Surf Daily

Swimming in Aquatic Park - Fuck Yeah

I went to the Dolphin Club today and swam in the bay.  I'd been looking forward to it for a whole week.  I've never done open-water swimming before, or been in the ocean/bay without a wetsuit.  This was a first for both.  A buddy of mine who has been out there a few times served as the necessary wingman/motivation to actually go ahead and try it out.

I got out of the water after 5 minutes because I was feeling really euphoric, which I foolishly figured was the beginnings of hypothermia.  In fact, I think I was just stoked.  Walking up the stairs to the club, my head was swimming in that same delightful way you experience just as an opioid is taking effect.  Whoa.

Swimming there was awesome and I intend to do it many more times.  The water was about as warm as it gets (58 degrees).  We'll see how much I like it when it gets down to 50.  I wish I had stayed out for longer.  It was interesting trying to fight the intense reflex to breathe shallow and pull as hard and fast as you possibly could.  When I go by there on my bike, the regulars always seem to swim pretty slow.

With luck I'll become a regular and ditch my crazy expensive gym membership.  Nature's pool is right outside my office.

Majorly stoked!

Reflections on Not Surfing and Being Californian

I was almost a Californian, you know.

I moved to the Bay Area in 2006, or, more accurately, stumbled off of an Amtrak and ended up staying.  Let's not front.  I didn't come here to ruin your party, I just sort of wound up here.  San Francisco tends to take people like me and either kill them or fix them, and it seems to have mostly fixed me, at least insofar as I've been here for 5 years and I'm not living on the streets or dead.  If you want more details, ask me.  There's parts of my life that I don't openly share online but you can probably fill in the blanks.

I'll never be from here.  I guess the only reason I mind is because I've never really been from anywhere.  I grew up outside of Chicago and my family moved downtown (at my behest) when I started high school.  From that point forward I was always a suburban kid wishing he'd grown up in the city.  Now, out in California, I "rep" my (312) area code, as if I'd actually grown up in Chicago, proper, hoping nobody uncovers my dirty secret.

I don't speak Northern Cities Shifted English, and not for lack of trying either.  There was a period where I tried to alter my speech to sound more like The Mayor, and ended up just sounding like a moron instead.  Sometimes I'm angry at my teachers for educating me in proper Midwestern Non-Regional Diction, because not only do I feel like I'm from nowhere, but I sound like it, too.

Back in 1985 my dad was offered a job as the head of Mergers and Acquisitions at a large health-care company on the west coast.  The package would have included relocation to Santa Monica.  I would have been 2 years old and grown up in Southern California.  As far as I can tell, the "native" cutoff is somewhere around 4 or 5.  If you've never had a day of schooling in another state, you can pass yourself off as from here.  My dad opted out of taking the job and the company ended up in very hot water later.  He made a good move, as his position would probably have been eliminated.

Sometimes I think wistfully, though, of what it would have been like if I'd actually been from "here".  Not "here" as in San Francisco, of course.  Even people from other parts of California can not be from here.  I have discovered, in fact, that San Francisco is possibly one of the most difficult places to be "from".  I'm not even going to try.  But I'd certainly like to be from California.

So, back to surfing.

Surfing is really difficult to learn when you didn't grow up doing it.  I notice now that when I picked it up in 2009, I fell into a pattern that a lot of other adult late-comers to surfing do: I went overboard with the identity aspect.  I started blogging about it, spent all my time hanging out on surf-related websites, changed my speech, my clothes, and my attitude.  None of this has made me a better surfer.  It's actually more of the same nonsense that's plagued me for years: I'm trying to pretend like I'm from somewhere and have grown up doing something.

These days I basically don't surf at all.  When I started, I could rely on the fact that my doting boyfriend was unemployed and could drive, which meant I could get out to the beach basically any morning and flop around for a few hours.  In fact, we were doing that so much that I pretty much lost my job due to neglect.  Life was good and I even figured out the basics.  Another thing that used to reliably get me out there is my Xtracycle, but it has been banished from our second-floor apartment.  It's too big and too heavy.  It lives in storage.

Lately, my thrust has been on getting a place to stay in the Sunset.  For a while, I had access to a friend's garage, but he moved the rest of his family in and my gear had to go.  An attempt at securing an apartment yesterday fell through.  I'm still looking and, even more horrifyingly, I'm going to start driving lessons at the ripe young age of 27.

I'm committed to the sport.  I really really want to be good at it.  It makes me very happy.  But I have to admit to feeling like a damn fool when I've spent a few years putting on airs and don't even get wet more than once a month.  The emperor has no clothes.  Perhaps it's time to shed the act.

I'll never be from here.  I'll always sound like a fool when I try to talk surf.  No, I don't know if it was good or bad out there.  No, I don't need to blog incessantly about whether I managed to half-assedly catch a wave.  That doesn't mean I'm shutting this one down, by the way.  It is important, as always, that I support the Peoples Socialist Libyan Arab Jamahiriyah and its Guardian of the Revolution, Muammar El-Ghadafi, by continuing to pay for this domain.  But don't be surprised if there's a lot less whiny surf content.

I'll see you out there, though.  Eventually.  Just another guy in a black (actually gray) suit trying to mind his own business and not look like an idiot.

You were right, Chris.

Searching for Accommodation in a Hostile World

Since its inception, I've loved Google Street View for two reasons.

• I can tour dangerous places I've always wanted to visit
• I can suss out bike parking in advance before I go somewhere

This works well in cities.  It does not work so well in the suburbs, where the place I'm going might be set back behind a sea of parking.  I do not expect the Google Street View Prius to go putter around every parking lot and garage to spy on my behalf.

This week I am attending Velocity, a conference which up to this point I have been too unimportant to attend.  Velocity is in the Valley which, as indicated by its name, is fucking bunk.  God has turned his back on the Valley.  Unfortunately, the Valley has also turned its back on God's own people, the humble bicyclists of San Francisco and environs.  For a place only two counties away, it sure feels more like I'm somewhere awful, like Phoenix, than wonderful, gushy, liberal coastal California.  This is the case, as well, for the Valley, and also the Valley.

I have a few options for getting there.  Barring extreme masochism and disregard for personal safety (there really is no safe, continous north-south bicycle route down the Peninsula), I will get to take public transit for part of the route.  Caltrain will get me as far as Lawrence.  From there, The Google has instructed me that I can take a delightful trail to the Convention Center.  So far, so good.  Granted, I've had awful bicycling experiences down south, including angry drivers attempting to run me off of the road for presumably no reason other than my choice of conveyance (frustration at said conveyance probably an outgrowth of living in a Valley, plus micropenis).  However, I'm not expecting this to be too bad.  I even know some of the streets, from having taken them a few years ago for an interview at Yahoo.

My concern is what I will find when I get there.  In a place basically not designed for humans, what accommodations have been made for locking up a bicycle?  I was worried that I'd get down there, ask a couple of disinterested and unaware employees (whose experience of "cyclists" was probably of the "Mexican guy on the sidewalk" variety), and eventually be directed to something like this (source):

Don't laugh.  It's happened before.

The scenario continues with me self-righteously dragging my bicycle into the convention center, at which point a security guard tells me to "tie it up outside".  I then demolish him with the sheer power of my smugness, and haughtily drag my bicycle into each session until the conference is over.  In the comic-book fantasy world where I work out all of the angst brought about by my personal powerlessness over the entirety of existance this is an entirely plausible scenario.

Since I actually try to live in reality most of the time, and don't really need to be getting into a confrontation on my boss's dime, I did the much more reasonable act of emailing the general manager of the convention center on Thursday and asking her what was available in terms of bike parking.  I even had the audacity to ask for a picture of the racks.  I called her on Friday, and after a brief conversation she actually went ahead and took one.  Holy shit!

Here is what is waiting for me at the convention center:

The rack(s, there are actually two of them) are located outside and may fill up, depending on whether there are any other Systeembeheerders crazy enough to ride to Velocity.  However, they're of the right design (particularly given the paranoid way I like to lock my bike), and the manager even went so far as to photograph the bolt so I could ensure that they were securely anchored to the ground:

I have to admit, I really feel like someone went the extra mile to let me know my bicycle would be welcome.  Now, if they could follow up by putting a pittance of information on their website, which gushes effusively about how easy it is to drive and park there, it would really complete the picture.  Perhaps I should suggest it.  Anyhow, looks like I'll be biking to Velocity.  Perhaps I will see some of you there!

The Three Asshole Rule

Among my associates you will frequently hear this "rule":

If, as go about your day, you run into an asshole, then damn. What an asshole.
If you run into a second asshole, well shoot.  Guy's an asshole.
If you run into a third asshole, you are the asshole.

This rule is very appropriate when surfing, especially when you're a kook like me.  I tend to assume that if I wind up in someone's way, or if they wind up in mine, it is probably my fault.  There is occasionally reasonable doubt, but after the second or third time it's occurred, I am pretty sure that the common denominator is me.

Today was one of those days.  The waves were nice at Ocean Beach and people were doing nice things on them, but I just kept seeming to get dumped inside and then I would be right in someone's way as I paddled out.  The strong current didn't help, as I would move from a safe spot to the impact zone without even realizing it.  I can count at least two takeoffs that other people had to abort due to me.  After the last one, I kooked out and rode some wash all the way to shore.

I decided I would give it one more shot, and paddle out again.  I promptly tripped over a submerged rock and cut the shit out of my foot and had to end the session.  I guess God wanted to make sure I didn't have to run into that third asshole.

Did I go too far?

As some of you know, I have been attempting for some time now to get his eminence Chris Wilson, of Wilson/Powerlines Productions, to join me over brunch, where we would get to discuss the issues of the day over slow food and mimosas (OK, he gets to have the mimosas.  I would have a lemonade).

Regrettably, my attempts have been for naught. The most recent, rebuffed with utter silence, involved the hand-delivery of this invitation to a Powerlines representative who was holding court over a few DVDs of Down the Line at the final Sunday Surf Benefit:

Chris: you don't call, you don't write, and now you've blocked me on Twitter.  How am I supposed to find out about the latest rap videos if you're not promoting them in my timeline?

It didn't have to be like this, you know.  I'm not that scary a guy, although I'm evidently creepy enough to be denied the street knowledge you regularly drop onto a popular microblogging service.  I never went into this whole brunch thing intending to be a dick, but I must admit that I do find it kind of interesting that a guy who stalked me on Facebook and the Ocean Beach comment box on PWR would shy away from any sort of personal contact where we might have finally buried the hatchet, so to speak.

You and I come from different worlds, Chris.  I'm from a rich Jewish suburb of Chicago.  You're from Pacific Heights, which to the best of my knowledge is a bit WASPier.  It's also located inside a city, which proffers a sort of street cred I'm afraid I'll never be able to own.  I'm sure, though, that we could have found some sort of common ground if you would have just given me the chance.  This cold shoulder technique of yours is harsh!  Granted, I guess you do have an image to maintain.

I'm going to leave you alone from now on.  The message you have sent is loud and clear, if only in the absence of an actual message ("no" would have sufficed).  But let the record state: for all your vague (and sometimes not so vague) threats of violence to myself or my friends, all I ever offered in return was to feed you. And I never blocked you on Twitter.

One Year of Surf - Looking Back

A little over a year ago (last Sunday was the actual anniversary), I had brunch at Universal Cafe and then went up to the beautiful little town of Bolinas (it doesn't exist; don't try to find it) on the invitation of my dear friend Josh, himself the subject of an exciting and titillating bromance that began on IRC way back when and has yet to be consummated with Ice, largely due to my abstinence from booze.  Alas.

Since then, I've managed to break a Softop (that happened in the first couple of weeks, actually), sprain an ankle, cut myself in a few places, get water in every sinus, get sand where sand does not belong and, as of some point a couple of weeks ago, actually start riding waves in earnest.  I'm a shitty surfer who still needs to learn what to do once he's standing up on a board ("turning" has been suggested), and is also still learning when to shut up in the lineup (as it turns out, not everybody wants to be my friend), but I'm totally hooked.

I don't really look like a surfer, and my participation in "surf culture" amounts to occasionally listening to Sublime.  Being an active member of Stoke Report doesn't count, since the Surf Gods in Orange County have yet to deign that GNU/Linux and Brunch are part of the scene.  However I'm definitely a surfer, which I can qualify by the fact that I went nearly 9 months without really a single stand-up ride and enjoyed every minute of it.  Few would submit to such punishment.  My home beach is OB.  'Nuff said.

I lost my job back in May, which has been great for surfing.  Some would argue that I lost my job because of surfing, though there were other factors involved.  Really.  I swear.  Every morning that I can, I strap a board (currently a 7'6" but looking to shorten up) to my Xtracycle (named "Momma") and pedal out to the beach, flail for two hours or so, and pedal home.  I'm looking for a job in earnest, but I suspect my next board will have one of these signs printed on the bottom:

I wanna thank everyone, particularly Josh and the Stoke Report family, who have helped foster this new pastime of mine.  My partner Jon really deserves the prize, since he's had to tolerate as well as clean up after my obsession, and I keep making promises to do stuff for him that I break because the waves are firing.  Or because it's morning.  Or just because.  I'll be back in four hours, I swear!

Surf has been great for my health, my self-image, my stamina, and my happiness.  It's also caused me to spend a lot more time outside than I used to.  Sorry, IRC friends!  I swear, I still find your lives fascinating.  However, the beach is calling, and I can always read the scrollback.  If I ever get around to it.

Bill Hicks - Summertime

Could you imagine that?  Livin' at the beach?

It's Here, It's Queer, And I'm Going To Surf It

Board is here!, originally uploaded by tehdely.

Finally picked up the new stick from James today. That's Jon on the left helping him hold it up.

I can not fucking wait to wax this thing up and take it out for a ride.

When I carried it into Mollusk to buy a bag, there was a brief flurry of "get a load of this!" from the employees.

One of them said "that is the gayest board I've ever seen" to which I promptly replied "yes, that's the point".

Win.

Smooth Rides (Video)

Smooth Rides, originally uploaded by tehdely.

Beautiful, tiny morning @ Kelly's. Images courtesy of ob-kc.com, music courtesy of Boney James.

Look closely near the end for a brief Cryptomail cameo.

Is Mercury in Retrograde?

via www.ismercuryinretrograde.com

This explains everything. Excellent single-serving site, by the way!

Thoughts on Stoke Report

God knows there's been enough debate lately on Stoke Report about who's behaving appropriately and who belongs where. People have to do a double-take when a bot regurgitates a bunch of it; its nonsensical prattle looks so familiar to the battle-fatigued. Today we were alerted to the fact that we're now the subject of a (somewhat scathing) blurb in this month's SURFER, the relevant parts of which I'll quote below:

On the other side of the spectrum were the Stoke Reporters–equally as, well, stoked as the Saffas, but completely lacking in skill and etiquette.  Stoke Report is a regional website that encourages Bay Area surfers to upload real-time, user-generated surf reports via their cell phones.  The result is a Twitter-esque stream of claiming from tech-savvy kooks who see Ocean Beach as a free ski resort (slowest surfer in front has right of way).  They stroll up to the dunes, take a photo, and upload it for all the desk-bound world to see, along with feel-good claims like "Sloat is going OFF right now! Get down here dude!!!"

Needless to say, the Stoke Reporters' sense of naïve entitlement is not sitting well with the aforementioned ex-con, old-school locals.  The more patient among these detractors have attempted to educate the Stoke Reporters in the complexities of surf culture via polite posts on the site's message board.  "The search is part of the fun!  Even Surfline doesn't condone spot-specific real-time reports!"  No matter how gentle and reasonable the persuasion, all detractors have been permanently banned from Stoke Report.  As a result, the natives are getting restless.  The most prolific Stoke Reporters have reportedly been identified, and the next step seems to be a more physical brand of offline, parking-lot persuasion.

Yikes! I'll avoid responding in kind; Lewis Samuels (the BSNYC of surf) is a fairly trollish writer (which is why I enjoy his work), and it would behoove me to not try to argue with him, despite the fact that he's gotten a few things wrong. Stoke Reporters typically post after-the-fact reports (not really "real-time"), and the ongoing fight between locals and reporters is, for the most part, over reporting on a handful of more sensitive spots. Most of us don't really have a dog in this fight, though now that our precious little site has gotten some (un?)deserved notoriety, it's worth it to at least share my thoughts on the matter.

I'm pretty new to surfing myself. A lot of people on SR are. There's a fundamental culture clash when a bunch of new people join an existing activity or scene, and this is particularly heightened in a city like San Francisco, whose demographics have changed pretty dramatically over the last few decades. A lot of the guys out in the avenues who surf look like the type of San Franciscan who has, for the most part, decamped to the suburbs: white, working class, Irish... Your typical Stoke Reporter is more likely to be part of the new guard of dot-com yuppies who populate the northeast corner of town, where Priuses and iPhones hold court. I might as well be the poster child for outsider-newcomer-SF-surfer: I'm not only a Jewish dot-com yuppie; I'm also a homo! For your typical, embattled Sunset District holdout, I'd probably sit right up on the grudge list next to Asians, Google, and onshores.

Needless to say, I try to practice respect. Most of us do. Samuels has painted us with a broad brush, but I'm inclined to forgive him, given that the incessant flagellation over the reporting issue has engulfed the site, and almost everyone (including myself) has at some point engaged in the debate. You'd be hard-pressed not to conclude that we're collectively advocating the inclusion of "Report on Any Break at Any Time" in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. I'm of the belief that it's actually a handful of people pushing this. Likewise, a few locals have insisted on debating the opposite, to the extent that the site is nearly ruined by the constant back-and-forth over something that, for the most part, regular users don't care about, except that it go away. Things have escalated to the degree that physical threats have been made. A close friend of mine, who turned me on to surfing last year and has progressed enough in the sport that he's hitting some of the more sensitive spots in SF, has felt compelled to delete his account due to fears of stepping on the wrong toes. This is fucked.

I honestly don't know if the site will survive this drama. I'll be bummed if it goes away. Stoke Report has not only introduced me to a whole slew of people whom I now call my friends; it's also kept me going on the days when I'm "desk-bound" (as Samuels would put it) and allows me to share the joy of participation in a truly sublime activity. Some days when I paddle out I am practically overcome with gratitude for how lucky I am. I'd hate to slink into the mire of paranoia and fear that seems poised to grip our hardy clan of iPhone-wielding kooks with graduate degrees (as one commenter so kindly described us). I'll continue practicing the same brand of healthy respect that I've practiced thus far. Not only will I not report on a place like Fort Point, I won't even surf it (at least not yet)! I can barely negotiate the lineup, let alone handle the waves when they come in. I stay away, as I ought to, and stick to the places where I belong, based on my abilities. Those places include Bolinas, the Princeton Jetty (when it's not too crowded), Cowell's (I think the only thing disqualifying one from Cowell's is being too skilled), and even Ocean Beach when it's small and manageable. I will also practice good ethics in the lineup, not be a dickish wave hog, and send good vibes wherever possible. One thing I won't do, however, is be cowed into staying home, or not being who I am, because a bunch of people resent newcomers on their turf. I'm here, I'm queer, I use Linux, and I'm going to surf (poorly) whether you like it or not. I'd appreciate the only beatings that come my way be from the ocean.