Monday, April 19, 2010

Just the sort of thing the Surfer's Journal is for.  I rarely get to mentally "live" the stories I read about in the surfing mags.   Usually they are hairball tales of daring-do in far more exotic locales.  I can't really connect in a muscle memory way with the juggernauts of the North Shore or Western Australia or Bali or South Africa.  The little fertile crescent of my surfing history is just that. Little. But on the subway this morning I am sure at least one observant rider got a treat, watching my body uncontrollably jigger and gander, my muscles tense, my jaw drop, as I read the Mike Davis story about the swell of '69 hitting Hammond's, carrying Pat Curren and he all the way down to Sharky's.  I know that little strip will enough.  It is, I figure, my own surfing fertile crescent.  If you haven't picked up the mag and read that re-telling yet, I can't promise it will make the same stomach-churning, eye-watering affect as it did for me, but I'll guarantee a well told story.

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