Long lost #9

During my youth I had a long standing romance with Magic Hat #9s. Those mystical beers with their trippy labels and witty remarks on their bottle caps had me hooked. I would relish in the smooth, caramel body and round hints of fruit finishing it out. I couldn't imagine a finer beer and was adamantly sure that we'd be in love forever.

As a gutsy 17 year old, my Friday and Saturday night mission usually involved slipping into the local liquor store and "discretely" packing a cart with a few 30 packs, a bottle of vodka, a handle of rum, and some sort of neon sludge known as Puckers for the high school masses. Any time I had an extra 8 bucks to spend Magic Hat would call my name and I'd be living the good life for the evening.

Sadly- like most young romances, my palate developed I found myself steering away from those charming #9's. On my trips to back to New England now- I tend to lean toward more refined and hoppy brews from Harpoon, Offshore Ale, and other local purveyors of godly grog. I was surprised then, the other evening, to find myself thoroughly enjoying an Audacious Apricot from Pyramid Brewing. It brought me back to those rowdy teenage days. What was better than long nights drinking in the woods, on the beach, and wherever else we could get good and knackered without some authoritative figure giving us shit.


That's why I'm intrigued to meet up with my old girl again on my trip home to Martha's Vineyard this August. Maybe, just maybe, she will sweep me away again to those reckless times of years past. So if you see me standing alone on a dock in the middle of the night- head back and lips puckered- you'll know that we're together again, me and my darling #9.

Quake-up Call

Stretching yourself thin and pushing your limits is a valuable test of stamina and will, but only if that stressful submergence is temporary. I began to let my exhaustion slip into insanity yesterday evening when I realized that I hadn't accomplished any of my goals for the past two weeks. My four day hiatus from writing, plus my inability to put together a couple of important pieces of text, forced me to reevaluate my current heading.

We've got to remember to live while we're young. Take the reigns and work smarter- not harder. I caught the amazing Wellington, NZ band Fat Freddy's Drop at the Independent on Friday night. This band is a ska/beach/reggae mix of 311, Pepper, and the Marleys. The perfect blend to take along as an airy summer soundtrack. The Dazzling horn section, deep dub inspired bass, pulsating keys, and smooth, aqueous vocals took me to another level. Bask in the glow till the day I die, never lose sight of the reasons we try.

This morning I awoke to a gentle shaking. My first sensory stimulating earthquake. From the ashes and rubble we all must start again. This cycle works on the grandest and smallest of scales. Blue skies soon cut through the fog and although I'm still exhausted, I know the road ahead is one of good fortune.

SoCal Surf Trip Day 2: The Run Around

Our first full day in San Diego was a tango to the tune of palm trees and blue skies. I awoke around 9 and spent a few minutes stretching lazily on the back deck of our friends abode, gratefully bathing in the morning sun. What a wonder it is to live in a land without fog. Minutes later I giddily packed our wetsuits and hustled our boards to the car. Our desination- La Jolla Beach.

A light summer crowd had already descended on the beach by the time we parked, and the main break was packed with long boarders. I opted to hike north toward the pier and as the waves grew larger, the numbers in the water thinned accordingly. I might have stood out like a sore thumb in my hooded 5/4/3, but I was comfortably toasty by the time I reached the outside.

The waves weren't as powerful as they had been earlier in the day, but the winds stayed light, allowing the shape to remain more-or-less unaffected. Every three to five minutes a clean, shimmering blue set rolled through granting me another dose of SoCal bliss. On one of the larger sets a pod of dolphins cruised through. Watching these mammals as they hunt is nothing short of breath taking- no matter how many times you witness it. Grayish blue fins suddenly rise from below, slicing majestically through the trough, and an instant later plunge to the depths. Another example of natural perfection leaving its mark upon your imagination.

By noon my arms were exhausted and I rode the remnants of a wave to shore on my stomach. Peeling myself from the neoprene suit I enjoyed a brief soak in the shallows before walking across the hot white sand back to the car. I found my partner in crime happily relaxing on the boardwalk and we decided it was time to make moves.

A smattering of work had to be performed before we could have any more uninhibited fun, so we drove to the cliffs at the southern end of the beach, grabbed a hearty sandwich, and posted up at a hotel bar for a few hours. Delicious mint & cucumber cocktails complimented our duties exquisitely, and soon it was time to scout out a course for a fun run-- our sole regimented duty for the week.

We jogged the small island in under an hour, enjoying the scenic bay and meticulously crafted faux paradise, then breezed back to the beach for an evening session. The swell was dying a slow death so I opted for a quick session in boardshorts and longboard. A few waves purged my last bursts of energy and I returned to the beach in time to enjoy a Haywire Hefewizen in the waning, orange and pink light.

The night was topped off with an instrumental medley accompanied by a nice bottle of red wine. I hit the floor like a sack of bricks. Never have I slept so well on an inch of carpet. This is how every day should end for a surfer.