Surf - Blog Posts
Old Guys Rule... Through All The Pain & Medication
by Rusty
The crusty crew of surfers I normally paddle out with have had a lot to deal with lately. Many of us salt & peppered degenerates have really taken a physical beating this year. Our collective seasons of surfing have led up to... one slider replacing both knees, another to swap his calcified hip for space-age titanium and just the other day, a newly minted grandfather, to “Cheater-Five” his way to the emergency room with a dislocated hip. All of these high doses of medication and pain has caused me to seriously question one of surfing’s most marketable slogans, “Old Guys Rule!”
Do we really rule? This old guy has witnessed a significant amount of pain and must fully admit that his own personal threshold for such things is, no bueno.
After surveying a few older guys than myself these past weeks, I have discovered one common thread amongst the healthier old guys; that is, no serious, oxidized, slider has ever squeezed into one of those doomed, cotton-blend, t-shirts.
According to one ageless soul surfer - that I, as an aging grasshopper sit at the feet of - there is only one way to deal with this hex... Fire! “My grand kids love to buy me these kookie shirts and I love those little boogers,” he said with joy and pride beaming from his eyes. “I would never purposely break their little hearts, but for my own personal safety and those in the line-up around me, I torch those communist made pieces of cotton on the grill. As a sacrifice to the surf gods!” And for that sage piece of pain avoidance, I say “Amen!”
Lastly, this is for all my surf brothers who are still in traction or slightly induced comas... The hippy, hippy shakes of 1965′s “Beach Girls and the Monster” - video remix by The Copper Tones.
Campaigning for Aloha
by Rusty
Face it folks… the USA is on the brink!
On the brink of what, I don’t know… but we are definitely teetering on some sort of suicidal edge.
Whether Clinton wins or Trump tweets his way into the Oval Office… We’re screw!
You may think this rusty, old dude is exaggerating, but I am not. This is my warning, to the entire surf world, “Wake up and smell the poopie water you’re paddling in!” The flow of brown crap running down stream, out of this storm of politics, is of epic proportions... And this old dude sees little hope of us ever being healthy again.
Whomever wins, neither can unite our line-ups. In fact, both candidates are complete kooks; flawed as bad as Surfline’s forecasting abilities.
The Donald reminds me of crazy lady I use to surf with at the Trestles; a lady who completely owns her nickname… Danger Women. She is an accomplished surfer, but completely reckless! Everytime she took off on an wave, you never knew what she would do or where she would go. There were countless times I found myself facing down the 9 foot plus board of Danger Woman; feeling like there was target painted right between my eyes. Sometimes when I am alone, walking down the trail to Trestles, my mind flashes back to the haunting line-ups I shared with Mrs. Danger. I still hear her grunting take offs, see her flailing arms, whipping blond hair and rippling bikini clad muscles shredding over dozens of dazed & confused paddlers… Our country cannot survive a Trump styled “Danger Woman” presidency.
While Hillary on the other hand tries to showcase a calmer, more presidential demeanor… A facade that none of us are buying. Her tangle web of lies and cons resemble the life of surfing’s most talented shysters… Miki "Da Cat" Dora. Da Cat elegantly partied his way across the globe, writing bad checks, stealing wallets, jewels, purses and passports; never admitting to any wrongdoing before skipping out to the next cinematic surf spot. HRC must of met Miki somewhere along his trail of destruction. Perhaps, she was scorned by him in the 70’s, and because of that lovers quarrel vowed to scorch the remaining earth Miki never attended to. Whomever stole Hillary’s heart needs to return it and save us from a liberal tax-n-spend destruction.
So go forth and vote my fellow Americans and please only vote once in this decentralized, yet rigged election system. Afterwards, when this campaigning marathon ends, remember the importance of Ohana. Come the morning of Wednesday, November 9th, we will all need to begin mending this nation’s wounds by extending the tolerant and loving hand of Aloha to this Ohana of Americans.
Poor Little Willy
by Rusty The other day I experienced a premature stick - usage - problem… Needless to say, this moment left me shocked and embarrassed; feeling like a fumbling grom, who just discovered Alana Blanchard’s cheeky bottom turn.
Yes, in my rush to surf a fresh swell, I allowed my fragile Freudian ego to get the best of me. Anticipating a pumping swell, my salty libido chose to ride a sexy mid-length 7’7”. How quickly did that lyin’ libido let me down! By shrinking all my shreddable powers in front of a full line-up of long-time partners and friends. Scaring my legendary status forever!
The sad truth is, I whipped out and tried to ride a stick the was clearly too small for my advanced age in conditions that were beyond sucky. I fell victim to my own super-ego, believing that I was still a young ripper ready to “Schralp the gnar gnar.”
Well, my gnar gnar did little schralping that morning as I blew my surf load way too early - in high tide - shitty San O’s. Afterwards I felt humiliated, dejected, less of man, bruised and battered. My ego vowed to rack that mid stick forever.
The following morning, I awoke to a pulsing swell and chose to ride my 9’0” log. That solid single fin worked well, but a few buddies of mine keep asking me why I was riding such a big board in above average surf; all of them knowing my proclivity for shredding perky peaks.
In between sets, I lamented about my previous day’s poor performance to a much more seasoned, sage surfer whom I have always looked up to. He listen to me while floating on his board outside the line-up taking in every debasing detail of my humiliating experience. After reliving the horror, he simply chuckled, paddled away and yelled, “Rusty, don’t worry! My doc has some great drugs that will fix your little willy.”