The Full Blood Princess

I've written before about Bedroomers--boards so elegant, so innocent, that to leave them in the holding pen (guest bedroom) with the other sticks awaiting pickup would be scandalous.
How can one, in good conscience, place a finely foiled, fragile-as-china displacement hull in the same rack with a mush-shredding gremmie thruster?
What ethical shaper can allow an outer bar gun, high-polished and sleek as a needle to share the same space as a brutish, wide-backed, sand-finish quad fish?
None that gives a damn, I say.
So, on occasion, one of the more enchanting products from the Fattyshack is moved into the bedroom where, if mood strikes, one might gaze upon its lines and be hastened toward an exquisite idyll.
Or until one's wife tells them to cut it out.
So imagine my surprise when, still feeling the effects of East Coast jet lag, I woke in the wee hours this morning to find the lovely Mrs. HHG not just contemplating, but dreamily trailing a few fingertips, along a rail of this full-tint glossy log from her side of the bed. Imagine the betrayal--yet the thrill!--that accompanies such a discovery.
Also try to imagine an intense need for an egg sandwich on sourdough, which is what finally pulled me from the throes of this unanticipated spectacle.
Anyway, this model--a 9'6 Squareback--is designed for the soft and the cruisy up here on the Northcoast. She's headed to 2 Mile Surf Shop in Bobo, where she will hopefully find a good home with a tip-riding enthusiast. And while we're hoping, let's hope Drew and the boys keep her separated from some of the more nefarious shapes I've seen lurking on their racks.

Giant Shoulders

Sometimes it takes an entire village to do an important thing, like raise a child, or battle zombies, or hire samurai to defend itself from thieves.
Bringing a surfboard to life is not that dissimilar--often its design is a collaboration between surfer and shaper, between past and present, wave and waverider. The builder draws from a lineage of specialists, coaxes that knowledge and experience into a form and, if lucky, gets to contribute a stitch or two to the ever-evolving tapestry of surfboard making.
This 9'7" single fin log is a product of such an effort. Although only four hands ever touched this board during its creation, it is the result of the work of many, none the least of Mr. G. Cooper, whose guidance was as generous as it was mind-blowingly cool.
His old partner in crime, Ms. L. Anderson, then had her way with it, showing us kids how it's done.
The board is for The New Guy, journeyman surfer and Econoline van enthusiast, who recently arrived on our tiny stretch of coast with a lofty set of log riding ideals and the skills to back them up. He had a board order in before the silverware was even unpacked.
He, too, will stand on the shoulders of the traditional longboard surfers that preceded him, drawing idea and inspiration, perhaps tickling their ears as he dangles ten toes over.
And the rest of us, we will begin to make out a faint murmer of voices, a shifting of bodies in their seats, a shout or two of surprise from the kids. More voices will be added until, amidst the din, someone else paddles out into the lineup, spins, and strokes into a rising pulse of energy . They will stand and track their hand along the green face of the wave, their fingers making trails of diamonds that will linger for a moment, then fade into the distance.

Preparation Stoke

True: you can tell a lot about a person by watching them surf.
Possibly Truer: you can tell more about them by how they get ready to surf.

--Trust me, the presence of this 7'10 egg will eventually make sense--

A local at my local drives to the break wearing his wetsuit, board strapped to the bare roof with a single piece of rope. He springs out of his car, pulls off the board in one motion, smiles at us suckers with exposed skin in 30 knot wind and sub-45 temps, then jogs down to the water.

My buddy Reynaud has three jugs of water, all of differing temperatures that he pours over himself sequentially, starting with the coolest, as he suits up. His cigarette stays lit as he does this.

The Guy With The Blue-ish Dog has his gear packed in individual crates. Each of his three wetsuits are as soft, pliable, and fresh-smelling as the day he bought them. He has a Semper Fi tattoo on his arm.

My lovely wife begins her preparations in full modesty, then, after a prolonged struggle with neoprene, ditches ditches towel entirely. Casual passersby are enthused.

Some guys never paddle out, opting instead to drink coffee and wear oversized flannel. Some spew to The Boys on their cell phones. Some sit quietly in their cars, watching the ocean. Some lack wax, some have extra. Sometimes there's a dude all suited up, tending to a fire on the beach.

There isn't as much variance with post-surf rituals. For the lifers, there's usually a little friendly banter, a remark or two about the conditions, then the drive home.

It's the getting ready that's interesting. The preparation. The window into someone's soul as they contemplate the cold, or the power, or the wind, or the sun, or the bliss.

The board order process is a similar window. Last week there was a cryptic, gravely voicemail:"Name's Don. Need a replacement step up for M___ _h__. Nineteen inches wide. No f@#$&ng color!" This message terrified my two year old daughter.

Sometimes the entire order is taken care of in the water. "Make me one of those," someone will say in a parking lot or during a paddle out, pointing to my ride. "I'll call when I'm ready to pick it up."

Sometimes, like with Santa Cruz D and the above 7'10" Quad-Plus-One egg, the process is entirely electronic (we exchanged 34 emails before a planer ever touched foam), though no less indicative of character. Through the course of our preparations for his new ride, we discovered in common: babies, birthdays, occupations, and a love of blood oranges. Speaking of which, this one's getting some color work, so stay tuned for the post-Fatty pics...

Stoke on the Water

A 7' egg for Neil, who is English, so his language is peppered with exclamations like, "Brilliant!" and "behaviour."

I like talking to Neil about design. Our conversations take the form of a doubtful speculation by Neil, followed by me telling him what's basically industry standard, followed by Neil exploding with stoke as if I had just invented aluminium (aluminum). Here are a few examples of conversations last month, translated just in case you don't speak the Queen's English:
Neil: "The thickness in the centre (center)...I guess it's not possible to make it somewhere between 2 1/2 and 2 3/4 thick..."
Me: "I can make it 2 5/8 thick."
Neil: "Brilliant!"

Another time:
Neil: "I'd like to talk about colour (color)...grey (gray) seems a bit too much...I wish there were something a bit lighter..."
Me: "How about light gray?"
Neil: "Brilliant!"

Later:
Neil: "Different fin setups allow for different manoeuvres (maneuvers)...I wish there were a way to allow for multiple fin setups..."
Me: "We could put in multiple boxes."
Neil: "Brilliant!"

Leslie calls this color 'smoke.' When I asked her why she added double pinlines to the deck when the order card only called for a single pinline, she said, "You talk too much."
Brilliant!

The 6'10 Chronicles, and Literary Nerd Contest!

I love 6'10 rounded pintail season!

I also love weekends like these--'unseasonably' warm temps, a good swell in the water, and my lovely wife's experiments with Brussels sprouts and the perfect warm winter salad. Doesn't get much better unless, of course, you can factor in a lovely Fatty Fiberglass job.

Leslie couldn't resist putting her stamp on this one--a retro style Hastings blue tint, wrap, and deep red pinline on a thoroughly contemporary step-up shortboard. Local he-ripper Mr. M will be stoked.

Something old made new again, or maybe something new made old again.
ANNOUNCEMENT! I hereby declare the First Whenever-I-Feel-Like-It HeadHighGlassy Literary Nerd Contest. The first LitNerd who can tell me the name of the Junot Diaz short story where the line "something old made new again" is used to menacing effect wins a free Jamie Murray Custom Surfboards t-shirt (American Apparel, so you know it's schweet!).
Hint: the line is delivered by a man appropriately named Barbaro.

What's that? Are those 101 Fin Co. bamboo thrusters?
Another Announcement! 101 Fin Co. bamboo fins+ the Lokbox removable/adjustable fin system=insane.
Last Announcement! Come on out to the Toad in the Hole Pub in downtown Santa Rosa's Railroad Square (116 5th street) this Thursday night (Jan 15th) for their first monthly Surf Movie Night. This month features live music from the local surfabilly rockers Mr. December--upright bass and ukulele. I promised not to divulge the movie, but it's a good one, and, as always, the Guinness will be poured by an actual Irishman. Come on out!

The Gold Member

Fatty was spotted outside her natural habitat (glassing room, sanding room, couch) the other day—a cause for celebration.
Reasons she seldom leaves the Fattyshack are numerous. They include nurturing chickens, eggs, carnivorous plants, crickets, lizards, snakes, plants, cats, dogs, and Bob.
Then there’s the business of her business—returning calls from pain-in-the-ass shapers, installing fin boxes, laminating, hotcoating, pinlining, sanding, glossing, more sanding, and polishing, organizing pickup and delivery, cracking beers…
Somewhere in there she sneaks in water, a little pot pie, maybe some season two of Dexter.
Understandable she rarely leaves, so understandable the cause for celebration when she did last week.
On this particular Big Trip to Town, Fatty picked up an ailing lizard from the vet, then came over with some delicious Fattyshack-grown organic eggs. She also dropped off a freshly glassed mini-Simmons with accompanying Chanukkah-inspired treats. My zadie would approve!

Free bag of Chanukkah gelt with each Gold Member!

Wine was opened. Peppers were stuffed. Conversation arose. Boards were discussed. Shapers heralded. The economy cursed. Delicious Costello cheese was munched, appreciated, reduced to delicious crumbs (which were then chomped by a sneaky hound mutt).
Had our President-elect solved our woes? Not quite yet, but we felt it was close. Just a little bit more spit and shoeshine, maybe a quick shot of WD-40.
All was well.
When Fatty split the next morning, she brought with her some freshly-shaped blanks, a highly medicated bearded iguana, and two old-as-hell longboards she had unearthed from beneath my deck. Her purpose?
“Fix em up. Give em away.”
I love this lady.
Did I mention she dropped off the mini-Simmons just in time for our annual Thanksgiving pilgrimage to San Onofre?

If this board looks stringerless, it is because it has no stringer

Profile shot highlights S deck, rocker, and shiny wood floors

If you see a posse of Tecated stokers sporting lovely Fatty Fiberglass-ed boards, stop by and say hey. Have some beach-cooked turkey, a slice of pie, a beverage, and an earful of inappropriate language from the Brothers Baird.
And take this baby for a spin.

ps: check out Sonoma Coast Surf Shop's newly launched website here. Cool folks who are stoked to be a part of the Northcoast surf scene!

A Man of Many Faces

Derek is a man with many names: D-Dog, D-Day, Double D, WonDerek Woman, Bro Derek, Dericky Martin or, if you're over 30, Dericky Schroeder.
He recently commissioned a "shaper's choice" board, which gave me pause--what do you build for the guy who owns property at J-Bay, paddle-battles PWCs in triple overhead French beachbreak, founded an eco-surf startup, has a ponytail, and hikes into mysto Mexican heavers, living off of bugs and his own hair clippings for weeks on end?
Answer: Hi-Pro twin finner.

6'8", full template, pulled in nose and relaxed rocker for glide and snap.
Double wing pintail=maximum fun in the pocket.

Secret surprise in the back!

Home-made marine ply twinnies with a modified MR template.

Can't tell you about the glass job, as I'm turning it over to Fatty as a "glasser's choice," but I can tell you this: I like surfboards.
And watermelon after Labor Day!

The War Pony

Leslie called last week and told me to get my tucchus up to the Fattyshack.
"You got a bunch of boards ready and they need to get off my racks," she said. "Including the War Pony."
I had no idea what the hell the War Pony was, but Fatty works with some pretty gnarly chemicals and sometimes forgets her mask, so I let things slide.
The next day found me at the 'shack, loading boards into the minivan. Leslie disappeared, and a moment later strange sounds began to emerge from her shop, quietly at first--mouth harp, whistling, the grunting of several men, and...pan flute?
The music swelled and, right on cue, Leslie emerged with a board held over her head like some giant beast she had killed in the forest and was now bringing back to the village to save us from a long-endured hunger.
(Press 'play' to help recreate scene)

A melody formed, led first by twangy guitar, but soon overtaken by voice and strings.
Suddenly, I knew: the swelling score, the mix of instrumentation that made me want to grunt commands to a nervous looking woman--this could only be Morricone, maestro of the American West, creator of the sounds that launched Sergio Leone and Clint Eastwood into Spaghettidom!
Leslie, the War Pony thrust aloft, freshly polished gloss coat glinting in the sun, marched toward me in perfect time with the snare drum.
The music reached a crescendo.
I felt joyous, triumphant, a little thirsty. I wanted to get in a gunfight, squint, chew on a thin stogie, command a child to fetch things for me, entrusting them with my most valuable belongings for I had learned to trust no adults.
Then, the music stopped.
"The War Pony," Leslie said, holding the board out for my inspection. It was a high performance fish I had dropped off a few weeks ago.
"Why War Pony?" I asked.
"Why not?" she asked, shrugging. Then added, "You staying for a beer?"

So the War Pony left its stable and awaited pickup as an official Bedroomer (some boards you just can't leave in the shop), as pictured below.

However, one evening the usually understanding and magnanimous Mrs. HHG caught me staring at a little too long at the War Pony, so back into the shop the War Pony went.

p.s.--that purple carpet was here when we moved in.

Brometheus Unbound

The myth of Prometheus features a crafty Prometheus fashioning humankind out of clay, then stealing fire from the gods to animate his work.
The Gods were, understandably, unstoked.
The subtitle of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein is 'The Modern Prometheus.' Frankenstein refers to the name of the doctor who steals fire (electricity) to animate his own creation--a manlike figure cobbled together from the parts of dead folks.
The creature has no name, and is abandoned by its creator, a freaked-out Dr. Frankenstein, upon its 'birth.'
The nameless monster starts off its life as a knowledge-seeking innocent, only to be taught evil, mistrust, and general bad behavior by some countrified English d-bags.

The Frankenfish, which has been enjoying a nice run up here on the Northcoast, is a Frankensteinian mashup of several different design elements.

However, unlike Dr. Frankenstein's creation, the board's lines are blended without all those pesky suture marks around the neck area.
Second, all who see it do not shriek in fear and cover the eyes of nearby children.
Finally, instead of being tormented by a damned dirty population of pastoral English peasants, Frankenfishes have been nurtured, coaxed, allowed to fully cure as suggested by Fatty, and shown goodness by their owners (who have heroically resisted the urge to open Red Tail Ales with their fins) in the form of waves, waves, waves.

This sub-eight-foot Frankenfish is for local hellman GayVader, who is neither gay, nor Vader--not that there is anything wrong with being either. It features a sky blue bottom tint and a 'one-drop' blue deck tint.
Five finboxes for maximum Franken-ness, double concaves for turbo boostage, and a blue resin pinline to tie it all together.

PS: If this blog entry looks at all weird to you, it's because I am writing from the East Coast, and things here are different. Examples:
1. The air is wet, giving me an unwelcome Jewfro and making it difficult to go more than two hours without a shower.
2. People use 'wicked' as an adverb, as in, 'it's wicked hot today, but it was wicked hotter yesterday.'
3, 4, 5. There are insects at the beach, people sport clothes and cars with names of colleges on them, and Dunkin' Donuts (sic) offers 'muffins,' which are really just donuts in muffin form.
6. Bring on the warm-water peelers!

There Will be Blood-Red Tint

Sometimes I gets to keep one.

Fin possibilities

Hard to get a good indoor pic if a blood tint.

Shine on you crazy round tail.

A Clean, Poorly-Lit Surfboard

There's something about a clear longboard with a T-Band stringer that makes me feel good. A simple, elegant set of curves without bells, whistles, mudflaps, spinners, dingle balls, or anything else to distract the eye and the water.

I'm thinking of calling this new model: The 9'2x22.5 2+1 Squash Tail Longboard Designed with both NorCal Beachbreak and Central Cal Poinbreaks in Mind for a Tall, Svelte History-Teaching RipMaster.
Thoughts on the new marketing approach?

There's something about a guy showing up to pick up his board with a cold sixer. The board is a speed demon, as well as the brew.
And, like the IPA, this shred sled is all Sonoma County. Take that, fossil fuels!

The Best of Times, The Worst of Times

80s television hit series The Facts of Life's (featuring a then unknown George Clooney, pictured with full cast below) theme song urged us to take The Good, to take The Bad. "Take them both," the peppy jingle advocated, because, when combined, these two opposing forces form 'The Facts of Life.'

(whose hair is feathered better--Clooney, or Tootie?)
I was too soft-brained during this SitCom's run to appreciate how the abject nihilism and tenacious good-cheer embedded in its opening lyrics reflected our 80s nation: engaged in a dark, secretive Cold War, yet hypnotized by bright colors, reckless fashion choices, and dancing, dancing, dancing!
It's been a week of opposing forces up here, too. First (The Bad), my beloved MacBook was stolen. However, six days later (The Good), the teenage architect of this heinous crime was brought to justice, my laptop returned lighter by a few thousand personal files and photos, but heavier by some disquieting porn and game downloads.
Speaking of lighter (The Bad), this week also saw gastrointestinal gnarliness strike, leaving nothing in the house unscathed. It was like Invasion!From Planet C if the invaders were parasites and 'C' stood for 'colon.' Not pretty. However, (The Good) saltines were ingested, ginger ale was sipped, and most of us are feeling better.
Surf-wise, (The Bad) there was wind, and there was wind. However (The Good), a few pulses of south swell fought their way to our shores, providing a few peelers for those in the know.
The week continued, offering up some classic oppositions. It was hot (Bad for baby) so we blew up the pool (Good for baby). Gas prices rose (Bad), so we didn't drive (Good).
School ended (Good), so...well, that one has no downside.

(6'10" round-tail bonzer-inspired egg with 101 Fin Co bamboos for stoked bro up north)
In the midst of all this Facts of Life, a few plugs of foam were transformed into sparkling surfboards, resin and fiberglass were added, hardened, got sanded, got polished, got waxed, got surfed. A trip to the Fattyshack restored the stoke and belief in human generosity. Some beautiful fins arrived from 101 Fin Co.

(rootbeer tint Fatty special quad ripstick)
It's the stuff inbetween the Facts of Life, when I'm not struggling with a setback or a solution, where I find some sort of grace.
Neither good nor bad, but there you have it.

Long Division

I've posted this board before here, but I finally wrestled it out of Leslie's grimy mitts and into the bedroom where it belongs, awaiting pickup, wax, and shreditation.
The cream-tinted deck color is carried over to the bottom, where Fatty unleashed some serious resin kung-fu in what could be interpreted as a fertility symbol, a crop circle, or a libidinous stage of cell division.
Speaking of cell division, my wife was the recipient of a chain Amish Friendship Bread outbreak two weeks ago, and we couldn't be more pleased. Unlike its pesky cousin, the chain email, which promises only an illusory sexual nirvana, Amish Friendship Bread offers wonderful smells from your kitchen and the everlasting friendship that only the combined power of the Amish and baked goods can deliver.
It works like this: someone gives you Amish Friendship Bread yeast. This is the 'starter.' It looks like hot mayo in a plastic bag, but smells better. The starter is incubated for ten days in its plastic universe, then hatched into the world in the form of a lot more starter. You use some of this to make delicious bread for your husband and baby girl, and give the rest of the starter, which you have now divided into plastic bags, to a bunch more people.
They make more bread and starter, and the chain remains unbroken. We realize our human connectedness through hollow calories and sugary crusts.
The recipe for starter is protected by an ancient Pennsylvania Dutch curse, but can also be found on Wikipedia.
Speaking of babies on surfboards, here's mine. When a surfboard becomes available, she climbs on, waddles straight to the nose and poses, awaiting a photograph. Although this behavior seems to be growing in popularity in some longboard circles, it's much cuter if the perpetrator is fourteen months old.
You might be thinking 'regular-foot,' but she's actually switch-stancing here.
Hope you're getting some surf.