Dawn Parole

The external excitements are dying fast.  The World Tour blew through, leaving a wake of happy vibes thanks to the down-graded event schedule and up-graded swell schedule, with an emphasis on surfing the quality waves on offer as opposed to the hoopla of some ollie mctwisty set to bad punk infused hip hop.  An unplanned readjustment of priorities that fit hand in glove.  The summer surfy crowds are slowly dragging themselves back to the city, putting their new boards on new racks and closeting their spring suits, awaiting that planned trip to Costa Azula over winter holiday.  The sun is rising later, bringing the annual reassessment of morning duties.  Some fed up pseudo-local just reiterated for the twentieth time in the last week their customary rant about tourists and kooks and the Hampton crowd and SUPers and whatever else happened to piss them off over the warmer months that they spent participating in the crowding of their own line up. Antonio and I are restarting our own seasonal arguments about the quickest surface street route back to the city in rush hour traffic.  Everyone is getting back in wetsuits.  Everyone is getting back to the deal with the devil. Everything is getting back to how it is for most of the time for most New York surfers.