I remember that one year just before my father's birthday erranding with my mother at Thompson's Drug, seeing one of those fuzzy headed troll dolls, the rubbery kind with the marble eyes, and observing what a prefect gift it would be for the impending anniversary. My mother, ever vigilant to my sly canards, caught on pretty quick. You sure it's for Dad and not just for you? The impudence! I would never ever buy a troll doll for my father just so I could play with it. She acquiesced. A week later, playing with the ugly thing in my Dad's office, she walks by and gives me the death stare. And so it was some thirty plus years later (plus, plus perhaps) that while looking for a new used beater board to stash under the house, I come across a ten foot foamie at the surf shop. Ten feet! I consider the possibilities of a ten foot foamie. Ten feet! I think that it might be the perfect girth and griddle for Wifey's long awaited foray into the family pass time. This will be perfect! A day later I find myself steering the unwieldy thing into a few fun beach break close outs, perfecting my dance with the long lines until the wave of the day catches me just right, putting me in epic position for the close-out beach break ten-foot-foamie cover-up of the decade. Except. Except it's a ten foot foamie see. And ten foot foamie's ridden only a few times don't operate quite like a regular hard ten foot surfboard. Or even a six foot foamie. No a ten foot foamie doesn't have quite that split second maneuverability. Whatever split second maneuverability I can usually muster. One ripped up right knee MCL later and I am duly contrite.