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You asked, so here it is

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You asked, so here it is

Postby Chanel Derrière » Thu Jun 16, 2022 9:22 pm

The Nightmare Log Session

It all started with a beat up old 9'2" in Baja that was thrust upon me without my consent. The board mysteriously ended up in my shed in Portland and I had no choice to fix it up. On a rare late winter day that was above 60F I patched it up and then hung it up in my shed with old bicycle inner tubes, mostly forgetting about it with all my SAD and endless work and family drama.

During a particularly shitey week on call, I saw an upcoming forecast for a small glassy day with light SE winds and some promising tides on a Sunday. Why not get the old dog wet I thought and ordered a 9.5" Greenough inspired Flex Fin from the Shaper Supply co in Tualatin (hot tip if you need some cheap surf supplies).

Sunday came and I had three spots in mind, deep in Tilly County. I'd had great sessions at two of them and had watched our departed friend Gaz shred the third a few years back as I was lurking near where the trees meet the base of the clay cape (I even have photographic proof). The last time I saw him.

Anyway, I left a bit early for the tide, anticipating a day of much driving for little reward but I pulled up to spot #1 and lo and behold I am greeted with perfect Logging conditions off the bat. I parked in front of some Portlander's summer shack and unloaded the Baja beast. I chomp a banana, neck a can of coconut water, a little wax touch up on the log, no leash and off I trot down the bluff to push myself into a dry haired paddle toward a perfect little A-Frame. I would say it was about chest high on the peak and then tapered down into reeling stomach high walls that went a long way. Lefts were better than rights, at first.

After my first left I knew it was game on. Full disclosure. I am no longboarder. My technique is pure minimalism. I like to stand and point, find the trim line and hang out. One fin but no gods, no masters, no turns. Yet, my first wave compelled me to try some turns and everything clicked. For the next hour I was flying down the line for hundreds of yards into a little shorebreak and casually paddling the long way back to the peak in a nice little channel. As the tide filled in the lefts mushed out and I moved over to the rights for an hour more or bliss. I thought to myself. I am longboarding. I am a longboarder. I longboard. “Dr Marvin, I’m longboarding!” Baby steps to the nose…

As the tide reached high water, the waves kept coming through but were a lot mushier at this point. A couple of heads had paddled out but they had kept to the inside until I was done. Once I got out they went for my little peak. Perfect. I changed, zipped back into Tillamook for Tacos from the beautiful Maria and drove to the jetty to eat them at my leisure. As I ate my tacos I watched another solo surfer enjoy a lovely little right into the rip at a spot I have not seen that well lined up in years. Was I going to digest my food and second sesh? Hell no. It was all his. I stopped by Bay City on my way home, caught a few little grinders on my skateboard and then a leisurely drive along Hwy 6 back home. Perfect freakin day, considering there was no real swell. Spring is going to be good, I grinned.

A couple of weeks after this session, my brother-in-law comes to visit. He’s an opiate addict in recovery and anti-vaxer. Does that impact this story? Maybe. He’s been micro-dosing psilocybin to cope with all his emotional and mental ailments. Seems to be working as he was in a decent headspace when he was visiting. He had brought with him some magic chocolate and rather than get back on a plane with it, left it in our freezer. I indulged on a couple of evening spring walks. Not much, just a little corner here and there but a bit more each time. It was a pretty nice way to enjoy the Spring blooming as the weather endlessly shifted from grey and windy to sunny and clear.

One sunny Friday I planned to go surfing, perhaps get the log out again in an effort to reconnect with that magic. Either I lost motivation or the surf was poor but I stayed in town with no plan. Things rarely go well, when I don’t have a plan. Idle hands and the devil and all that… So I opened the freezer and pulled out the choccy. There was still a decent amount left and I tried to break off a couple of clean squares to go a bit further than I already had. I didn’t get a clean break and soon my OCD kicked in and I tried to clean up my chocolate breakage, in all its crumbling and flaking. In doing so I nibbled more and more as I attmpted to clean up the bar before I put it back in the freezer. Further. By the time I was done I must have had a dose 4x the amount I had been doing over the previous couple of weeks. How many grams? I wasn’t too concerned as it had been incredibly mellow thus far but definitely little micro-journeys. Needless to say I was about to embark on a real journey. I will pause right here to say I am about as an experienced psychonaut as I am longboarder, an occasional dabbler who doesn’t really know what he is doing.

All to say, I went on a two week vacation over the next six hours, that could be a short-story in itself. Suffice to say, it was a sunny afternoon and I took my fixed-geared bicycle on a very slow circuit around the Willamette, stopping frequently to commune with ducks, geese, trains, clouds and enlightened people living on the street. Time-slowed still. I lived a life-time in minutes. I realized my mind was not in my head but the projection of the world I was witnessing. That was my mind, all the shite I saw and heard. I stopped freeway traffic with my mind as I peaked on the West side of the river under the Freemont Bridge as the roar of trains, traffic, geese, sirens became a glorious symphony accompanying Portland through a Friday afternoon. I concluded that my emotional well being could be easily manipulated for the better with just an intentional shift of perspective. It was profound and comforting. Meanwhile, I was approached by a person. I was initially terrified at the thought of having to interact with another human in this state but I had little choice. Turns out she was from Costa Rica, living on the streets of Portland. I was immediately convinced she knew I was experiencing altered-reality. “We are not supposed to live this way.” She offered. I agreed. She must have been about thirty years old and I asked a little about her story. She was truly one of those lost souls who was unable to compromise her free spirit into the ridiculous way we are forced to run our lives. I’ve known a few. My older brother died because of this. I asked her how old she was. I really don’t know why but she said, “I stopped at seventeen.” I said, that’s not a bad place to stop and knew I had to remove myself from this interaction before my head exploded, ego fully melted and I too would be lost to the streets forever.

I cycled toward home. Remembering my mother-in-law had her psychotherapist boyfriend in town (New Dad, I call him) I detoured up Mt Tabor to straighten my shite out before facing the inevitable grilling. because New Dad is intent on cracking me, I just know it. After an hour or so staring at the reservoir, I finally got home, still not straight but New Dad was not there thankfully. Instead, my seventeen-year-old daughter is… almost as bad. And, the kicker, she wanted to have a conversation about drugs. “Dad, why are you so anti-drug?” Her mother looked at me (she knew). “Why don’t you just tell her?” She says. Trip over.

As with many Oregon surf stories, this is where we head toward the inevitable anti-climatic downer. Just fair-warning in case you’d like to stop reading now.

Spring turns out to be pretty tumultuous on all fronts. Significantly the surf is garbage. Funnily enough that little longboard session was one of the few highlights. Who’d have thought? Perhaps I can re-live it? Perhaps I need more magic chocolate? There has to be way to navigate this endless storm…

You can’t force it. That’s the lesson. We all know it by now. We all still try but I am here to say, please don’t try. Just be.

My first mistake was talking The Bro into surfing. We will call him End Bro for now. I told him about my magic little session at my Tillamook County nook and his mid ran wild. He loves that shite. While he is good surfer and can handle real waves, he’s happiest when cruising knee high peelers at Garth’s Reef under the Redwoods. He is a far better longboarder than I and most. And, crucially, he is also a more experienced psychonaut.

My thinking was this, why not try to combine two of my most recently profound experiences and try to recreate them in one? It could have worked. But End Bro may have thrown a monkey wrench into the spiritual works or maybe its unfair to blame him. There’s a band from Ohio called My Dad is Dead, “There’s a black cloud hanging over my house. What’s it mean, what’s it signify…. hold on to the memories. Hold on to the memories!” They are like a Midwest Joy Division. I don’t think End Bro likes them.

We were about ten miles from the spot when the drugs kicked in… and when we had to accept… the surf was going to be shite… Black Clouds not just hanging over us, but being blown south by an unexpected and ruthless North wind and swirling around my soul. God this spring has been unpredictable. The magic was not going to recreated at my spot with zero North wind protection and so it was with crushing defeat we headed to the Plan B spot. I had some My Dad is Dead cranking in the car and as expected End Bro was not feeling it. As soon as he expressed his disapproval, I knew we were out of totally synch and this trip was going to go bad. What kind of nightmare was I heading into? Certainly not glassy-surfaced turquoise waters and perfectly peeling longboard waves under clear skies. Nothing was clear. The dark clouds kept closing in. I knew as soon as he saw the ocean his stoke-level would go through the roof while mine would totally implode.

At the spot we were greeted by the inevitable wind blown shifty peaks with no shape or predictability. End Bro had the rose-tinted glasses on but I was slipping deeper into the inferno. Not much could talk me out of it at this point and even worse I knew it was useless to try and talk End Bro into doing something more appealing like going for a hike or slitting our wrists. When End Bro sees movement in the Pacific Ocean, he sees a canvas to work his magic on. f@#K.

Leash or no leash. I was hellbent on never putting a leash on this battered log. It just seemed wrong. If I need a leash I shouldn’t even be on this thing. End Bro said, leash was a good idea and he was in his wetsuit before I’d even undone my belt and pulled off my slip ons. End Bro was convinced he saw a little right in the far north nook and we paddled out in the nasty little rip toward the outside rocks. Choppy grey waters, bouncing the heavy 9’2” beneath my gut, swirling grey skies above continuing to crush any stoke I had left. Of course End Bro found his magic little right and I tried for a bit, I really did. But I could not find a way in. No peak, wedge, or bump allowed me to slot myself into anything remotely rideable for the first hour. Then when I did it catch something resembling a wave it was just a lackluster bumpy ride. I thought about just drowning myself as I kicked out. Meanwhile down the beach some other surfers had found a peak I knew we should have waited for the incoming tide to shape up. End Bro sprightly paddled down to join them but at that point I was exhausted and defeated. f@#K longboarding. f@#K surfing. Why do I bother?

Now the next dilemma, was I to just keep my mouth shut while the End Bro reveled in his post-surf afterglow or should I try to bring him down a peg or two with my bad attitude? Neither option sounded great, and so I neutrally nodded as he regaled his nose and coffin rides on the drive home. It was at that moment that I finally understood what set and setting were all about and yes, most of my experience on this spinning ball can be improved by an intentional shift or perspective or improved sense of timing. But I am dark motherfucker and sometimes I just have to go there. See you End Bro. I’ll try to see the sunny side next time.
Pink Floyd and Single Fin Logs.
Chanel Derrière
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Re: You asked, so here it is

Postby smithgrind » Sat Jun 18, 2022 8:13 pm

Lots to unpack here and The End Bro saga really hit home.
I was feeling nuances of Mr. Mojo Rising as I spin cycled down the drain on this post.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eqgXGMAS__M
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Re: You asked, so here it is

Postby Doc » Sat Jun 18, 2022 10:50 pm

I wish that I could even keep a train of thought on the tracks that long...
Most of my thoughts average about the duration of an a typical Oregon wave...
What I did get is that longboarding can be be good, or bad...
And that family is complicated, frustrating and confusing...
But I have also admittedly, and briefly, gathered...
That in my altogether brief forays into thought and consideration...
That, lest i be be considered simple...
Just let me offer that...
Ummm.
Doc
"If you don't surf...don't start".
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Re: You asked, so here it is

Postby Tex » Wed Jun 22, 2022 4:27 pm

CD...all I can say is, THANK YOU BROTHER...you dropped an amazing post. Thanks for letting us in and sharing your journey. Made my day today.
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Re: You asked, so here it is

Postby Chanel Derrière » Mon Jun 27, 2022 10:03 am

The latest chapter in this stupid story went horribly wrong. That's all I have in me to say right now.

time to quieten the mind way the f@#K down and shut up.

Peace.
Pink Floyd and Single Fin Logs.
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Re: You asked, so here it is

Postby Tex » Mon Jun 27, 2022 1:03 pm

I will be here when you are ready/able to share....take your time, I am not going anywhere.
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Re: You asked, so here it is

Postby Major Lazer » Mon Jun 27, 2022 5:18 pm

Mee too.... hope it wasn't to bad of a trip if my assumption is correct. Psychedelics can get heavy real fast unless your in the right headspace. I know they are trending rn and people are finding medical bennies, but I went down that road as a teenager into my 20s. Once a year deep in the backcountry backpacking I'll blow out the cobwebs and do a little mental flossing and even then last summer I kinda got to high for a few hours.
Routine is a vampire. Manu Chao-
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