Clark Little

From the Guardian.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/gallery/2009/feb/27/clark-little-photograph-waves?picture=343885006

Paddling Out

When I first got to NJ I had to immediately go for a surf at the end of my street. It was kind of weird paddling out at first. I was getting the stinkeye from the aggro guy who lives off the island but still claims local status. He is always muttering about the summer people. I can see his point, but at the same time, I'd been swimming at this beach in utero; so I feel like I have more of a bond with it than he does. Territorial pissings aside, I was so happy to see Kris in the lineup. We laughed, shot the shizzy, and snaked each other all afternoon. The local commuter still huffed and puffed but it didn't bother me anymore.

When I left NJ I had to check the waves one last time. It was kind of bittersweet, since my mom had sold the house and it's now being torn down, and I figured it was the last time I'd be at the one place that remained a constant throughout my somewhat rootless life.

It'd been a cold (water temp-wise), windy summer. I'd had to wear a fullsuit almost every day. I wanted to go for one last surf, but the gray sky and sea suggested my time would be better-spent elsewhere. And then Kris waved to me from the water. He got out and came up to the stairs at 109 and convinced me to come out for one last surf.

I pulled my wetsuit on and paddled out. Nodding at the 110 Surf Club guy, I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out at his friend, the angry local commuter. (Of course he had to be there.) Kris immediately turned to me and said he was getting out. "What? You just made me paddle out! You can't leave now." "Okay," he said, "I guess I can stay out for a few more." The four of us traded waves for the next hour. Kris and I joked and talked about some things that had been weighing on him lately. We split a tiny peak and rode it all the way in. We decided it was time to get out. I started walking toward the stairs at 109 and saw Kris walking to 110. He turned, waved, and yelled "See ya later!", knowing that I was leaving for Florida. We didn't need to hug, or even acknowledge that it'd be a while before we got to hang out again. He was the kind of friend that you just knew you'd see again.

But then I didn't get to see him again. I was back three weeks later for his memorial paddleout at the same beach. It's been six months and writing this isn't any easier. I'm glad we had that last surf. I'm glad he stayed for more than just a few waves. I tell myself I'm glad I didn't hug him goodbye; in some ways it's better to know that we left in a way that left an opening for another meeting? And sadly enough, part of me is glad that I won't be on my street this summer, checking the waves, scanning the lineup for the curly blonde head that won't be there.

It's Been Six Months

I figured at some point I would feel like writing this, but I still don't. I keep waiting for some angle, some perspective that will wrap this all up in a cute little bow that will somehow help make sense of everything. That hasn't happened, but I'm afraid I'll forget things while awaiting enlightenment.

Last summer, I'd get a call from Kris around 8 every morning. The conversation never deviated from the following:
K: You check it? [I lived right by the "surfing only" beach]
Me: Yes.
K: How is it?
Me: It sucks.
K: Really? How big is it?
Me: It's small.
K: Like, uh, unrideable small?
Me: Yes. But it's loggable.
K: So are ya gonna go out?
Me: Yeah.
K: Okay, well I'm gonna go check it anyway.
Me: Okay. Why do you always call me if you don't believe me?
K: Huh? I gotta go. I'm probably just going to go surf 30th street.
Me: Okay. Bye.

I'm sure that half of the island had a conversation like this with Kris every morning, too.

No matter how long I dilly-dallied before making it to the beach, Kris and I would always get there at the same time. This may or may not have been because he had probably already driven up and checked it and left three times before I got there, but I never asked because I really didn't want to know the truth.

He loved his Hurley 4/3, and he loved his waterproof camera. I remember one day, surfing with him and John, and there were huge schools of gray, nondescript fish everywhere. (I believe they were "bunker"-no offense if that is the official fish of NJ.) They basically looked like large sardines, without the silver. Kind of like the one type of fish that you wouldn't waste time taking pictures of. But not Kris, he was sooo excited to take pictures of those ugly fish. He probably would have made some kind of collage with those pictures this winter. And he would have been extremely excited about it. And he would have called everyone at random times to tell them about it.

I wish he'd call me for my bogus surf report.

(I think I got this pic from Brad G's fb.)

Happy VD.

So I thought I would take this time, as I'm sipping my cocktail and steeling myself for a night out that will be fun without any underlying sense of desperation, to reflect on my VD experiences. I decided that I'd give my readers a little Valentine's day humor to help them through this wonderful holiday.

The reason why I have bad VD karma:

I had a boy in 9th grade decide to bring a dozen longstems to school on VD to give me after we had been going out for 2 weeks. He used "love" on the card. I dumped him the next day and he started crying infront of everyone in the cafeteria. I cannot wait until he finds me on facebook.

The most pathetic VD I had was when I worked at this restaurant. I was bartending and for some reason a lot of men decided that a boat/sports-themed restaurant would be a great place for a romantic couple's dinner. I got out at 2 a.m. and promptly headed for Fourth Meal. When I got up to the window, the drive thru lady said that my double decker supreme had been paid for by the man in the car infront of me. He had pulled slightly ahead and was I guess waiting to meet the Taco Bell customer of his dreams. I waved in his car's general direction and sped the f#*k off.

But the absolute WORST VD was when my boyfriend showed up two hours late, drunk and/or stoned, took me to a restaurant, and when the check came told me that he only had $20 and that I'd have to pick up the rest. And I kept dating him!!!!!!!!!!!!

So, as you can see, my hopes for tonight are decidedly low.