6-something War Pony.
You can't spell SHRED without SHE.
The War Pony is a souped-up fish for our steeper northern breachbreaks. Curvier, slimmer, cedar stringier than a traditional San Diego style fish.
But I've not forgotten about you Northeasterners, or Clevelandites, or Michiganders, as you prepare for another round of snowy winter weirdness, and will share a moment from my weekend that was not entirely blissful: my three-year-old little lady enjoys running ahead of me on our beach walks, which can be inconvenient, but isn't discouraged due to its pride-inducing moxie. Yesterday, as I basked in a euphoric post-surf glow on one of our rare windless afternoons at the coast, I watched her spring, gazelle-like, toward an amorphous, dark relief in the sand. As I got closer, I recognized the form as bloated, decomposing seal, upon which she was suddenly seated. Closer still, and I was able to identify her right hand--perfect in its pink, cherubine innocence--probing deep into the swampy mammal's sagging eye socket.
My firstborn, pride of my loins, was overjoyed. "Daddy!" she cried, "it feels like wet Cheerios!"
And then, as if tying a red sating bow atop a box of candies for St. Valentine himself, removed her hand, held it briefly to her glowing face, and asked me, smile as pure as light, "wanna smell?"
The sun stopped pouting and came out of its room, waves of varying size and life-ending potential were served up like scripted folksiness in a Sarah Palin speech, and sweet sweet love was in the air.
Managed to score some waves, spend some time in the shaping bay, lunch on some fish tacos, take the girls to the park, fire up the grill and crack a local zinfandel with m'lady--and that was just yesterday. Feels like spring!
The local beachie, where waves are like a box of chocolates.The surest sign that spring has arrived, however (besides asthma), is the first time the fan cranks up in the shop. Although scientists earlier today created the hottest temperature ever (4 trillion degrees celsius), my shop's come pretty close. Nowhere near that on Sunday, but it's always comforting to hear the soft whir of the fan over my industrial-strength earphones...
Anyway, forged from the heat of spring, the bittersweetness of dark chocolate valentines, and the birthdays of presidents 1 and 16 was local she-ripper Caroline's 6-something War Pony.
You can't spell SHRED without SHE.The War Pony is a souped-up fish for our steeper northern breachbreaks. Curvier, slimmer, cedar stringier than a traditional San Diego style fish.
But I've not forgotten about you Northeasterners, or Clevelandites, or Michiganders, as you prepare for another round of snowy winter weirdness, and will share a moment from my weekend that was not entirely blissful: my three-year-old little lady enjoys running ahead of me on our beach walks, which can be inconvenient, but isn't discouraged due to its pride-inducing moxie. Yesterday, as I basked in a euphoric post-surf glow on one of our rare windless afternoons at the coast, I watched her spring, gazelle-like, toward an amorphous, dark relief in the sand. As I got closer, I recognized the form as bloated, decomposing seal, upon which she was suddenly seated. Closer still, and I was able to identify her right hand--perfect in its pink, cherubine innocence--probing deep into the swampy mammal's sagging eye socket.My firstborn, pride of my loins, was overjoyed. "Daddy!" she cried, "it feels like wet Cheerios!"
And then, as if tying a red sating bow atop a box of candies for St. Valentine himself, removed her hand, held it briefly to her glowing face, and asked me, smile as pure as light, "wanna smell?"
Father and Son
For a short time in third grade a secret admirer left celery in my locker. The individual sticks were neatly trimmed and placed in small sandwich bags. The first few offerings were anonymous, but later featured notes written in a girlie script.
Then my vegetable devotee began to get creative. Once, there were a few scratch-n-sniff stickers included. Another time a slender packet of ranch dressing accompanied the celery. A note read, “celery and ranch is cool!”
And for a brief time in the third grade, it was cool.
Until I learned that it was not Rachel Stein leaving me the celery, as I had hoped, but my sister. My mom made her do it out of fear that I wasn’t eating enough leafy greens.
What does this have to do with this 5’8 double-wing quad fish for Northcoast surf enthusiast David? Not a lot, other than to point out that it’s nice to have family looking out for us once in a while.
Accompanying David’s order was this 5'10, 80's inspired resinwork grom fish for his son.
Much cooler gift than a sweater.
Speaking of Father and Son, Cat Stevens penned a song under that title, converted to Islam, changed his name to Yusef Islam, ditched his music career, gave a sizable chunk of his fortune to humanitarian causes, sort of called for the death of Salmon Rushdie, then performed on The Colbert Report. In that order.
Just in case you’re keeping tabs.
Then my vegetable devotee began to get creative. Once, there were a few scratch-n-sniff stickers included. Another time a slender packet of ranch dressing accompanied the celery. A note read, “celery and ranch is cool!”
And for a brief time in the third grade, it was cool.
Until I learned that it was not Rachel Stein leaving me the celery, as I had hoped, but my sister. My mom made her do it out of fear that I wasn’t eating enough leafy greens.
What does this have to do with this 5’8 double-wing quad fish for Northcoast surf enthusiast David? Not a lot, other than to point out that it’s nice to have family looking out for us once in a while.
Accompanying David’s order was this 5'10, 80's inspired resinwork grom fish for his son.Much cooler gift than a sweater.
Speaking of Father and Son, Cat Stevens penned a song under that title, converted to Islam, changed his name to Yusef Islam, ditched his music career, gave a sizable chunk of his fortune to humanitarian causes, sort of called for the death of Salmon Rushdie, then performed on The Colbert Report. In that order.Just in case you’re keeping tabs.
The White Stuff
New England Dispatch: currently it's snowing, raining, foggy, and below freezing simultaneously. Not sure how this can happen, but there it is. Every time someone opens a door to the outside my California born-and-raised daughters start crying.The weather does inspire a few of my favorite things, though (alcohol, sweaters, and beards), so I'm all for it.
Ironically, it's not so different from my shop in Northern California, where white-out conditions descended after a dust-collection snafu (Dustgate '09). When I appeared inside after the incident my week my three-year-old said, "Santa came!!!"
And perhaps she was right, especially if your name is Sean and you ordered yourself a spiffy new quad fish this holiday season.
Sean ordered it clear, perpetuating a seasonally-appropriate white-out theme.
Although unglassed quad fish photos aren't really cutting-edge in the surf blogosphere (as recently pointed out to me in an email by gentle reader Tony from North Carolina), these pictures celebrate the last gasp by my beleaguered point-and-shoot, another victim of Dustgate '09. RIP.
Happy Holidays!
War Pony Chronicles: The Lost Boys
For a few short, sweet years in the late 1980s, teenage heartthrobs The Coreys (Haim and Feldman) ruled the Tiger Beat set.
Then they went underground in pursuit of other creative projects, like hanging out and resisting impulses to exercise.
Recently, Corey Feldman resurfaced in Lost Boys: The Tribe, as Edgar Frog, "Vampire Hunter and Surfboard Shaper." IMDBs character page for Edgar Frog states, "This character biography is empty." One can only imagine this still holds true after Feldman took a stab at it.
Not to be outdone by his teenage compatriot/nemesis, Corey Haim began loitering around my shop in pursuit of shaping tips and lukwarm Tecates.
Although he didn't have the skills to shape his own, Corey possessed the eye of a connoisseur, and couldn't resist pulling the trigger on a new War Pony.
Haim. War Pony. Fattyshack.
The War Pony is a vampire slayer in its own right. Curvier than my standard quad fish template with a souped-up rocker and bottom contours specially formulated for driving stakes through the hearts of northcoast nasties.
Haim made a personal trek to the Fattyshack to meet Leslie and have a glass or two of whatever local red Bob was pouring at the moment.
His hair was perfect.
Take that, Feldman!
Then they went underground in pursuit of other creative projects, like hanging out and resisting impulses to exercise.
Recently, Corey Feldman resurfaced in Lost Boys: The Tribe, as Edgar Frog, "Vampire Hunter and Surfboard Shaper." IMDBs character page for Edgar Frog states, "This character biography is empty." One can only imagine this still holds true after Feldman took a stab at it.
Not to be outdone by his teenage compatriot/nemesis, Corey Haim began loitering around my shop in pursuit of shaping tips and lukwarm Tecates.
Although he didn't have the skills to shape his own, Corey possessed the eye of a connoisseur, and couldn't resist pulling the trigger on a new War Pony.
Haim. War Pony. Fattyshack.The War Pony is a vampire slayer in its own right. Curvier than my standard quad fish template with a souped-up rocker and bottom contours specially formulated for driving stakes through the hearts of northcoast nasties.
Haim made a personal trek to the Fattyshack to meet Leslie and have a glass or two of whatever local red Bob was pouring at the moment.
His hair was perfect.
Take that, Feldman!
Summer Curves
Double wing quad fish in recycled EPS for SF waveriding enthusiast Kevin.
Shaping EPS allows me to bust out specialty hi-tec tools, like a paint stick with sandpaper glued to it.
Who was it that said that you had to lock your car doors in Vermont in early September for fear of finding your passenger seat filled with squash?
Calvin Coolidge? Robert Frost? Bernie Sanders?
I'm currently having a similar vegetable situation inches from the shaping shop. The pepper plants have reached epic production levels, and I can't ask my family to eat any more. Thinking about handing over a pepper or two with each board order (for a limited time).
Bell curves are nice to look at.
Eat local food, drink local beer, support your local shapers and glassers.
Shaping EPS allows me to bust out specialty hi-tec tools, like a paint stick with sandpaper glued to it.
Who was it that said that you had to lock your car doors in Vermont in early September for fear of finding your passenger seat filled with squash?Calvin Coolidge? Robert Frost? Bernie Sanders?
I'm currently having a similar vegetable situation inches from the shaping shop. The pepper plants have reached epic production levels, and I can't ask my family to eat any more. Thinking about handing over a pepper or two with each board order (for a limited time).
Bell curves are nice to look at.Eat local food, drink local beer, support your local shapers and glassers.
Blue ???day
One of the joys of being a teacher in the summertime is not knowing what the hell day it is. Bite me, nine-to-fivers!
This week's Blue ???day board comes via Ocean Beach surf enthusiast Hardy Danger, fresh from his Mexican honeymoon.
Faithful HHG readers may recall Hardy's inappropriate wedding night antics from a previous Blue Monday post. Seems he's gotten himself out of the doghouse and back into our chilly waters.
Is Hardy Danger an employee of the state? Nope.
Is he at all affiliated with coastal rescue, OB beach patrol, or lifesaving in general? Nope.
How he stealthed these photos is best left to the imagination.
This we do know, though: those 101FinCo bamboo quads indicate superior taste. Looks like they save lives, too!
This week's Blue ???day board comes via Ocean Beach surf enthusiast Hardy Danger, fresh from his Mexican honeymoon.
Faithful HHG readers may recall Hardy's inappropriate wedding night antics from a previous Blue Monday post. Seems he's gotten himself out of the doghouse and back into our chilly waters.
Is Hardy Danger an employee of the state? Nope.Is he at all affiliated with coastal rescue, OB beach patrol, or lifesaving in general? Nope.
How he stealthed these photos is best left to the imagination.
This we do know, though: those 101FinCo bamboo quads indicate superior taste. Looks like they save lives, too!
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