Damn. I still feel bad about letting that board Jim made for me go. It was one of those things where you get all star struck and stupid. When I saw that purple Wildcat posted on here it was like being on Tinder and seeing that hot Pakistani doctor who likes The Cure looking for a willing-to-convert bloke to start a family with. Both were super sexy, well built and inspired a deep longing to ride 'em. And just like forgetting you're some ugly old peckerwood fuckup who is likely not going to move to Peshawar, grow a beard and try to father enough children to start your own Talib, you fall in love with those curves and these ideas that would be possibilities if they were only slightly more real. And so you swipe right/call Andrew. Neither the hot doc nor andrew were smart enough to screen your calls and you start messaging. Sure as shit the signs are all there- "Would you convert to I$lam?", "How do you feel about seven kids?", "This is a hotdog shape, not a noserider." and "You know this is not a noserider. A good surfer can get up there on the right place on the right wave, but you know this isn't a noserider right?"
But fuck man, with those dreamy hearts covering up my pterigiums and fantasies of dark eyes, moorish architecture and surfing like da cat all nimble turns and graceful trim, I ordered up both. And goddamn, were the initial rides fucking stellar. Smooth and soft in all the right places. Interesting new sensations and new conversations between you and the objects of affection and putting yourself places you'd never been. But then goddamn, you're at Rincon and all your little friends are using that inside 50 meter section that just kind of stands there and hanging it all over the edge while you are feeling frustrated because although you are jamming down the line until the point when you hit that part of the wave where it slows way down and every cell in your being is "run to the nose! run for your li-ife!" (see: Iron Maiden "Number of the Beast") but you can't because that shape- as you were told at least ten times- doesn't put out for clumsy fucks on the tip. And the same weekend you got those four frustrating sessions in a row, you are up at some fancy fucking house in Montecito hanging around the infinity pool in your Birdwells with a stray nut rolling out the side (it was hot and those things are short) and Doc is asking you how much vacation time you got saved up because you are going to a wedding with her in Pakistan to meet the family and it will be about eight weeks long and in a place where we probably shouldn't leave the family compound because she would get kidnapped for ransom and I would be kidnapped for payback over US military aggression in Palestine, Lebanon, Syria, Iraq, Iran, Turkey, Kurdistan, Libya, Egypt, Sudan, Somalia, Afghanistan, Yemen, Djibouti, and some other places that end in -stan (including Pakistan). Our own wedding will probably be longer than that and can I take a four month leave of absence during Ventura prime surf season because it will involve separate ceremonies all along the Khyber and into India for the grandparents who got stuck on the wrong side during partition and she's two weeks late as it is, so maybe we will need more time given there might be a baby on the trip with us. Meanwhile, the phone is buzzing because the lads from the Goldy are going to Fiji to stay with a mate and the queersurfergrrrrl club from Oakland is going to Mexico in a pack of 20 which means dance parties all night and clogging already congested fancy pointbreaks during the day with armpit hair and bad tattoos and Gost/Pertubator are playing at the Union and there are a shit ton of crustlords going with Molly and you are invited to everything and fuck, sometimes we are wired the way we are and in spite of trying new things, they don't always work out. We can add hot doc to a rather long list of people better than me that didn't fit the way I ride and a rather huger list of boards that just didn't work from some of the best shapers ever. Yater. Cooper. Jones. Anderson. Harbour. Dan O'. Preisendorfer. Alter. Noll. Boehne. Frye. Jones. Schuler (he's a fucking mad genius that one). Fuck. Shoulda listened. Shoulda not deluded myself with fantasies of surfing like Dora or being happy doing child's pose five times a day in some godforsaken country somewhere.
But you don't know until you try new things sometimes, right? And sometimes, rarely, things do work out. Like that time I got all crushed out on a Vaquero I saw on here in 2008 and ordered a 7'2" before I moved to Colima. Magic. A shape that completely clicked with where I was surfing and how I surfed. Magic that led to Mr. Liddle that led me to the most joy-filled surfboards ever. Same thing with the 5'4" Ian Zamora mini-simi that I ordered after someone on here suggested it which then led to a series of sub-6' craft that led to stubbies and nubbies into the super refined shitwave shape the Forgiven one up the street makes me.
But then just 'cuz the piggy and the pussy didn't work out for me now doesn't mean that in ten years, I won't appreciate the finer aspects of cruising and riding pigs and gliders and more refined shapes that don't need the supernatural ability to plane with your toes on the nose or go fast enough you can early grab airs out the back of sketchy beachbreaks. I guess I shoulda stuck with hotDoc... at least then I could afford a couple dozen more shapes to try out.
Nosehair trimming has been my achilles' heel. Noses and trimming sound sick on a longboard forum but goddamn is it some bloodletting in practice.