Relief blog

Oh, sweet relief. As you have probably noticed, there hasn’t been a lot of surfing going on in this blog for a while. I had resigned myself to being marooned tantalizingly close to a cold, flat ocean forever, where the absence of surf distills boredom into drifting insanity. Perhaps I would end up amusing myself by collecting jars of fingernail clippings or shaving the neighbor’s cat and using the fur to make a macrame flowerpot hanger.

Last week, I had my head down in the corporate weeds until Vinnie called and said it looked to him as if there would be a nice swell pushing its way down to those heathens in Florida — which I observed is a complete waste because they get all the surf anyway and don’t deserve it. So Vinnie volunteered to go Spanish House and at least get in the way, if not actually ride some himself. I haven’t heard from him since, so he may still be down there or was captured somewhere and held without bond.

I checked it a couple of times over the weekend and it was almost surfable. Using summer standards, it was definitely on the scale, but having to struggle in and out of wetsuits made it a definite maybe. But I really thought I screwed up late on Sunday. I had sort of written the day off as a no-go and moved on to other things. The temperature had finally gotten to the point where the poor, neglected Tiki Bar no longer needed to be neglected, so I was making up for lost time with a mai tai, Martin Denny and a nice piece of charred mammal flesh sputtering on the grill when I realized that the wind had switched. I live close enough to the beach to hear the surf when it’s big and the wind is blowing just right — which I realized I could right then. But I had already over-committed myself domestically, figured I was a complete dork for missing it and had to settle for the none-too-unpleasant sound of Tune from Rangoon and a second mai tai.

But if you scampered out after work on Monday, like I did, you found that the swell held throughout the day and was quite rideable in the waist to chest zone. Thank-yous to Burbo for the text and to daylight saving time. Of course, being a working stiff, I missed the best of it because the tide was maxed by the time I got there. The real hero stuff came as the tide was coming off low around lunchtime, and the news I heard over the coconut telegraph was that P.K., D-Wood, Dano F. and a few other intrepids paddled SUPs over the inlet with shortboards in tow and caught an epic session out on the third bar.

But I never really kick myself for not trying to run and catch a surf during lunch. For some reason I always get hungry around 12 o’clock. Maybe that’s why they call it lunchtime. So, unawares of any surfing going on, I rolled over to Skoogies (I can only hope Mrs. Blog doesn’t read this because she’ll have me on lettuce and the treadmill for a week) and am standing there trying not to pass out from hypoglycemia when I notice that the lady in front of me is keeping the line from moving by asking questions at the counter. Now, I never pay attention to what people are saying to each other. It is inevitably disappointing. But I do have some special radar that picks up insanity wherever it is and beams it directly into my head — for comparative purposes. So, like the John Candy character, Barf, in Spaceballs, my ear lifted up when I heard the next question.

Lady: “What comes on a slaw dog?”

Surfblogger doing Arnold Horshack: Ooh! Ooh! Mr. Kotter, I know! I know! It’s COLESLAW!!

Skoogie Guy being diplomatic: “We can put anything on it you like.”

Lady: “Well ... sound of sand in gears ... what do most people get?”

Surfblogger: Anchovies. Everybody knows that anchovies come on a slaw dog. Except, of course, in the Loire valley, where the French eschew anchovies in favor of mayonnaise and wild truffles hunted by specially trained pigs.

Skoogie Guy: “I have some customers who add onions and mustard.”

Surfblogger: Let’s forget the slaw and put chili on it. Then you can actually eat a chili dog, but tell everybody you had a slaw dog. It’ll be our naughty little secret.

Lady: “I don’t really like onions. Do you have any relish?”

Surfblogger: Good god, Madam! What kind of exotic condiments do you think this establishment purveys? They could lose one of their Michelin stars over this. Why, you’ll prod Skoogie himself out of the walk-in freezer and send him scouring the globe to procure such a delicacy. Relish, indeed!

Skoogie Guy: “Yes, ma’am. We have relish and sauerkraut, too.”

Surfblogger: A-ha! I knew the Germans would find their way into this. Those crafty Huns have just been waiting for such an excuse to invade South Carolina. What with their crappy weather and lust for real estate, we’ll have hordes of those pointy-helmeted devils trampling jack-booted over us in no time. Sound the alarm! Man the parapets! Boil some oil!

Lady: “Well ... I think I’ll have just a regular hot dog with ketchup and mustard. And could you put some coleslaw on it?”

The neighbor’s cat is getting used to skinning it and my fingernail collection is coming along just fine, thank you.