A Bowl of Stupid

Okay, I’ve finally jumped onboard last.fm’s “neighbor radio” bandwagon. It is, as aptly noted by Fred Wilson, probably the best use of social networking on the internet – especially for music junkies like myself.

Here’s how it works.

You join last.fm, download software that reports up to the last.fm servers every song you listen to. last.fm takes that information and finds out who your musical neighbors are. With that information, they create a radio station just for you that is like having your musical neighbors DJ’ing for you.

Wilson is absolutely right – this is the best use of online networking out there for those, like myself, who value their music, wish to advertise to others their favorite “hidden gems”, and likewise wish to learn about unknown artists from others with similar tastes.

(Via Fred Wilson at A VC in NYC, who’s got a good “FM station” selection himself)

UPDATE: If anyone hasn’t noticed, one of the other great features about last.fm is not only how its stand-alone application allows integration with your media player (iTunes, WinAmp, etc.) to “find” the songs you’re listening to, but that it also allows you to place a widget on your website showing your visitors just what those songs are (like the one I’ve put up on my sidebar to the right). Groovy.

Initially transcribed: 11-12/04/07 – C.R.

Continued from Recognition (Guanacaste Memoirs) — Part II

By the next morning, the surf conditions had dropped considerably. But they were still head-high with the occasional 1 and one-half overhead sets.

When I went out that following morning, despite the fact the surf had dropped to a manageable 10 feet, it still took me a while to regain the confidence to take off on a wave. Every time I was hovering at the lip of a wave – especially some of the bigger ones – rather than thinking about how I wanted to ride the wave (what I should have been doing), instead I was wondering how deep the wave would throw me down if I fucked up.

Once again, for me (much like for many others I would assume), the function of one’s performance is directly related to how secure one is in his or her skills. For that reason, ironically, I was a much better surfer when I was younger because I simply had the courage (or stupidity) to rush into surf that I now know could possibly kill me. I wonder if that’s a major reason why many older guys shy away from bigger surf, despite the fact they are much more technically skilled than their younger counterparts.

Regardless, on this particular day, it took some time but I started to work that seed of fear and doubt out of my head, one wave at a time. On my first (almost perfectly formed) wave of the day, however, I assumed a horrible “stinkbug” stance – riding too far up on the board with my legs splayed out far apart – in an attempt to gain the maximum amount of balance.

It was sad. I was angry with myself for letting my own mind screw with me. But it was a start.

After another ugly ride, I decided I needed an hour break to regain my composure (and to get my necessary daily intake of caffeine). I came in to have some breakfast – which. like the vast majority of all other “Tico” meals, consists mainly of rice and beans – before going back out on my bigger surfboard.

By the time I had finished breakfast, the surf had dropped a bit more with the tides. Despite the crowd of people swarming in this much smaller, more manageable break, I was still able to catch several waves that I was again somewhat proud of. My form was getting better, and I was regaining some of my “surf composure.”

I concentrated on my form, I worked on my takeoffs and cutbacks, and I continued building up my physical conditioning (given my lack of paddling before the trip, by this time, my shoulders and arms already felt like spaghetti). And once again, I eventually came out of the water having enjoyed the morning session immensely.

I took another couple hours to rest, have another meal – rice and beans – and to write up much of this diatribe. I was considering staying in that town for another day or two to work on that break further, frankly, more for my mental state than for anything else (the break had become far too crowded to have fun consistently).

After speaking with the photographer who took these pictures, I considered a move down-coast for a few days. The surf there may still have some residual size from the swell. However, for better or worse, I knew the surf would probably be smaller.

After going back out for an hour in the afternoon, I decided to leave town first thing the following morning. I was going to Malpais, on the southern tip of Costa Rica’s Nicoya peninsula.

So, after getting entirely too intoxicated last night, logically what did I do first thing this morning after getting only several hours of sleep?

I went mountain biking, of course. Err … yah. Two words — Mis. Take.

Although things went relatively well (no broken bones), upon my return home I resigned myself to napping on my couch for the remainder of the afternoon (which has unfortunately come to resemble the vast majority of my afternoons of late), in a valiant effort to win the war against the alcohol in my system that had otherwise emerged victorious from our various battles earlier in the day.

Once back in the sweet, safe, and cool confines of my (for now) apartment, I popped in several movies that I’ve wanted to see (or at least sleep through), including one of the 25 movies made by Will Ferrell last year — Stranger Than Fiction.

It was a decent and cute movie in which, as usual, Will Ferrell gave a solid performance. But what i particularly enjoyed was the movie’s use of retro-punk and mod songs from the late 1970′s and early 1980′s to set the tone. These are some of the most stylish (pun intended), yet still musically adept, songs of the era. I definitely recommend you check out this soundtrack for Stranger Than Fiction, even if you never see the movie (which you should at least try to do).

Among the great songs on the soundtrack is this song, one of my favorites ever from the band, The Jam (the precursor band to The Style Council). Both the song (with its great guitar and bass lines), as well as the accompanying video are surprisingly contemporary considering they were produced almost 30 years ago.

The Jam – That’s Entertainment

Also included in the soundtrack are several great songs from the Austin, Texas indie-rock band Spoon. You may also want to check out this particular song by Spoon (which is not on the Stranger Than Fiction soundtrack, but still a great example of their work). I also recommend you check out the songs they produced specifically for the soundtrack.

UPDATE: I just saw this post over at the great music blog, Cable & Tweed, about this topic from back in November. They also have a few MP3′s from the movie, available free for download – including songs from Spoon, Wreckless Eric, and The Jam. Check it out.

2d UPDATE: Rich over at Cable & Tweed advises that, “before I disappoint any readers… those tracks on C&T from the STF soundtrack aren’t up anymore.” Oh well, it’s still a good music blog worth visiting.

Continuing with my current fascination of mindlessly posting pre-produced videos — most of which I just realized are unsettlingly relating to Star Wars — I give you another video from the same twisted geeks at Robot Chicken who brought you this last piece of brilliant Star Wars dementia.

I’m lazy and I’m trying to postpone typing out the pages and pages and pages of long-handed notes I made about my surfing trip while I was down in Costa Rica. (Mental note: Bring laptop to Indonesia, and no more god-damn longhand)

(Thanks to Dan at Pajiba for bringing this one to my attention. Bravo sir, bravo).

Oh. My. God.

That’s all I’ve got to say. Indeed, words couldn’t possibly describe the majesty and grandeur that is … Whiplash the Dog Riding Cowboy Monkey!

And he’s just turned 18, so you know what that means — hard riding monkey hookers in Vegas!

Thanks for this beautiful monstrosity goes to Karabee … who, although quite lovely, apparently needs a new hobby.

I’m doing the rounds again after a long absence, and I found yet another Star Wars CGI parody. This one’s actually kinda clever, though (and it doesn’t appear that they’re trying to make money off of it, unlike countless others):

As aptly noted by Adam over at Best Week Ever, the best part of this video is that the guy who gets choked looks a lot like Dane Cook.

The power to strangle Dane Cook from afar? Ahh, if only it were that easy.

I attended several court hearings this morning in which I finally withdrew as legal counsel of record on cases I had been working as part of a side project. It was, I hope, the last time I have to wear a suit and tie for a long, long time.

As a pragmatist, and a very superstitious one at that, I loathe to say that too loudly for fear of tempting the wrath of the whatever from high atop the thing.

Nonetheless, it was an interesting event.

In particular, I haven’t driven in rush-hour traffic for over a month (and significant rush-hour traffic for much, much longer), and I have not been in close association with any practicing attorneys for much longer than that.

After having driven through said traffic, and after having walked through a courthouse filled with scores of attorneys all dressed in the exact same black suit, I realized the distance that I’ve already traveled – mentally, albeit not yet physically – is staggering.

All the scene required were bowler hats.

Not to be judgmental, or in any way condescending to anyone who may otherwise fit into that mold, in one form or another, but all I could think was:

“What a bunch of fucking sheep.”

I have only had but a taste of the possibilities out there, and I am already struck by the absurdity of many good people who have resigned themselves to waste countless hours of their lives — time which can never be restored — waiting in traffic, waiting in line, trapped in jobs and careers and marriages they find unsatisfying, or being proud of those things which should not warrant pride.

I was awestruck.

And I honestly, honestly wonder how many of those people are truly happy. And if that percentage is as low as one could logically assume, I also wonder how, and if, that translates up to a societal level.

It may be a simplistic question, but I wonder just how many of our societal problems are attributable to the Western obsession with money, power and celebrity? Indeed, would the U.S. government spend more money on education and foreign aid if all of its citizens telecommuted, or were required to teach for 5 years, or if People magazine was removed from circulation?

I doubt it. But it’s an interesting theory nonetheless.

I may wind up dead in a gutter in Jakarta, or I may wind up again begging for employment come September (Or I could wind up as an intern at TK’s sheep farm in New Zealand – since we all know how he loves the animals).

But I’m glad I can at least see these things now unobscured by the fogs of greed and pride and social acceptance, even if that vision is but temporary.

I hope many others do the same. They deserve it.

Once again, news of yet another incident here in Florida that makes me wonder if there really is something in the water, and which further prompts my hasty departure before I find myself among the afflicted.

MELBOURNE, Fla. — A Brevard County doctor dressed up in a Captain America outfit was arrested with a burrito in his tights.

On Saturday night, when a costume party full of medical professionals stopped at On Tap Cafe, police said Adamcik had a burrito stuffed below the waistband of his costume and was asking women if they want to touch it. When one refused, he allegedly took out the burrito and groped her.

Money quote:

“[T]he officers wrote in their report “there were so many cartoon characters in the bar at the time, all Captain America’s were asked to go outside for a possible identification.”

Yeah, I got nothing. Sometimes the jokes just write themselves.

(Via QuizLaw and WFTV News)

Initially transcribed: 09-10/04/07 – C.R.

Continued from Recognition (Guanacaste Memoirs) — Part I

I went to Costa Rica this time with two surfboards — a 7’10″ funboard, the bluish one in the pictures which has a rounded nose and is thicker to provide a more stable, yet not as maneuverable ride; as well as a 7’6″ gun, which is a pointed, more convex board to punch through wave faces, yet is still longer than a traditional shortboard to ride much bigger waves (assuming one has the talent to do so, which I do not).

Regardless, I was out having a great time. Only 3.5 hours out of Miami and I was on one of the best surf breaks in the Americas.

I did not yet realize during that initial session just what I would be up against.

However, by the following morning, the surf had grown in size and power — this was not Miami.

I should qualify this post by first saying this: I love surfing, but I hate paddling.

And what I despise the most is having to paddle through surf breaks — the thick, frothy white-water which, if the product of a 20 foot wave, can stop a Mack truck dead.

This explains one of, if not the best things about surfing a point/reef break, since paddling through such white water is generally not an issue because (1) you can paddle out to the lineup to the side of where the wave is breaking, and (2) when you’re surfing, you’re up in front of the white water and you can get off the wave before it breaks on you (hopefully).

In this way, by the time you’re done with a wave, you’re already ahead of the white water and you can paddle back out around the next oncoming waves (which are off to the side from where you just came).

So you paddle straight out, and then bear left/right towards the point where the waves are breaking to reestablish your position. No worries.

This is especially helpful when the waves get bigger. And when they are bigger, it is even more imperative to avoid wiping-out early on, since you will typically be left directly in the path of the next oncoming waves.

If it’s early in a set of 4-5 massive waves, that means you will be stuck in the “impact zone” and will be sitting there, looking up at the equivalent of a 2-3 story building about to collapse on your head.

With nowhere to go.

Which really, really, REALLY sucks.

For this reason, when the waves are bigger, you try to avoid wiping out (or going the wrong direction) more than usual, since you will be left directly in the path of the next incoming set of waves, which means you will be hit in the impact zone by either huge wave faces or monster white water — where up is down and vice versa, and the only way to tell where is the surface is by how dark the water is – the darker the water, the deeper you are.

When you get put in that situation, sometimes the waves will toss you down 10, 20, 30 feet below the surface of the water – where the only thing you will see are rocks, bubbles and a lot of dark water – which again, really, really, REALLY sucks (I got scratched up on my leg by rocks that must have been about 20 feet underwater).

In that situation, lighter water is good – it means you’re relatively close to the surface. But darker water is bad (and more disconcerting), especially where you’re already winded from paddling and surfing for a few hours and you’re getting tossed around like a bag of potatoes.

At moments like that, the best thing to do is to try not to panic, let the wave go by, and hope you float towards the surface before your lungs burst.

If that doesn’t work and you find yourself running out of air, often you have to reach down/up and grab the leash tied around your ankle connected to the surfboard and climb it back up to the board (which floats substantially better than you do and will, most likely, be closer to the surface than you).

Leash-climbing without panicking is something that most experienced surfers know how to do automatically. However, it is a fine line, since it is also somewhat of a last resort, as it means you have no idea where you are, or how far it is to the surface.

It’s kinda scary. But as an admitted adrenaline junkie, it’s also pretty fucking cool.

I had to do some leash-climbing those first days – probably for the first time in years.

That first afternoon, as the swell was coming up, I wiped out once, got caught up in the impact zone at the beginning of a bigger set of waves, and had to leash climb twice before I broke through the surface and was able to paddle out through the surf break.

It freaked me out. But not enough to keep me from staying out another hour or so and having an absolutely fantastic day.

But it planted the seed of doubt in my head.

That seed grew overnight, so that by the next morning – when the surf had grown even bigger – I was freaking out when I got to the beach at 5:30 a.m. and saw the 15 foot bombs pushing in with the high tide.

Once again, it was not enough to keep me from going out and getting a couple of the smaller waves in the sets, like these:

But there was absolutely no way in hell that I could bring myself to get up on the monsters that were coming in during the middle of those sets, and which continued to get even bigger as they hit the reef later that afternoon.

Shit, it was all I could do to simply paddle out past those fuckers so I didn’t get murdered.

A couple more times, I found myself again in the impact zone, where I got pummeled by these monsters, and was leash-climbing from the dark bubbly depths virtually every set.

My confidence was shot to hell.

Despite Manny’s advise to just “shake it off,” I was unable to catch more than one wave for the remainder of the afternoon — one which I rode not for fun, but as if my life depended on it.

Yea!!

As I have a tendency to beat myself up about my own flaws, I was fairly upset about my performance that afternoon. However, in retrospect, and after talking to several people, I realize it was actually a really positive day.

I was not in surf shape, having not been in big surf for several years. Moreover, despite the fame of this epic point-break and the size of this swell, there were only about 5 people who were even good/stupid enough to be out in the water that afternoon, of which I was one.

And I caught a couple of those waves. I didn’t ride them very well, but I caught them.

It was again, in retrospect, a very good day.

The only problem was I was still a bit overwhelmed by that break when I went out the next morning, despite the fact the surf had dropped somewhat overnight.

(To be continued)

Oh yes, how could I forget about this. Among those of my assets I am either giving or selling away (depending on the sex of the person – women=”it’s free, sweetheart”; men=”pay me, jackass”) are several websites I purchased and/or maintained for a time last year when I first began my sojourn into the world of the “interwebs”.

Primary among these sites is a cooking blog located at www.wishuponastove.com and a women’s shoe blog located at www.beautyandtheboot.com.

Both of these sites have/had some residual traffic from before I let them whither on the vine several months ago. If anyone is interested in either of the sites, please let me know.

For any entrepreneurial men, “let me know, but get ready to pony up some dough, son.”

And for any women potentially interested, all I’ve got to say to you is … “hey beautiful, how you doin’?”

When I went down to Central America, I didn’t bring my laptop for fear of … well, for fear that I’d have nothing to make me come back to Miami.

As such, I transcribed – longhand – much of my travels. However, my longhand is about as incomprehensible as is Chez’s seemingly eternal fascination with My Chemical Romance.

That, combined with the fact that I am apparently obligated to accomplish much more than I ever thought necessary before I sell my place and leave the country, has made my transcription efforts take much longer than I initially thought. I should have up another (Part II) by the end of the day.

Now if you’ll pardon me, I must now go get the payoff information for my exorbitantly high student loans from the gentleman from Sallie Mae who has been fucking me in the ass for the past 10 years.

“Excuse me, sir? Sir? Could you please stop that for a second so I can ask you a question? And to stop the horrible, horrible pain? Thank you. Now, if you can tell me my payoff information …”

Aww, just when I finished ranting about how it sometimes feels like I’m the only hater on the block, I found this little tidbit:

TORONTO, Ontario (Reuters) — The dislike of Canada’s biggest city, Toronto, in the rest of the country runs so deep that a filmmaker has made a documentary about it.

“People in Toronto are soulless, one-eyed corporate zombies,” Joey Keithley, of the Vancouver punk band D.O.A., says in the film, “Let’s All Hate Toronto.”

The 73-minute film, which premieres at Toronto’s Hot Docs documentary festival next week, follows a character called Mister Toronto, who embarks on a cross-Canada trip brandishing a sign that reads “Toronto Appreciation Day” and steels himself for the onslaught.

“There is something different (about hating Toronto). People are more passionate about it,” filmmaker and co-director Albert Nerenberg said in an interview.

(Via CNN)

I’m not alone! I’m really not alone! Haters of the world, unite!!

P.S. What in the hell is a “one eyed corporate zombie”? And why are they any worse than two-eyed corporate zombies? I’m just asking – cuz that’s what I do.

“This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man” (Hamlet, act 1, sc. 3, lines 78­80).

Considering all the horrors with which I’ve been inundated over the past couple days since my return to the States — the VT massacre and the associated NBC videotape debacle ranking among the top of these (both of which have left me nauseous and hastening my desire to leave for other surroundings) — I now feel a bit shallow writing a rather probing, existential post about my own personal situation.

But this is, as I have often reminded myself and others, my fucking blog and I can write anything I god-damn well please, thank you very much.

That being said, I am growing increasingly hostile towards the views I’ve been confronting of late by many of my friends, both here in Miami and elsewhere, about my recent life choices, as well as the effect of the lifestyle choices I have made over the past year.

• Why don’t you want to practice law?
• Why would you waste a perfectly good degree you spent many years and many tens of thousands of dollars acquiring?
• Why did you get rid of your Saab?
• Why would you ever want to sell your condo on the beach?
• Why do you want to leave the paradise of Miami?

Why, why, why …

Fucking because … that’s why.

As I’ve said before, I am tired of living for the “American Dream” (especially the coked-up, frenzied Miami version), a lifestyle that I do not now, and frankly, don’t think I ever did, fully comprehend.

Moreover, somewhere down the line, that American Dream got perverted from the classic, and perfectly acceptable, dream of having “a small house with a white picket fence, 2 kids, a dog in the yard, a car in the driveway, and surrounded by nice neighbors.”

As anyone living in the western world is quite aware, at this point, that classic dream of perfection no longer exists.

Rather, that dream is instead one of making as much money as possible, whatever the moral or spiritual costs, so as to acquire a huge “McMansion” that you would be proud to show off on MTV Cribs, and would allow you to showcase your wares for the purpose of impressing as many of your neighbors as possible with such rapturous pleasures that they will instantly want to become your lifelong best friends (or at least help carry your overstuffed Neiman Marcus bags).

Once again, for any of my personal friends that may eventually wind up reading this blog, in response to your continued questions and theories as to my motives (including my good friend JB, who may indeed be correct on a blatantly Freudian level that I am “deserting society before it has a chance to desert me”):

I am tired of playing that game, BECAUSE IT IS NOT WHAT I WANT.

If my closest friends either do not understand this, or simply choose to interpret my conduct and explanations in any way other than as expressly given, I honestly don’t give a shit anymore — regardless of how much I love them, which I truly do.

Moreover, at this point, I also feel the need to extend this mantra into another, even more important area of my life to which my friends have recently voiced their opposition — my personality.

I have been told that on my sunniest of days, I’m not that fun to be around. I have been told that my biting sarcasm is exceeded only by the seemingly bottomless depths of my cynicism. I have been told that I am “dark.”

I have also been told that all of these traits, most of which I admit are the prime elements of my personality, are bad things:

• “You will never succeed in life by being a cynical jackass.”
• “you will never find a loving mate by being dark and biting.”
• “You shouldn’t act that way if you want to make friends (and/or get laid).”

Once again, I do not doubt that such things have been told to me out of love, and I love my friends in return with a depth I doubt any of them fully comprehend, but I tell them this too:

I am tired of playing that game as well, BECAUSE IT IS NOT WHAT I AM.

I like those aspects of my personality.

I like being dark. I like being cynical. I like being moody. And yes I like the fact that everything seems stupid to me and it is difficult for me to find anything that entertains me. And yes, although I admittedly do not like some of the repercussions that come from my dark and cynical nature, on a visceral level I also like the feeling of moral superiority that comes with sometimes acting a jackass.

So my friends and I can continue to play our cute little games — like charging me a quid whenever I say something negative — but understand this: I like being this way and I’ve frankly grown weary of trying to explain myself in this regard, especially to those I love and respect.

So there it is written out in bitter black-and-white, should any of my friends chose to read it (which I hope they do, but truly doubt they will).

And finally now, in keeping with my “mocha-dark” nature, I leave with this aptly stated passage from a favorite song:

I don’t think I’ll be staying around here anymore. There’s no question that I love you, but I’m living in my own time. And here I am, debating whether I’m wrong or right. Who are you to make a judgment of my life? You’re only passing by.

Initially transcribed: 09/04/07 – C.R.

(Heading out into the water on the first day of my trip)

Living in Miami, it’s often easy to deceive myself that I’m a pretty good surfer. And while there is some very good local surfing talent in the Miami area, to be perfectly honest, it’s pretty hard to get “that” good when you’re confined to surfing – if you’re lucky – for 6 months of the year on 2-5 foot wind-chopped waves and the occasional hurricane swell (in which case you tend to have more pressing issues – like keeping the roof from flying off your house – and the local Police usually close the beaches to surfers anyway).

Like everything, it’s difficult to become very good at something when you don’t have the opportunity to do it very often – sorta like trying to run the Indy 500 after living in Manhattan and taking the subway everywhere for 10 years. It’s just not happening.

In other words, it’s hard to be great surfer when there’s never great surf. And it’s even more difficult to be a great big wave surfer under those same conditions. There are exceptions, and there are a number of people who are just born with the innate talent – Kelly Slater is the prime example (the man, who is the best surfer in the world and learned to surf in Central Florida, is a freak of nature). That is generally the exception, not the rule.

Not only is it difficult to refine your balance, your takeoffs, and your overall maneuvering skills – the absolute heart of the sport – it’s also extremely difficult to overcome the “mind-fuck” that can often come with surfing bigger wave.

And when you don’t go surfing in those conditions for over a year, that “mind fuck” can be the most debilitating part – ruining any chance you may otherwise have for honing your skills.

More on that later.

Although I went to Costa Rica with no clear plans as to where I would be surfing, I had essentially worked out in my head what area of the country (Guanacaste), and figured on staying in that general area for several days, at least, since I had had much success there previously. Apart from that, however, I had not much else planned out.

But when I got to one particular (semi-secret) surf spot, which is an outstanding point break (which is where the ocean swells hit either immovable rock or reefs and allow for waves to form in the same spot over and over again, like a machine) that I have been to many times previously, I found that it was in the beginning stages of what was, in my mind, an outrageous swell.

If you’re not familiar with surfing and what I mean by a “swell”, I’ll explain.

First off, the surf is not always “up.” The ocean is a function of weather patterns, seismic anomalies, the angle of those factors in relation to the surf spot itself, as well as a host of other things. If there is a severe weather pattern which causes the entire ocean to move – a ground swell – that comes from a proper direction, then “surf’s up.”

And the type of break — beach, point, reef — also determines the greatness of the waves, with reef and point breaks typically able to hold bigger surf when beach breaks cannot.

Such was the case upon my arrival at the point break in Guanacaste. Water temperature was about 82 degrees F, air temp about 89 F, offshore breezes (which help to maintain the size and structure of the waves), the tide was coming up, and the conditions were, for me, quite perfect.

Moreover, whenever I first arrive somewhere on a trip, I’ve usually got a bit of an adrenaline flowing through my veins in anticipation of getting out in the water and simply “doing what I went there to do.” For that reason, when I first arrived to this first place I stopped in Costa Rica this time, I didn’t notice, nor did it bother me that the surf was already picking up to about 10 foot faces.

I went looking for fun and I found it.

Soon after I went out, I starting talking to a guy in the water – a really great guy named Manny Vargas (who I later learned is a former professional boogie-border turned surf-magazine editor/adventure traveler — more on that later).

After spending some time in the water with him, I learned that Manny, unlike some, was as keen as I about sharing waves, since there’s always going to more. In contrast, there are a large number of surfers who are all about getting as many waves as possible, damn the others in his or her way, the number of waves already taken in that session, or whether the other surfers are local to that break.

Might makes right.

Yet there are others, like Manny and myself, who know there are plenty of waves and there will always be more – with or without us to surf them. Surfing is not necessarily about how many waves you get or keeping others from getting waves. It’s about having fun in the water. For that reason, with people like Manny, it’s really easy to have a fun time in the water regardless of the conditions. Share and share alike makes for a really great vibe in the water. The alternative, the possessive and angry vibe, can ruin an otherwise outstanding session.

The first day was “share and share alike,” which combined with the pre-installed adrenaline high I was on, made for a great time when the bombs started falling from the depths of the Pacific as the day progressed.

My trip began with an absolutely perfect first day.