The burial ceremony.
A hideous tale of Huey's tithe.
Rincon, February 18th-20thWhen the Class 1 driver Doug announced he would be trying a new shortcut thro the Los Padres mountains I smiled. The ocean was flat as a girl and with no swell expected til Monday, I was willing to pay whatever dues, get sidetracked, wrecked or busted, whatever it takes to amuse Huey into sending swell.
The shortcut extended the San Francisco->Rincon run into a 10 hour ordeal thro the horrid aftermath of rock slides and road washouts. In the ninth hour, I was blowing smoke rings at the bunyips skitting across the road, similar to jackrabbits but with elongated necks walking on their rear legs. At 3am the full moon revealed we were just in time for dawn patrol where perfect one footers were rolling through the Point.
I thought i had paid some dues but it was only the down payment. You've heard the tales of board sacrifice and vehicular slaughter rewarded by spectacular waves by the god of swell, but Huey had a cracker bent this weekend and twisted the plot.
I slept most of Saturday, checked the point and it was pathos, knee high but lovely in the unseasonable warmth and offshores.
Sunday I was surfing no matter what, drove to the Con in my wetsuit, literally dragged my longboard down to the beach, cursing and nagging it the whole ways for being too wide to get my arm around...
In the early dawn... jeez... it was pumping! It wasnt sposed to hit til Monday but there it was, big and glassy and no crowd. With the big tide its macking perfect Rincon walls from the River to the seawall, perfectly behaved overhead sets of 4-5, the 2nd wave the killer. Huey paid off for hours with this unexpected uncrowded mother swell challenging the surprised lineup.Surf stuffed and satisfied, later that arvo I hiked down to Hodgsons park to watch the point firing. I went back to get my board but the truck with all the weapons was gone. The driver got a bit pissed and hotheaded in the sun and drove off with all the gear. Ya get that. A bit later, he rolls in horrified. I dropped your board, he said. Off my truck. He didnt know what happened, but he found it on the side of the road.No worries, I've heard of boards flying off and settling safely. How bad is it?It was so horrible I folded it neatly and walked it to the Rincon Parkway dumpster without a word. The dumpster was full, so I leaned it carefully against the metal crate. The little tar mark toe prints were still decorating the tail. I got my money's worth out of it just that last surf...Awful, he says.
I take a look at this remnant of wood, glass and fibre strapped to the truck. I'm so cool. Where's the fins? I ask.
It wasnt dropped, it was run over by a truck! Only one tiny thruster fin is left, the nose is split and missing on one half, across the tail a fat black tire track marks the finless fin box, another severed the log midway -- my dear longboard is unrecognizable except for the torn trackpad and the stickers upon the worthless flacid delammed fibreglass.
Oh, my God! Was anyone hurt? some camper asked. Not yet.Monday I heard the garbage truck roll in, the squeal of metal and the sound of crushing glass, I said a mental farewell. I loved it. I got up to make sure the funeral had proceeded, but there it lay.Horror of horrors, not only did they not pick up the corpse, the garbage truck had lifted the dumpster and slammed it down squarely on the Stewart, impaling the damaged weapon with its fat metal wheels. I couldnt roll the dumpster off as it was embedded in the deck. Now the board is crucified and waiting for the next Monday pickup for further torture as the dumpster is lifted and slammed inhumanly on the Rincon Parkway, my oldest and longest weapon ruined and impaled upon a garbage bin.Huey, if you must, take it. The waves were worth it. Stewart, may you rest in pieces on the Parkway and bring everyone big sucking barrells.
A moment of silence, please...
