Surf Report (Flat)

SURF REPORT


16 August 2009

Sunday: Don’t see how it could be flatter. A 3.3 out of the 315 at nine seconds unimportantly rolls down towards Colnett. And a point nine creeps out of the feeble south. Models promise waves next weekend. Some swell is already in the water, near Johnston Island. But I think the best way to look at it is that its fine to have a forecast and know all you can know, but to not pin your hope to the model.

Was going to go down on Friday with Otter and Prince but even Surfline said it wasn’t rideable, and they’re in the business of making sure people keep surfing so their advertisers can sell leashes and wax and wetsuits, so it had to be miserable. Otter looked at four other sites, like Wetsand, hoping one of the Cassandras will tell him what he wants to read. Saturday was not worth looking at. I picked the hell out of the farm instead. Needed two trucks to transport it all to the farmers market. Watermelon be bulky.

B
Surf’s been miserable for three-four days. The south died off on Tuesday, unridden. Pha-lat. Pancake lumberyard flat. Don’t make much difference how much hoo-haw the prognosticators make about the Mendocino Gradient or some big blow off the Ross Ice Shelf generally, we wait around until its here and then we jump it and then it wanes and we go back to breaking down boxes and watering our abandoned landscaping.

Ordered:

2x banana
Romaine
3x Spring mix
peeled garlic
yam
2x avocado

I wonder if I would go to The Farmer and The Cook regularly if I did not own it. I like the food, but would it be the same without me or my wife? I probably would have gone there all the time until they 86ed me for always trying to pick up on the hot teenagers I hire. I don’t hire them because they are hot. My wife and I share the responsibility, but I do tend to hire hot over plain. Some of my fellow leches give me the thumbs up when we have brought aboard an exceptionally nubile co-ed, and then it gets embarrassing because I have to explain the truth, but it sounds like one of the all-time lamest lies or just crazy.

Something like “ Well, she said she wanted her own business someday.”

Went down on Tuesday in the dusk with Phaneuf and Seed and it was El Punko. John pitched the ball for his dog until Seed would run no more. Piss wind on chilled fog and no swell. Felt like November. Watched from the kelpy sand at Mondos as three guys cruised the ankle-high ripples from some dead storm to the south.

Next day, John worked with Francis O’Neil and I tried to fix the tomato drier. Ran to Ventura Electric and bought the world’s most expensive fuses, then up to Nuckleheads for a check. I figured if I had to whiz soon I may as well avail of the Nuckle Porta-John. It was pure crumb-bumb. I wrote Phaneuf, telling him he “wouldn’t surf it with Rob Lowe’s stick.” Congratulated myself for hours on how clever that was. On my way back from a fruitless search for plexiglass at Huge Hardware, he writes back:

“ Last night just made me need to stay away.”