Not just another wave

In the Monday morning surf of San Clemente, California, at a spot called Lasuen Beach, Spyros waited for a wave.

On the sandy beach nearby, two girls were playing volleyball, and noticed a large gray shape ominously moving under the water through the surf. Lifeguards stood, watching the shape move into the shallows. Several surfers, noticing the mass which would later be described as being between 15 and 30 feet long, paddled towards shore. Some surfers got completely out of the water.

Spyros, however, was waiting for his wave.

The lifeguards continued to watch, waiting to see what the creature might do. The girls on the beach paused their volleyball game.

Spyros Vamvas was a sixty year old man who had surfed at the beaches of San Clemente since his early years. By trade, he was a therapist, working out of San Clemente. By hobby, he was a surfer. And, on that particular Monday, he was sitting on his surfboard, looking out to sea at the swell on the horizon, waiting for his wave.

Suddenly, the large gray mass surfaced.

It came up directly below Spyros, lifting both man and surfboard out of the water. Spyros looked down at a large California gray whale. He could see barnacles on the whale's back, and the glimmering rubbery skin. Spyros was still seated on his board, his right hand squeezed between the surfboard and the whale's back.

The whale kept moving, carrying both Spyros and surfboard for a distance while the volleyball players and the lifeguards watched in awestruck disbelief. Then, just as abruptly as it had surfaced, the whale submerged.

Spyros was left sitting on his surfboard. The whale, possibly frightened by the whole incident, made a quick turn and raced out to sea.

More Later

Travis

copyright 2004 Travis R. English

source article here:

..and then there were 97

"Ninety six sounds like a good number." I said to Brett, smearing the sleep out of my eye while picking up my wetsuit from the back of the truck. the rubber was damp and cold.

"It's sixty nine backwards." I continued. "It rolls of the tongue pretty well. 'I surfed every day for ninety six days' sounds pretty good."

Brett nodded, stretching wetsuit rubber up over his torso.

My wife and I had concert tickets for a Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl. From Orange County, the Hollywood Bowl is not easy to get to, particularly on a weeknight. We would be driving in heavy traffic to Downey, catching a park and ride bus just to sit in another hour of traffic before arriving at the entry gate. By my estimates, I wasn't going be home until well into the morning hours, which made a 5:00 am alarm clock a thing of dread.

"So, if I don't make it tomorrow, we'll just settle it there." I said.

At ninety six days, I was beginning to wonder just how long the streak had to go on.

My wife asked questions like "When is surfing going to be over?"

I knew the answer to that question answer was never. The streak had changed me and my relation to this activity. Surfing every day was a possible reality that, even if the streak were broken, would continue for a long time to come. Steve, one of the locals that I used to see in the beginning of the summer had told me "It's a lifestyle. Once you start, and gain the habit, it never stops. You're either surfing every morning or thinking about how you should have gone surfing that morning."

I was anxious to see how the streak would end. Would it be this late night concert, where I simply slept in? Would I miss my alarm on a weekday, and wake up with only enough time to go straight to work? Would the sunrise, growing later every day, catch up to me in October? Would I miss the three wave quota? Would I skip the days following a rainstorm, as recommended by just about any health official or environmental group? Part of me just wanted the consecutive days streak to be over, so that I could fade into daily surfing or not surfing without counting towards anything.

"Do you have a goal, or is it just one day at a time?" A friend had asked.

"My goal was 28, to beat my brother. Now, it's just one day at a time." I had told him. yet I felt compelled to continue as if I was competing against something or chasing some larger accomplishment. There was a continuous pressure that, having gone this far, I should extend it for one more day.

As it turned out, the Hollywood Bowl amphitheatre had an 11:00 pm curfew, no doubt due to its location in the rather exclusive Hollywood Hills. The music, encores and all, stopped cold and quiet at 10:45 in the evening. A bus trip and quick drive aside, my wife and I were home and in bed by half past midnight.

When the alarm went off at five in the morning, I hit the snooze button twice before rising and driving off into the darkness.

Brett was already in the water as I crossed the beach. He didn't see me until I paddled up to him.

The water was dark gray and green. The tide was low, and the waves were small. Bunches of kelp had drifted in to the beach area and were dancing visibly near the sand floor like sporadic kelp tumbleweeds in a breezy liquid desert below out dangling feet.

"Now you've got to go for one hundred." Brett said. "Ninety seven just doesn't have a very good ring to it."

He paddled after a long lazy left.

It was a long day at work. The whole of the office couldn't have brewed enough coffee to keep me productive. I came immidiatly home at the bell, to lay in bed listening to a baseball game on the radio.

The Angles beat Texas in extra innings, a win that moved them into first place - one game ahead of Oakland.

More Later

-Travis

copyright 2004 Travis R. English

A little surf talk....

On the evening of day ninety five, I wound up talking surfing with a couple of guys, Andrew and Steve, outside of my friends place on a Monday Night.

A: You know, I've been getting pitched a little bit more at the cliffs. I think I'm taking off too straight, and not heading down on the lefts. I've found myself getting pitched at the bottom of the wave.

T: You know, I almost never go straight. I can't do bottom turns on the flats in front of the wave yet. So, I'm always hugging that bottom slope section.

A: What about on rights?

T: I guess on rights I'm a little more aggressive on the bottom, but only because I know I can turn faster and with more power.

A: I'm the same. It's just lefts. I think I just need to find more of an angle to take off at. you know - not go straight.

S: It's so fun. there's always learning.

A: I remember when I was younger, and I noticed myself improving. I told my mom that whenever I get better I always suck at the next thing.

T: Surfing every day has really helped me. I've defiantly gotten better.

S: I'll bet!!

T: Now, I try to do top turns. I try to get at least one top turn per session if I can. Sometimes I can't.

S: That's fun, you can splash around a bit.

T: I'm not throwing spray, or anything radical like that. I'm just trying to get up to the top off of a good bottom turn and get turned back around to re-enter.

S: You have to find the right spot to hit. Let the wave make the turn for you.

T: Sometimes I get that. Then, I hear that you're supposed to straighten your back leg to dislodge your fins. That's supposed to push your tail out and get you centered over your front foot.

A: Oh, really. I guess that makes sense. I never thought of that.

T: I try it when I can. I can't say that I'm really successful at that.

A: On the funboard?

T: Yea, I do it all on the funboard. Lately, though, I keep looking for excuses to bring the shortboard. If it's anything over 2-3, I'll bring the shortboard. I'm trying to get better on it.

S: that's good. it takes time.

T: For me, there's a confidence factor, too. I'm always afraid of not placing my feet right. Most times, I do. but, at least once a session, I'll wind up with both feet too far back and no control whatsoever.

A: You definatly have to pick your days for the different boards.

S: You know, I'm pretty happy with my quiver right now. I've got a 9'0" longboard that's a lot of fun. I've got my shortboard. Then, I've got this 7'0" board with a more rounded nose that's pretty good all around town.

A: Some kind of hybrid?

S: Yea. The nose is still pointed, but it's just got more rounded sides. It took me a while to get the fin adjustments. I ride it with the two side fins, and a little center fin that I shaved down to almost nothing. It keeps the tail really loose.

A: I've seen some boards like that. They're popular.

S: There's all kinds of boards out there, right now. there's so many options and different rides. it's really cool - retro boards, fishes, and all the combinations.

T: This is kind of is the hybrid era.

S: It kind of is.

A: Surf's supposed to get better out there, eh?

T: Yea, in the next couple of days.

A: I keep saying that I'm going to meet you out there in the morning. But, I need the cooperation of my roommate. (laughs)

T: I hear ya.

More Later

-Travis

copyright 2004 Travis R. English

the Op / J-Lo Connection

Saturday, day 90-something-or-other

I took one look at seventeenth street and knew that we were going to Newport. The tide was super high like the morning before. If we wanted to paddle after small waves all morning without catching anything, seventeenth street would have been the place.

Brett's car pulled in as I was crossing pacific coast highway in the dark.

I pointed south. He understood.

Brett prefers to stay in Huntington whenever he can. "I feel like an outsider bringing my longboard to Newport." he said. But sometimes, even he can see that we need to leave Huntington to find breaking waves with any power.

In the water, we meet a judge for the Op Newport Classic, the tents of which were set up on the sand. I asked him how one comes about getting the job of judging a contest.

"Experience." he said. He told me that he used to surf a lot of contests and now he makes surfboards. But, he said, he's got major back problems his contest days of surfing.

"I really have to take it easy." He said with a concerned look. "This is my third time surfing in two weeks. That's about all I can do."

We talked about the Tuesday which had just passed, when Brett and I surfed that very beach in the midst of stand-up barreling waves.

"I had to stay on the shore and watch that." the former pro said sadly.

For a moment I think about asking if his former sponsor helped him out with disability when he got injured - but I then thought better of it.

When 7:30 rolled around, the loudspeaker told us all to move so the guys in colored jerseys could compete.

Brett and I paddled over to the north. High tide had made the surf pretty mushy, and we got out after a few sets. We stoppeed by the stands and sat down for a spell next to a kid and his dad. The kid had recieved a promotional packet with a copy of SG (Surf Girl) mag, and a surfing coloring book.

The guys in the water were the "masters" finals. "Masters" is anyone over thirty.

"So, how does that make you feel about when you started surfing, Brett?"

"Yea, right. I guess we're master beginners."

The announcer attempted to make commentary on the action going on. "There's white dropping in and trying to get some maneuvers in on the old funboard.." A photographer from a surfing magazine sat in front of us, chuckeling. "Well folks as you can see, these masters just don't have all the pop and style like they used to..."

We all laughed at that one.

"What a dick." I mumbled through my laugh.

Brett and I got up and grabbed our boards to leave.

"Well, have you seen enough of the world of competitive surfing?" I asked Brett.

"Quite."

I remind myself that Op is now a subsidiary of Warnaco, a New York clothing company responsible for Spedo suimsuits (really cute on european tourist guys), Calvin Klein Jeans, and Jenifer Lopez lingere line.

Warnaco bought Op earlier this summer for $40 million, agreeing to also assume Op's debts. Op had been an industry giant, peaking with over $400 million in sales. Their downward spiral began in 1986 when riots broke out at the Op Pro contest in Huntington Beach. In 1992, Op
filed for Bankrupcy Court protection. Op has been rebuilding ever since, and had apparently rebuilt to the point of being an attractive purchase for Warnaco.

Op shorts and J.Lo lingere....Great combination of products. Imagine the synergies. J.Lo could marry Joel Tudor. Send the surfing press and the tabloids.

More Later.

-Trav
Copyright 2004 Travis R. English

Jason (Day 92)

When I arrived at 6 am, it was dark and slightly crisp. I decided to wear shorts, anyway.

"The water is warmer than the air, and the sun will come out while we're out there." I told Brett. But with his wetsuit already pulled and zipped up, he couldn't have cared less.

We walked down to shore in the pre-twilight darkness. The sand on the beach was cold on my feet. We walked down the beach for a stretch, until Brett stopped and looked out to the water.

"Did you really want to walk to the pier, or are we just walking to wait for more light?" Brett asked.

"We're just walking to wait for more light." I replied, and began tugging on one arm with the other over my head. "And, now, we're going to do stretches to kill a little more time."

We entered the water with only the barest light of twilight showing in the over land. There was a deep, dark blue color fading towards purple at the bottom of the eastern horizon.

A few waves later, I noticed Jason paddling out.

Jason was Hispanic, in his early thirties, with a shaved bald head and closely trimmed facial, and clean features set into a round face. Jason had been fairly regular at seventeenth street in the early part of the summer, showing up for morning surfing session at least three times per week and sometimes more. He would arrive between 6 and 6:30, and stay in the water up to several hours. Jason lived in Downey, 28 miles north of Huntington Beach, a commute almost as long as my own.

From August to September, however, Jason had been missing from the line up.

"Hey." I said. "It's been a while since we've seen you here."

Jason smiled. He told me that he and his wife had just had their first baby, a son, and that he was adjusting to the sporadic sleep pattern horribly, like most new parents do.

"I haven't been this tired in a long time." Jason sighed. "I guess it's tiring for everyone."

Brett, father of two, paddled into reach of the conversation. He smiled and sat up tall on his longboard with his chest out. "Just wait till the second."

Brett and I immediately shifted to into Daddy mode, recounting stories of our kids. I envied Jason the experience of those first weeks of life, and told him so.

"They'll never be that small and fragile again." I said. "Before you know it, they'll be running out of the room and coming back with your favorite pair of scissors."

Jason was a very good surfer. He paddled well, found the shoulders of the waves, and got good speed in his take offs. He had quick feet and turned with power, showing the balance and control that only experience brings.

In the long lulls between sets, we talked about the recent swell, and the day of offshore wind conditions. Jason had been in Huntington that morning and, retrospectively, envied our choice to surf at Newport.

"That must have been pretty crazy down there." He nodded distantly, as though imagining the difference in waves between the tow beaches.

We drifted with the current while the sun painted vivid colors of orange, pink, and yellow against the blue gradients of the south sky. We talked about surfing trips, and my vacation to O'ahu.

"I lived there for a while" Jason said.

"Navy?"

"No. my wife went to school at U of H."

I told him about my trip. I mentioned surfing in Ewa, at Hau Bush, Barber's and several breaks "in town".

"Town's nice, isn't it?" he asked.

I nodded.

"That's the real deal, out there."

Jason asked if I had gotten to do any surfing on the North Shore. I told him that I had been in May, and that nothing was breaking on the north. In any event, I told him that I doubted that I would actually surf on the North Shore as I didn't consider myself to be a good enough surfer.

"No.", he attempted to assure me, "You'd surf there."

Jason recalled his experiences. "Man, even the car ride to the beach was exciting. I could feel my heart pounding. You really learn your limitations. But, if your like most of us" he pointed to the water with his palms, "and always learning - then it's great. It was a great thing for me, for my surfing. Now, when it gets big here, like early this week, there's less fear. There's still fear, you know, but I have that experience."

Jason tells me that there were three key thing he learned as a result of his winter on the North Shore of O'ahu.

"First, paddling. You really learn how to paddle after a wave, where you put all your energy into catching it. Then - the duct dive. [It is] Not like here, where you just sort of push up, but, to really push your nose down under the water. You have to duct dive there, or you'll never make it out."

Jason and I paddled towards the pier a bit, fighting the north current. The sun was fully out, and silhouetted Jason's head against an orange backdrop as he talked.

"And, then there's the late take off."

"See" I said, throwing my palms up in a surrender, " - that still scares me."

Jason was calm, eluding the surfer wisdom of experience. "Well, Newport is a late take off. It's pretty hairy there. Especially when it's big."

"Yea, well that's why I cheat at Newport. I bring a longer board and paddle earlier."

"It's still late. Waves that break that strong - you can't catch it until it's late. You learn the late take off over there. You get a lot better at it. And... once you're committed to a wave.."

Jason raised his eyebrows to finish the thought before he paddled away to an incoming set of waves.

I knew what he meant.

More Later

-trav

copyright 2004, Travis R. English

Notes, Tidbits & the Blog of Confusion

NOTES AND TIDBITS:

For anyone who read my day 89 post, Surfline has some pictures of that day. Pretty wild stuff. here and here

I didn't see any of Newport Beach (although there were photographers standing on the beach), but there's one of RJ's. here

I don't know how long they leave their photos up for, or if I can post them here, but I won't for now.

PULP FICTION
As the blog grows, I think a few words of explanation are apropos, just in case someone happens upon this and wonders what the heck is happening.

I started surfing every day in mid June, and have been keeping logs on my personal computers since early July. A few weeks ago, I got the idea that if I could clean up the journal logs and supplement them with a little bit of research, I could get a book out of this whole thing.

I found the blogspot completely by accident, following a link one day, and decided that this was as good a place as any to start assembling the book.

So, the entries that are getting posted are in no particular order. Some of them are me looking back at my old notes and writing based on the early days. Some of them are recent, daily notes that are developed enough to be posted.

Think of it like a Quentin Tarentino film - the timeline is all screwed up, but you can get the idea.

Mind you, I don't know the first thing about publishing and have no idea how that whole aspect is going to work out. So, it's very possible that someday I'll just print this whole thing out, pass it out to a few people and that'll be the end of it. But, like a good little capitalist, my wife sees dollar signs in the whole effort. She figures that if we can get this thing into bookstores, or surf shop, sunder some kind of cover, that ten or fifteen copies will immediately fly off the shelves making us multi-billionaires so that we can retire and take up the new hobby of watching 12 hours of television every day.

So it goes.

Until then, I know that I really like to write and I'm having a heck of a time doing these entries. So, I'd do more.

A word on the concept.......

When I decided that this might be a book, I did what seemed the easiest thing at the time: I stole the idea for a format and started running with it.

The format is this: A surfer's personal experiences are presented along side a parallel historical or sociological narrative about surfing in general, surfing history, Suring culture, etc.

I'm stealing this format from a book called "Caught Inside: A Surfer's Year on the California Coast", by Daniel Duane.

Duane surfed for a year in Santa Cruz, and wrote a beautiful and lyrical book about that year parallel with some really great surfing history. Duane's focus, historically, was presentations of surfing in literature and early Polynesian and Californian surf cultures.

My focus promises to be at least a little bit different. Last year, while babysitting my newborn daughter, I saw a commercial for the "Endless Summer" which was broadcasting on a cable television station. I had never seen the film, but had always heard it discussed. So, I watched it.

"Endless Summer" is not the greatest surfing movie ever made, it's simply the most enduring. It is still sold in all the surf shops, and is the most universally recognizable portrait of surfing that we have, even to this day. It has permanently attached a face, an attitude, and a culture to surfing in the minds of surfers and non surfers alike. It's really quite a phenomenon.

But, "Endless Summer" was nearly 40 years ago.

Robert August was a surfer from Orange County who surfed in Huntington Beach, but the Huntington Beach that he knew is not the Huntington beach that I surfed at. His experience of surfing and my experience of surfing are two different worlds.

The pages of published surfing literature are significantly weighted to coverage of the period leading up to 1966. What I've wondered is... what's happened to surfing since then? What has changed in surfing, and in the culture that surfing lives in to make my surfing experience so different from the boys of 1966?

So, that's what I'm writing about.

That's why I did the whole piece on Edison Field, Ron Jon's and Crystal Cathedral. In 1966, all that was being developed out of farm land. Now, any plant you find for miles is sprinkler fed urban landscaping. This is a different place, and I think that surfing's history cannot be thought of as independent of that.

More Later

-Travis

copyright 2004 Travis R. English

Irvine

DAY 91

On a clear morning, two business men is full three piece suits waited in the lobby of a five story office building in Irvine.

Of the buildings two elevators, one bore a sign indicating that it was out of order. The digital indicator above the second elevator showed the number 5.

The men waited. One man adjusted his tie. The other man checked his watch. It was two minutes past eight o'clock.

The two men both looked upward as the floor indicator shifted from 5 to 4, and onward to 3.

The elevator door opened, and the two men walked inside with measured steps, and turned around to the socially acceptable stance.

Around this time, I had just entered the lobby with one of the girls who works in administration at my office. We saw the open elevator door and made a quick pace for it, entering just as the doors began to close.

Of the four people in the elevator, all were dressed for business, with clothing styles ranging from professional financial to office casual. We all had our dress shoes. We all had neatly combed hair and shining watches. We all rode silently in the acceptable face forward position.

However, something was different. Something was just a little off of norm, and it stiffened the air to the point of uncomfortably.

One of us - and I'm not saying who - but one of the people on that elevator didn't fit in. One was different. One of the people on that elevator in that office building this morning - was carrying a six foot, eight inch, yellow and green tri-fin short board, still dripping salt water onto the elevator floor.

The long drive (Day 12)

Day 12

Leaving the house at 5:30 in the am, I took the 91 freeway west to the 55 freeway south. Driving on the 55, I wondered if there was a faster way to get to Seventeenth Street than the one I'd been taking. I wondered if it might be better to go straight south to Newport Beach, via the 55, and then double back northwest on pacific coast highway. Deciding that I was running a few minutes behind and not wanting to take chances, I changed lanes to the right and merged into the 22 west.

The garden grove freeway, California route 22, runs like a corridor through the cities of Orange, Santa Ana, Garden Grove, Westminster (including Little Saigon), and Seal Beach.

Built in three years and completed in 1967, the freeway serves an annual daily traffic average of over 200,000 cars, 15,000 of which pass through during the peak hours. The Orange County Transportation Authority estimates that by 2020, the annual daily traffic average will top 350,000 cars per day.

The intersection of the 22 freeway with interstate I-5 and California route 57 is one of the busiest interchanges in Orange County. Affectingly nicknamed "the orange crush", the interchange is packed full of cars moving at snail speeds during morning and afternoon during the work week, and sporadically on weekends.

On the morning of day 12, a traffic alert due to an accident closed down all but one lane of the 22 freeway at Euclid Street, 4 miles west of the orange crush. Ignorantly, I drove right into the four mile line of traffic.

I spent the next 45 minutes of my life driving four miles.

The view northward from the 22 freeway driving west from the orange crush, however, is telling. From the freeway, three distinct landmarks are visible, each with interesting stories about Orange County.

Over the Santa Ana riverbank, the 230 foot tall red a-frame with halo is clearly visible, the landmark of what is now called Angel Stadium.

The stadium is owned by the city of Anaheim, and leased to the Anaheim Angels. Opened in 1966 for $24 million of public funds, and upgraded in 1997-1999 for an additional $118 million of public money, it stands as a monument to the great American tradition of using public money to foster private profit. The stadium currently seats 45,050 fans.

The Angels tenure in Anaheim mimes the struggle of Orange County itself, seeking individuality under the shadow of its heavier neighbor to the north.

The year of Bruce Brown's "Endless Summer" and just eleven years after the Walt Disney Company acquired 180 acres of orange groves and walnut trees to build Disneyland, the team called the Los Angeles Angels moved to Anaheim Stadium in 1966, changing their name to the California Angels. Prior to the stadium's construction, the 180 acre site consisted of four farms: 39 acres of orange and eucalyptus trees, 70 acres of alfalfa, and 39 acres of corn on two farms.

Walt Disney had sat on the original board of the Los Angeles when the team was formed in 1961. The Angels original owner was Gene Autry, the "singing cowboy" of show biz fame, and a close friend of Mr. Disney. Autry managed the team personally; investing everything he could to put a winning team on the field. In the early 1990s, Autry gave over control of the team's management to his wife, Jackie. Jackie's more conservative financial approach was unpopular with the fans and attendance dropped drastically in the course of several years.

In 1995, a heavy neighbor was petitioned for help. News of the Walt Disney Company, under Michael Eisner, buying a 25% share of the Angels in 1995 was welcome news to the fans, who thought that the deep pockets of the giant Disney corporation might be a boon to the team.

Disney assumed operational control of the Angels n 1996. Management staff was cut. Operations were managed by a Disney subsidiary. Gene and Jackie Autry were forced from the board of directors. Ticket prices were raised. Long time season tickets were moved to make way for more expensive buyers. The stadium was expanded with public monies, and a deal was stuck with power giant Southern California Edison to sponsor and name the "Edison International Field of Anaheim". Disney style mascots, cheerleaders, and uniforms were added. A full length move was produced ("Angels in the Outfield"). But, the Angels baseball record suffered, and fans quickly lost faith in the Disney miracle.

Under the control of the Disney umbrella, however, the team was finally given the name of the Anaheim Angels, and put the name of Anaheim, the city where they had played for nearly 30 years, on its away uniforms.

After four years of experimenting with synergies to increase attendance at Disneyland via the Angels and the neighboring Disney owned professional hockey team, the Mighty Ducks, Disney announced both teams for sale. Improvements were made to the Angels in the hopes of finding a buyer.

Then, something even better happened. In 2003, the worst angels team of all time, judging by their record in the first 20 games, miraculously came back to win the 2003 world series title against the San Francisco giants, four games to three. It was the first world series for the Angels.

Seven months later, independent multi-millionaire Arturo Moreno bought the Anaheim Angels. For opening day of the 2004 season, the stadium was renamed "Angel Stadium" removing all reference to Anaheim, and a new scoreboard was installed under the giant letters of a new scoreboard sponsor: the Los Angeles Times.

The second landmark visible from the 22 freeway is a large outdoor mall facility called The Block at Orange. Opened in 1998 with 700,000 square feet of retail space, it's one of Orange County's top retail centers. The Block features a host of commonly franchised retailers such as Old Navy, Ann Taylor Factory Store, OFF 5th Saks Fifth Avenue, an AMC 30 Theatres, and a Dave & Buster's entertainment center.

However, the Block represents a significant strategy move to the retail community. It was the first mall in Southern Californian to actively and aggressively target the surfing and skateboarding retail business.

At its opening, the Block included a Vans indoor skateboard park, which claims to be the largest such facility in the world. The skateboarders can be observed by the public via a large glass storefront. Nearby the Vans pro shop, Hawaiian fashion retailer Hilo Hattie, the self proclaimed "store of Hawaii" runs it only California franchise.

But, the face that the mall presents to drivers in traffic on the 22 freeway is an image of surfing. A large building at the south corner of the mall is adorned around the top by giant statues of surfboards and men in board shorts standing on surfboards, riding in classic longboard trimmed stances, like huge gargoyles lifted from "the Endless Summer".

The Ron Jon Surf Shop at the Block in Orange is the largest surfboard shop on the west coast. The 25,000 square foot space was Ron Jon's first facility so far inland and located in a major retail destination. The store is a twenty minute drive by freeway to the nearest beach, while it sits only 5 miles from Disneyland.

The store is packed with surfing culture for sale to the inland public. Board shorts, swimsuits, surf fashions, shoes, and various paraphernalia litter the wooden shelves. The centerpiece of the shopping experience is a 1946 mercury station wagon "woodie", used as a retail display. There is also a pro shop selling short and long surfboards in the back of the store. I bought my 7'6" funboard at this shop a few years ago while shopping with my wife. The board was less expensive there than anywhere else. On my way out of the store, I asked for a couple of bars of surf wax. The girl behind the counter told me that they were out of stock.

Ron Jon surf shops started with a single store in Long Beach Island, New Jersey in the 1959, with a second store opening shortly thereafter in Coco Beach, Florida in 1963. It now operates five retail stores, a Ron Jon resort in Orlando, and an internet business. Ron Jon has also announced the development of a wave pool surf park where visitors can ride perfect barreling 4 to 8 foot salt water surf in a heated pool on a year round basis starting sometime in 2005. A Mexican restaurant is also planned for the site, where patrons can dine with a view of the artificial surf.

Ron Jon president, Ed Moriarty is a former employee of Disney, working with Walt Disney Attractions for over 20 years and developing one of the company's more successful merchandising programs.

Ed Moriarty left Disney to become the Ron Jon's president in 1997, the year before Ron Jon Surf Shop at the Block at Orange opened its doors.

Minutes past "The City" Drive, the exit for the Block at Orange, looking northward, and still stuck in hellish traffic, I saw a gleam of light reflecting as if to blind everyone driving past it. Through the painful gleam I could distinguish the second most recognizable logo of our time, the Christian cross.

The nearly 12,000 panes of glass that form the four pointed crystal star of the twelve story Crystal Cathedral in Garden Grove have been called one of the architectural wonders of the world. With dimensions of some 200 feet by 400 feet, with a ceiling of glass peaking at 128 feet above the floor, the cathedral is larger than Notre Dame in Paris.

The primary function of the building is for the hosting of the "Hour of Power" Christian services, the televangelism ministry begun by the Reverend Robert Schuller. "Hour of Power" is televised every week worldwide, and known to millions of Americans. The show has often featured celebrity guests and speakers such John Tesh, the Judds, Robin Williams and future California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Located near Disneyland, the cathedral welcomes tourists year round, hosts special events, is available for weddings, and puts on spectacular Christmas and Easter pageants each year.

Arriving in Orange County in 1955, the same year as the opening of Disneyland, Schuller rented the Orange County Drive In theatre for Sunday mornings. Parishioners seated in their cars listened to 28 year old preacher give his Sunday lessons from the top of a drive in snack bar.

In 1960, Schuller moved his fellowship to Garden Grove, to a new church building. In 1966, the congregation added the fourteen story "tower of hope" to the site, adorned with a 90 foot cross that lit up the night sky.

Schuller entered the television ministry business in 1970 with the "Hour of Power" television show, which would become the most widely watched televised church service in the country, with an audience of over three million viewers. The Crystal Cathedral church was designed by architect Philip Johnson, started construction in 1975, and opened for services in 1980.

Viewers can and are invited to make an investment in the "Hour of Power", which can be done by phone, by mail, or online at the church's website.

Shuller himself has remained relatively clean from scandal. In 1997, a plea bargain dismissed criminal charges which had been filed against Schuller for allegedly assaulting an airline attendant. In 2002, Schuller fired his associate, William Baker, after a local independent newspaper reported that Baker had been a former chairman of a neo-Nazi group called the Populist Party.

On Saturdays, the "Hour of Power" services are carried on the Trinity Broadcast Network (TBN) stations across the country. TBN is also based in Orange County, and is the outgrowth of the ministry of Pastor Paul Croutch. Across the 405 freeway from South Coast Plaza, an upscale Southern California shopping mall (complete with a Quicksilver Roxy boutique store), TBN runs the Trinity Christian City International, a sprawling white neoclassical architectural palace where visitors can witness studio broadcasts, watch Christian movies, or buy TBN logo clothing.

In September of 2004, the Christian church watchdog group, Wall Watchers (www.wallwatchers.com), listed TBN as the 10th largest Christian ministry with revenues of $171 million.

Crystal Cathedral ministries, estimated as the most widely received religious broadcast in history, does not report or reveal any revenue figures, keeping all its finances private.

Between the two churches is the city of Santa Ana, where over 70% of the population is Latino or Hispanic and 20% of the population lives below the poverty line.

On Sundays, the "hour of power" show is carried on a second cable channel, the Lifetime network. And, as if by sheer coincidence, 50% of the Lifetime network is owned by none other than...... The Walt Disney Company.


I finally got through the traffic and raced to the beach. Passing the Beach Boulevard exit, I glanced to my left. The drive in movie theatre where Schuller used to preach has since been torn down, and replaced with a Wall Mart shopping center.

I arrived at the Huntington Beach cliffs at 6:45 and jumped out of my truck. I hurried into my wetsuit and was in the water within minutes. I had met my quota of three waves by 7:15, leaving me just enough time to get to Irvine by 8 am.

More later (wait till I get to Irvine)

-Trav

copyright 2004 Travis R. English

Day 89 - (Virginity)

After Brett's leash breaking incident, fear crept in. At 88 days, I felt that it would be a real shame to stop two days short of 90 just because the surf got too big and scary. but the reports were unquestionable. the swell was growing. afternoon and early evening reports from hunting beach quoted double overhead close-out waves. The buoy swell model on the internet confirmed the same picture.

I spoke to Chris and Larry, two surfers whose opinion I respect.

Chris recommended "Go to Blackie's, bro."

"Brett" I say into the phone, late Monday night. "We need to move tomorrow. Supposedly, Huntington is just getting bigger and uglier. My friend, Chris, recommended the north side of Newport Pier. He says that it's more west facing, a softer wave, and has a shorter paddle."
Brett agreed. We figured out some directions, as neither of us has surfed there before, and hung up.

I couldn't sleep.

Sure, this new beach might be smaller, but smaller than what? was Huntington getting pounded with 8 foot waves all night? and I was going to go running to the safety of the Newport Pier, only to find 6 foot waves that still scared the crap out of me? What about the wind? If conditions became big and choppy, I would have to pass and break the streak. Swimming around in big surf is one thing, but swimming around in big choppy ugly surf is something else.
I woke up sporadically. When my eyes popped open just before five, I got out of bed just to stop playing games..

The wind was howling through the trees outside.

"Strong wind in Anaheim could mean anything", I told myself. "besides, it's not even five thirty yet. a lot can happen at dawn."

I got to the beach ten minutes before six o clock. it was still nigh time. the sky hadn't even started to turn blue with twilight. One thing, however, was perfectly clear. The waves were crap. They were less than a foot high and turned to mush by the high tide and strong offshore winds.

I walked the beach to the pier, strolling over the water on the wooden structure. a photographer was standing on the south railing, camera hanging around his neck as he looked out over the water.

"I thought there was supposed to be better waves this morning." he told me.

I couldn't offer him any explanations.

Wandering back to my truck, I meet a middle aged man gazing out into the darkness at the whitewater, casually drinking a cup of coffee.

"so much for that big swell" he said. "My friends had told me there were these giant waves out there."

"there were." I told him. "I was at Huntington yesterday. they were big and scary."

"ah, Huntington.." he sighed, clearly remembering something. he reminisced to me about Huntington beach in his youth. he told me how the only good spot was north of the pier, and with the crowds, he'd just stopped going there.

"I like this spot, now." he told me. "the people here are real nice. sometimes, there's a rude guy. but, for the most part, it's just a fun spot. most days, you'll find a group of peaks out here." he pointed to the water with a waving motion "But, it doesn't look like you're going to get much this morning."

I nodded, turning away. Brett's car had just pulled into the lot.

Brett and I quickly assessed the situation: there was no surf here, but I didn't have time to drive all the way back up to seventeenth and still make it to work in time. we agreed on 56th street, at the north most of a series of rock jetties fingering out into the water just south of the Santa Ana river mouth.

the one mile drive took less than a few minutes. I pulled quickly into an open parking spot in the small, metered parking lot behind the racquetball courts.

Across the street, a row of beachfront houses blocked the sightline to the water. I jogged across the street, joining a crowd of people standing at the edge of the sand in an alley between houses. For a moment, I guessed that they were surfers, checking the conditions. Then, they gasped, one laughed, and one hooted. They were spectators.

And Newport Beach was the show.

Across the sand, I could see head high waves pitching into barrels under the force of the offshore winds.

These were the Santa Ana winds, the west blowing desert winds of Southern California's autumn.

Suddenly, a puzzle came together in my mind. Strong surf plus strong offshore winds was the formula for barrels. the force of the wind on the face of a breaking wave adds an extra element of friction and causes the top to pitch out, creating the postcard wave shape so often shown in advertisements and magazines.

I'd never seen Newport Beach like this. I watched a few guys drop into the fast waves, making tight turns on the face to try to stay in the pocket of the curl. Some of them didn't make it. But, some did.

There was a lull between sets. The waves died down for a time. During the lull, I decided that we could make it out past the foam if we timed it right. I decided that I could handle this.

My decision made, I raced back to my car and put on my wetsuit. Brett was just parking and looked my way for approval. I gave it to him with a nod.

Moments later, Brett and I stood at the edge of the shore.

"Well," I told him. "If you get into one, that's it. You'll never have a better chance at finding a barrel."

We walked forward, waiting for a lull in the waves, and paddling hurriedly out past the white soup to the line up of surfers.

And then they came.

They were powerful, scary. They broke fast, pitching far out to create the tube shape. Every big wave that broke against the offshore wind sent a spray of water back over the top which rains on the surfers behind.

Pulling together confidence, I paddled after one. Checking to both sides, I saw that no one else was paddling. It was mine. It loomed behind me like a giant liquid vampire, arms out and cape extended, waiting to bite. I stood up. The drop down the face of the wave was fast.... really fast. I crouched low and leaned back towards the wave to hug as tightly as I could to the wall of water. It worked. After a fast initial section, a wider section opened up and I was able to make a few quick turns before ending the ride.

Pumped full of adrenaline, I paddled back out.

The second wave I caught was big. I was in the right place at the right time, and nobody else had claimed it. As I pushed my board down to get to my feet, I was completely blinded by the mist of spray, like a sprinkler hose of cool salt water steam in my face. Blindly, I pushed my front foot forward and shifted my weight to the left.

Had I gotten a look at the shear steepness of the drop, I might have backed off out of fear. As it was, something in me knew that the time for questions had passed. I bent my knees and leaned hard. Halfway down the face, instinct and the memory of a Layne Beachly video kicked in, and something told me to put a little bit of pressure on my back foot. Just a little stalling - to let the wave catch up.

At that moment, I lost my virginity.

Don't get me wrong. For nearly a decade, I've been surfing these beaches - Newport, Huntington, Sunset, San Diego, San Onofre, even a few trips to Baja, Ventura, Santa Barbara..... and I've loved every minute. I'd repeat it all starting tomorrow if you gave me the chance.

But, that first ceiling of water moving over my head, arching, round, like a thick piece of glass, light blue, glimmering, translucent, coming down on the other side of me, surrounding me with blue and green games of light, surrounding me with the noise of churning, crashing, moving ocean, water spraying in my face, my knees crouched all the way to my chest......

I know that my mouth was open, because I distinctly remember, as if the whole thing were slow motion, taking a breath of moist air.

....And then the wave ate me.

More Later.

-Travis

copyright 2004 Travis R. English

Day 88

"So, do you, like, surf really big waves, or what?"

It's actually a pretty common question.

I like to lie.

"Yea. I like it when it gets to about 10 or 15 feet high, you know. 8 feet is kind of weak surf for pansies. anything less than that is, like, totally boring. Every now and then, I like to surf some 30 or 40 footers, you know, at the outer breaks."

They nod, as if they know what they're listening to. Wow. That's really cool. I understand you. I've seen people like you on TV.

Reality check.

A ten foot section of a one foot wave (with a two foot face) contains about four hundred pounds of salt water.

A ten foot section of a "head high" wave, with a six foot face, contains over one thousand pounds of water.

So, when a surfer takes a fall on a head high wave, lands in the flats and get churned into the foam, they're getting tossed around by a thousand pounds of moving water.

When you start talking about waves that are "head and a half" or "double overhead", that situation gets pretty serious. A ten foot section of a double overhead wave with a 12 foot face contains nearly 2,500 pounds of water.

That's like getting hit by a liquid mid-sized car.

So, when you see a picture of Laird Hamilton carving a giant bottom turn across a giant 20 foot section of a 40 tall foot face, you're looking at a man surfing under the power of 16,000 pounds of moving water.

This is not something that your average beer-gutted longboarder does on a Saturday.

There's a term in surfing called "tombstoning". Tombstoning is when a surfer falls into the belly of a big wave, and the wave pushes the surfer down under water. The surfboard, a wonderful floatation device, comes up to the top, but the surfer is constantly pulling down on it so that the surfboard sticks straight upright out of the water, like a nicely waxed tombstone.

If this doesn't terrify you, you are either a really strong swimmer who is convinced in your ability to hold your breath for some unspecified period of time while a wave drags you around under water - or you're an idiot.

As someone who has spent all my time surfing on weekends in mediocre Southern California chest to head high waves, I can afford to be honest. And, the truth is that when the paper says anything over five or six feet, I start to get nervous. A six foot swell will have outside set waves with faces up to twelve feet high.

This morning, Brett and I paddled out into some head and a half high sets. It took me nearly ten minutes just to make it out past the white water to the breaking zone.

Brett never made it.

Held down by one of the set waves, his leash snapped, leaving him swimming to shore in some pretty big surf without a flotation device. He got to shore and found his surfboard. Surveying the leash damage and discovering that he wouldn't be able to repair it, he decided not to try again.

I made it past the outside breakers by paddling over the peak of one of the largest ones. I saw the wave coming towards me, it's steep face reflecting the morning sun ominously, and started paddling as hard as I could with no regard for breath or arm strength. It started to break just as I pushed the nose of my board through the crest of the curl. Hurling all my weight forward, the board slapped down on the back side of the wave and slid down to the flat water behind as a hurl of spray came back towards me from the pitching crest.

I looked back. The wave was four to five feet tall on the back side, meaning the face could have been anywhere from eight to over ten feet. To me, that's a big wave.

I looked right and left. I was alone. While a few other surfers had already entered the water with Brett and I at six twenty, none of them had made it past the brutal white water trails. I looked to shore. By the ruler of the length of the beach, I had drifted the span of two lifeguard towers since getting in. Watching the big sets come in, I leisurely paddled southward, opposite to the current.>

At just after six thirty I spotted the familiar white rash guard and thick upper body of Jeremy. I paddled towards him. He sat, waiting out a few sets cautiously. I got close enough to wave, and Jeremy greeted me.

"Whatsup, Travis?"

I suddenly felt really good that we had exchanged names a few days before. It felt good to know someone out there. With Jeremy to the south, I paddled into a medium sized right as a warm up. The wave caught me, and I popped to my feet and started a clean line down the face. About halfway down, I saw that a closeout peak was going to cut the ride short. Rather than surf straight into a certain end and a possible trip back into the whitewash, I pointed up the face and shot out over the crest of the wave.

Not bad, I thought. In and out, no damage.

Slightly more confident, I swam further into the current. Jeremy drifted past me, but some of the other surfers were making it out now. I paddled into a good sized left, got a bottom turn and again pulled immediately out to avoid a close out section.

Those count, I told myself. That's two.

A shortboarder was paddling over towards me, looking like I had felt, the wary fear and excitement mixed in his eyes. His need for conversation was obvious, so I obliged, exchanging a few greetings and comments devoid of any useful content, but full of communication that neither of us was alone.

Brett was gone from the shore. My alarm went off.

I could see number three building. I paddled over to what looked like a very clean left shoulder, and pointed towards shore. Underneath, the surface of the valley dropped as the wave picked me up. I stood to my feet, angled to the left and took a drop that felt like a falling elevator. I made a powerful enough bottom turn, and shot back towards the crest of the wave, leveling off for a smooth top carve and re-entry. On my second drop down the wave, I noticed another surfer paddling out and watching. His face told me what I already knew - The wave that I couldn't see behind me was a churning monster. I reached the bottom, and pointed to shore. The closing face crashed on both sides of me like a movie explosion in surround sound. The board buckled under my feet, but I kept my knees bent and my weight centered over it. I rode the foam to shore.

That's big enough.

Back at the cars, Brett and I confessed to each other that we both hoped tomorrow was a little bit smaller.

More Later.

-Travis

Copyright 2004 Travis R. English

Origins: Brett

“We should try to go every day for a week.” Brett said.

And then he spat.

Surfers spit a lot.

It really can’t be helped. We’re told that it’s not good to drink the salt water of the ocean. Drinking salt water leads to dehydration. Human urine is actually less salty than salt water. So when the body processes salt water to create urine, water has to be added – a net loss of water to the body.

Also, salt water doesn’t taste very good. It chalks the inside of the mouth and, after enough time, chaps the lips. So, surfers generally spit a lot in an attempt to minimize the salt water in the mouths at any given time. Most conversations on the water between surfers occur between spits, like a meeting on the pitcher’s mound at a baseball game.

“Yea” I said, looking not at Brett but at the bulge of water moving towards us. “I guess We could probably do that.”

Then I spat.

Just about every surfing, ocean swimming, snorkeling, or diving introductory class or safety lesson advocates the buddy system. Brett is my buddy system. We’ve surfed together for the last seven years. More often than not, when I go surfing, he’s involved.

For a few weeks in the early part of June, Brett had been struggling to catch good waves. It wasn’t for a lack of trying. He was paddling around the surf just as well as anyone, studying the peaks, moving to position, and paddling after waves. He just wasn’t catching a whole lot that he was very proud of, like a designated hitter in a batting slump. Sometimes, he’d lose balance on the initial drop down the face. Sometimes, he’d get a good drop down the face but the wave would die before he could turn off the bottom.

That morning, in the grey and silver June gloom dawn, we paddled after a few waves with limited luck.

I caught a small wave a rode it a little way to the right, finding a clean line of sideways travel. I rode it for a while, fell off, surfaced, mounted my board, and began paddling back out to where Brett was waiting.

The first big wave of a set was coming in. I immediately realized that I was too far away to paddle up and over the wave. I grabbed the sides of my board and pushed up my upper body, preparing for the impact of the wave.

Out at the peak, I could see Brett. he was in perfect position. He took two short paddles, stood up promptly, and angled left. The last thing I saw before the wall of churning white foam hit me was Brett screaming down the face of the wave at top speed, his squinting eyes looking straight into the gleaming silver wall of water, knees bent, arms out.

There's a certain grin that a surfer gets when he's paddling back out to the take off zone after a wave like that. it makes the face look stupid and giddy like a young kid with new toy. i get it sometimes. Brett had it then. it's a great feeling. there's nothing like it.

Ever since my return from vacation from Hawaii, Brett and I had been trying to increase our number of surfing sessions per week. We’d long since realized that surfing once a week on a Saturday or Sunday morning wasn’t getting us enough water time to improve our skills at any recognizable rate. Finally, years later, we were doing something about it. We’d added surfing sessions before work a few days a week. Through the early part of June, we tried to surf at least one or two weekdays in addition to our weekend surfing.

A morning surfing session before work on a weekday is a significant effort for me, something which had never been easy. The morning has to be planned backwards from an 8 am start time at my job in Irvine. Blocks of time are subtracted from 8 am for the events of the morning: the12 mile drive in morning traffic from Huntington beach to Irvine, changing from a wetsuit to business casual, surfing, changing into a wetsuit, the 30 mile drive from Anaheim to Huntington Beach, loading the truck, eating breakfast, and a safety factor of ten minutes for padding around the house like a half sleeping, brainless, useless zombie at five in the morning. Efforts aside, I'd made all of our weekday morning sessions so far.

Back on shore, Brett and I continued our discussion.“Actually,” I told him, thinking the proposition over more thoroughly, “it might be easier to go every day. I think what really kills me is waking up at five o'clock one day and then sleeping in the next day.”

So it began. We started on a Friday, the 25th of June.

The first week of daily surfing wasn’t easy. It required a reorganization of my sleep pattern. As a rule, I’m the kind of person who likes to be awake at midnight or later. My wife likes to go to sleep earlier than this, and most of our marriage has been characterized by her going off to sleep while I stay up watching movies, bad television, or playing on the computers.

I spent the first week in a daze at work, arms and chest aching from paddling. I was spending the second half of the working day drinking coffee and wishing for a nap. of course, once i would got home, i had my wife to talk to, supper to eat, my daughter to play with, bad television to watch, books to read, and ten thousand other things to do before going to sleep.

I needed to establish a routine for the mornings. I had a three gallon drinking water jug, the type normally used in upright home drinking water dispensers, which served as my morning sidewalk shower. Every morning during the first week, I made a pot of coffee, filed up the three gallon water jug, loaded my truck with my surfboard, wetsuit, dress shoes, and a clothes hanger with slacks and a button down shirt, went back in the house to fill a travel cup with coffee, and left Anaheim before dawn.

Brett and I established the quota of three waves per day, borrowing the rule from Dale Webster. The qualification of what would be considered a “wave” was left open for interpretations and adjustments. Some mornings, in small surf and windy conditions, catching a ripple and getting to the feet was considered a wave towards quota. On better days, a quick stand up might not be counted, knowing that better surf was there to be had.

After seven days of surfing, I sent an email to my brother, telling him I had done a week in a row, and asking how long of a streak he'd ever put together. In the email, I told him that I was “getting to the point where I can stall, and get a second drop on my rights. my lefts still need work, though.”

When my brother responded, he said that he thought he'd done 28 days in a row. When I read it, 28 days seemed like a really long time.

The Coffee Problem

I'd always been a morning coffee drinker, in need of caffeine within an hour of awakening. However, I was not in the habit of making it at home during the week. My usual morning routine before work was quick and expedient, getting me in the door at the office at just about the time my caffeine addiction began screaming to be fed.

Transitioning to the morning surfing schedule, I began by making coffee in the mornings. This, however, took time out of the morning. If I didn't make the coffee as the very first course of action in the morning, I would have to leave late, waiting for the pot to brew. The coffee pot in our kitchen does have a programmable start feature which I used with great results, when I could remember to set up the pot for brewing the night before.

The making of coffee in a sleep deprived state at 5 am proved too much for me. By the second week of surfing, I was completely forgetting about coffee up until the moment before departure. On several occasions, I simply microwaved the leftover coffee in the pot from the day before, and added lots of sugar. Then I began refrigerating the leftover coffee in the pot when I came home – just in case I forgot to make it the next morning, which of course I would, subconsciously knowing it was safe to do so.

By the third week, I came to the revelation that anyone who would drink refrigerated and reheated leftover coffee with too much sugar to drown out the horrible taste has a serous caffeine addiction problem. I cut out the morning cup of coffee, dangerously fighting sleep on the drive to the beach with the windows rolled all the way down to keep wind in my face, and the radio at full volume to keep noise in my head. I did the heavy eyed drive for several days until my body became acclimated to mornings without coffee.

More later

-Travis

copyright 4004, Travis R. English

Origins: Anaheim

On a hot afternoon in Anaheim, my wife and I stood near the front door of our three bedroom end unit townhouse, speaking casually to our neighbors.

Mary and Robert are the finest neighbors we could have hoped for. They are a strong family of friendly but not overly evangelical Christians. My wife and Mary gossip freely and vividly, Mary often lowering her voice to that sewing circle whisper tone as she dishes out the juice on the other residents in our complex. They have two daughters, Gabby and Audrey, ages 8 and 11, who love to play outside with our kid for hours at a time.

On this particular afternoon, Gabby and Audrey were trying desperately to convince my one-year old daughter Guinevere that eating small rocks out of the planter dirt was neither a socially acceptable nor hygienically recommended practice. Gwen wasn't listening. She was very entertained by their insistences, but simply couldn't fathom why they continued depriving her of the tasty dirt morsels.

I watched the kid, chuckling quietly, while Mary and my wife spoke.

"No, we really like you guys as neighbors." Mary was saying. "Robert and I were talking about that. I mean, you could have been anyone. Travis could have been a drug dealer, or a heavy metal fan, or something."

"Actually." My wife interrupted, "Travis does listen to heavy metal sometimes."

"Well, we've never heard it." Mary defended. "No, you guys could have been anything, and instead we just live next to a surfer."

That caught my attention.

A surfer?

Did she just call me a surfer?

In retrospect, I suppose the term must have made sense to her. After all, most Saturday mornings, she would see me driving in to the parking lot behind our townhouses with a surfboard in the back of my truck. I would unload the board into the garage, where several other surfboards could clearly be seen. I would then begin rinsing out my wetsuit with the garden hose, eventually hanging it up on the back porch to dry.

Could she be right? Was I actually a "surfer"?

Did that mean that I needed to read Surfer magazine? Did that mean I should rush out and buy surfer clothes, or learn surfer talk? Actually, that requirement wouldn't be terribly difficult to incorporate. Living in southern California since my earliest memory, I already possess the incredible ability to utilize the word "dude" in every possible part of speech - noun, verb, adjective, descriptive pronoun.

Dude.

On any given day, if one were to open the refrigerator door at my wife and my humble townhouse, and look in the butter tray, it's very likely that there would be a partially used stick of surf wax. But, is that what makes a surfer?

As a weekend warrior to the surf, I had to admit that much of the pleasure that I'd taken in surfing had little to do with riding waves. Waking up early on a Saturday morning, drinking a large cup of coffee in the car on a sparsely populated urban freeway with the window open and the music loud, pulling up to the beach, stretching into the wetsuit, waxing the surfboard, walking to shore, tying the leash, surveying the scene.... the whole ritual of surfing, starting long before I even reach the water, is part of the sport's allure, but surely that's not what makes a surfer.

I used to have some friends who lived in Brea and surfed every weekend at San Onofre, a nearly 45 mile commute to fight the crowds and wait in line for parking at the popular state beach every Saturday and Sunday morning. With that kind of dedication, one would have to call them surfers.

I knew a longboarder who was an ambulance driver in Covina and liked to surf at “the cliffs” in Huntington on the weekends. The commute was a full hour one way. But, he loved it. He moved to Anaheim several years later, and I saw him about a year ago. He's married, and has since stopped surfing.

Then, I've knows guys who live in Huntington Beach, and who surf a anywhere from few times a week to a few times a year the same way anyone else might go jogging or walk their dog. Sometimes, they surf just to “get wet”. Other times, they'll drive by the beach, and look at perfectly ridable surf but decide not to go because it's windy.

There's Dale Webster from northern California, recently profiled in the surfing documentary film “Step Into Liquid”. Dale is the world record holder for surfing on consecutive days. Dale surfed for 10,407 days in a row. He surfed over 28 years from the Nixon administration to the second of the Bush presidencies. He surfed on the day of his wedding, and the day of his daughter's birth.

Most visibly, there are the professional surfers, a breed unknown before the 1970s who have since become the backbone of a worldwide marketing frenzy. They are the elite few who travel the world to exotic locations and surf for photo shoots, video footage, and contests. The images of professional surfers and their surfing adventures are then used to sell fruit snacks, surfin' chicken, barbecue ribs, fast food burgers, breakfast cereals, sports drinks, bottled water, carbonated soda, diet soda, energy drinks, automobile lot sales, sports cars, sedans, sport utility vehicles, hotel rooms, vacation packages, boots, slippers, sneakers, sports shoes, sandals, pants, jeans, shorts, jackets, sweaters, dress shirts, tee shirts, watches, dvds, videos, home video games, computer games, jewelry, bedsheets, pillowcases, music albums, cell phones, sunglasses, posters, Christmas cards, camera equipment, political endorsements, and – lest we forget – surfboards, surfboard bags, leashes, fins, deck traction pads, surf shorts, bikinis, salt water rash guards, wetsuits, and surf wax.

So what is a surfer? And what is this thing we call surfing? Is it a sport, a spiritual path to a meditative inner serenity, or just a leisure activity of the white middle and upper class with no productive value whatsoever?

In 1966, Bruce Brown released his classic surfing film, “The Endless Summer”. The film presented a picture of surfing and surfers in 1966. The film is still wildly popular, being sold in surf shops, retail shops, carried on the shelves of video stores, and broadcast on cable television.

But, surfing today is a world apart from Robert August and Michael Hynson's trip around the world.

In the same year the endless summer debuted, in a nearby studio in Southern California, Adam West and Burt Ward started production of “Batman” the television series. The flash in the pan hit series featured a surf music reverb guitar introduction, ridiculously camp dialog, Burt Ward's series of 352 “Holy” exclamations (from “Holy agility” to “Holy Zorro”), and the often remembered scenes of Batman and Robin dishing out dialog while climbing up the side of a building – quite obviously filmed with the camera turned on it's side.

But the perpetually 32 year old caped crusader Batman is completely different now. He's been touched by Frank Miller, Garth Enis, Doug Monech, and Tod McFarlane. The first Robin is gone. Robin was replaced. The second Robin is dead. The last Robin was a girl. In a graphic novel by British writer Alan Moore, Batgirl was kidnaped by the Joker, shot through the spine at point blank range, stripped nude and photographed. The pictures were sent to her father and Batman. Batman's been nearly paralyzed and had his job taken over by a murderous vigilante. Tim Burton, Michael Keaton, Jack Nicholson, Joel Schumacher, George Clooney, Val Kilmer, Jim Carrey and California's current Governor in a giant ice suit have all played at the immortal hero. Batman's DC Comics was acquired by Warner Commnications in 1976 , which became AOL Time Warner, owners the WB television network and WB Kids programming. Batman returned to televison in a new animated television series in 1992. The new show produced a series of videos, dvds, comic books, coloring books, action figuires, fast food kids meal toys, tee shirts, and underwear.

Progress.

The Russians aren't our enemies anymore, James Bond even respects women sometimes (or so his producers claim), and our grade school age children will absorb three thousand discreet marketing messages today while every fourth one of us is going to eat a hamburger, with fries and a coke.

And, now, more than ever in a long history of thousands of years since ancient Polynesian man caught his first waves, we surf.

Or, at least, I did today. And, I can't see any reason why I wouldn't tomorrow.

More Later.

-Travis
copyright 2004 Travis R. English.

Day 84

Man. I should have started this blog a long time ago.

Actually, I did.

I've been keeping a journal since about day 20 or so. It's huge. I've got tons a text on the whole experience. I'll start pushing it out to this website.

Anyway, here's the jist of it.

The streak began on June 25th, 2004, when I woke up at 5:00 in the morning, drove 30 miles to the beach, and went surfing for an hour before work, catching at least 3 waves before getting out of the water.

As of today, I've surfed every day for the last 84 days. That's 12 weeks of continuous surfing. 3 waves a day. About 80 of those days have been at the same time and place. 6am. 17th street, Huntington Beach, CA.

Yea.... big deal.

Well, screw you then. It is a big deal for me. I've been surfing for nearly seven years as a weekend warrior. And, with seven years of surfing history under my belt, I gotta tell you, I wasn't exactly ripping and shreading the waves.

I visited my brother in Hawaii in May this year. I surfed every day, in Ewa Beach and in Town for two weeks. It was some of the most fun I've had in the water. The whole time I was there, there was no super swells. The best I got was 2 - 4 on the south shore. But, all the same, it was great. I loved the fact that the wave breaks in the same place every time over the reef. I got to quit the "chasing the peak" game that I'm so used to playing. But, probably most importantly, I got to learn some surfing.

My brother moved to Hawaii a couple of years ago, and when "Step into Liquid" came out with the profile on Dale Webster, he started surfing every day. "That guy's my hero." He'd tell me. "You gotta catch three waves, or you can't call it surfing."

My brother claims to have surfed every day for 28 days in a row.

Unfortunatly, he's got a problem with his ear. When he was a kid, he got in a fight with the neighbor kid, who whacked my brother in the ear, popping a nasty hole in the ear drum. It healed, but has never been the same. Every now and again, it breaks open. And, there's something about going over the falls on a good overhead set wave thatll do it every time. So, my brother has been landlocked in Hawaii for the last year.

I would have liked to go when we could surf together. But, I got my chance to take the trip... and it happened to be in May. So, I went.

My brother went to the beach with me, casually, almost disintersted, he would dish out advice.

"You need to have your toes on the back of the board when you paddle."

He told me. He'd loaned me an 8'6" semi longboard with a pointed nose.

"You should never grab the rails when you stand up, just push up with your hands flat on the deck."

"You have to keep in the power section of the wave - right in front of the foam. That's why you see those guys cutting back to the foam. That's where the power is. Otherwise, you'll lose your speed."

"Always bend at the knees, never at the waist. If you realize that you're bent at the waist, stand up and then re-bend at the knees. There's no power in bending at the waist. When you bend at the waist, it's because you want to move forward, or drop in, or turn sideways. But any oif those things can be done by recentering your weight with your hips over bent knees."

"Shortboards always have to move. There's no stall. You can pump the wave by ramping up and down the face, it turns out to be a swirling motion of the hips, like your doing the twist but going all the way around."

"Any bad habit can be broken. Good habits can be learned."

Or, the most potent piece of advice: "Dude, you're a fucking kook. You need to surf every day."

So, here I am. Surfing every day.

More later

-Trav

copyright 2004 Travis R. English