Winter rain ---feelin' all new age'y and sappy. Maybe it's just the firewood on my hands?

It's an amazing time of year.
Wood stove ripping downstairs.
Fireplace ripping upstairs.

Not really cold.
But the flames are way better than television.

Sure.
There are places where you awaken every day to 65 degree air and clear blue skies.
No question.
It does something to awaken a persons mind and body.
Knowing the weather will always be desirable.
Knowing that the sun will bring you a bolt of energy to start your day.
Drive 101.
Check the surf.
Been there.
San Diego.
3 years.
Pismo Beach.
3 years.
Same weather.
Every f-ing day.

BUT.
It got boring.
And very insecure when I really looked into the numbers.
The drought.
The farmlands sold for developments in Chula Vista.
The masses pushing out to the boundaries of San Diego county.

It wasn't home.
Not many can really call it home.
Just a temporary dwelling.
Not many natives are left there.
Mostly transient deposits.
People looking for sun for an answer.

It's not there.
Not when you know the truth.

It's better here.

....

Water is the world's most valuable resource.
A human can live 2 weeks without food...or more.
but only 3 to 5 days without water.

When it rains.
I remember.
It's safe.

We need it.
All of us.

California needs rain right now.
They are bitching.
Putting jackets on.
Jackets with hoods.
They are disoriented.

The oil on the roads hasn't been washed off for a long while.
The surf pumps.
Don't go in to reap the promises.
Ear infections.
Gastrotestinal infections.
Oh the memories.

The jet stream dipped their way the past few days.
They can have it.
I enjoyed the sun today.

But bring the rain back.
The jet stream is good 'cold steam'.
Oxygen.
Water.
Clean air.
People here would reap the benefits of energy.
If only they would go outside.
When it rains.
And breathe it in with a good
Run
Bike
Walk
Surf

Sun is good.
But more so rain.

It's fine with me.
Water is good.
It's life.
It's 80 percent of our being.

Looks like surf tomorrow.

Hopefully it will rain
and the surf will be clean.

Good
Clean
Fun.

See you out there.

Wakeboarding in the ocean?

Did a 21 mile bike ride around Lewis and Clark---the loop.
Stopped to see the waterfall is raging as usual this time of year.

It's a great ride.
Big O saloon.
Country boys and girls bar.
They know how to pick a good bartender.
Good point to grab a beer about 3/4 of the way through the ride.

Sign on the wall says
"you know you are a redneck if you have ever bandaged a wound with duct tape"

Doesn't everyone?
I guess not.
I don't hunt bear.
But I have had more than my share of duct taped wounds.
Duct tape on surfboard battle wounds.

And duct taped fishing poles, shoes, trucks, ---never enough rolls of silver salvation laying around.

Sunday is a good day to ride these roads.
Empty roads.
The log truck drivers are at home enjoying their woodstove, television and beer.

Surf is huge this week.
Maybe it's good at a certain couple of places?
Shall see.

Starting to think about taking a fly away vacation to some sun and wind.

Surfing vacations are tough.
Packing all the boards---and if your luck isn't active you don't get swell.
Bunk trip.

So winter vacations are better suited for kitesurfing---to me.

The last 3 years I have been kitesurfing exclusively with a surfboard---no straps.
And I am still blown away that people still approach on the beach to
ask...
"what is that you are doing?"

And even more amazed that a few more surfers have not picked up the possible endless ride.
NW winds all summer long.
Sloppy shit surf.
Perfect for letting a wing pull you around on your favorite 6'2 surfboard.

mulcoy's world from Josh Mulcoy on Vimeo.

Starting to revisit the sensation of riding on a wakeboard again.
This video reminded me.



Rock fever?
Or just a little antsy since I know the surf may be handicapped this week.

Back to working on the boat.

....

Interesting letters....

I originally wrote this blog for my 10 or so friends I keep in touch with.
They are scattered around.
Easy to update.

At first
they were the only people reading.

At first.

Now random people write me letters.

I never write back.
And none of the writers have ever mentioned their real name.

Blogging feels ridiculously narcissistic.
Getting a little old already.
I was just curious how blogging worked?

SO...
One day I posted a few photos of beautiful surf of my home.

I was born and raised here.
This is my home.
25 years of cold water.
Tried to leave twice.
Came back.
5 of those years I was out of the water from a back injury from dropping in on to rock.
Feet first.
Compression of the spine.
Gained 30 pounds.
Lost it riding a bike along the beach.
I still live with the bulging discs.

Another 4 years kept me out because of surfer's ear.

I was out for 9 years.
Spent a winter in Mexico kitesurfing.
Got back in shape and ready to paddle back out.

Got back on my surfboard 2 years ago.
Still nursing the back.
But I am in the best shape of my life mentally, physically, spiritually---literally.
People don't recognize me.
New 'locals' stink eye me.
Strange.

Every once and a while an old timer tilts his head and puts it together.
They say the same thing every time.
'you look so different?'

It's the only place that many of us would even want to be a surfer.
Still amazed by our place---every day.
The most heavily localized point break and stretch of sand on the west coast.

The history here goes way back.
Way before John Mel set up a surf shop on Hwy 101.
Way before he moved to Santa Cruz and birthed Peter Mel---famed mavericks madman.
The history here is deeper than surfing.
This is the oldest city on the entire west coast.
My grandfather and great uncle worked at the shingle mill in Astoria back in the late 1920's.
My great grandfather fished here in the 1800's.
They came over from Scandanavia.
They watched the same waves.
Walked the same sand.
Tried to catch the same elusive salmon.
Too cool.

So I got a few letters.
About those photos of our sacred spot.

And yep.
You are right.
It's true.
Bad bad idea.
It's like bitching about people hitting on your girlfriend
and then putting nude pictures of her all over the internet.

I whine about crowded surf.
And post a photo to contribute to it.

The saying is true.
"Some excitement is meant only to be contained."

So no more surf porn of the sacred.
Pics are removed.

And this must be what blogging is all about.
Called out on my own bullshit.

Thanks anonymous writers.

Point taken.

Investing time--- for free time gain

Two days.
Six hours.
28 waves the first day.
39 waves the next.
Paddling.
Paddling.
Paddling.

Feels great to be sore.

But why were there 15 guys out in the lineup at 2:00 in the afternoon on a Wednesday.
Unemployment sucks.
Makes the lineup grow.
Too many 20 somethings in the water.
Don't they have jobs?

Last year, this time, there were only 5 guys out at best.
Welcome to the future.

The better the wetsuits....the bigger the lineup.


Oh yeah.
I am a commercial fisherman.
Decided that I wanted to do it---not so much for the money.
I did it for the adventure...and to prove to myself I could---with no experience.

A 30 something who found a seasonal job that lets me surf from October to February.
The real surfing season.

But I need to get back to 'getting ready for' work.
39 days till the season starts.
39 days till I permanently affix the family size Dawn liquid soap bottle in the shower.
The ultimate degreaser---de fish oiler.

39 days to get the boat ready for every potential mishap.

Last year...the alternator went out at 2 in the morning.
Not a soul in site for miles.
It's like sitting alone in a graveyard as the fog rolls in.

Oh yes.
The prop fell off 3 times last season.
Nothing like hitting the accelerator and not moving....at around 1 in the morning.
Wondering if you can get anyone on the radio who is willing to lose the rest of the night of fishing just to 'help a guy out'?

Ran out of gas a few times due to a faulty fuel gauge.
Too embarrassing to ask for help.
Just sit and wait.
Till someone calls you.
"How's the fishin'?"
And you humbly admit.
They laugh.
And then they come help you.
Pity tow.

Oh yes.
A few things to fix.
Or I will suffer more ego blows.

But most certainly
something will still go wrong...
when least expected.

Such is commercial fishing.

But today.
It's really hard to keep my mind straight.
Too many clean lines rolling in from the horizon.

More coffee.
And stick my head down in the engine.
No duck diving today.

Insuring another year.
Fishing all summer and surfing all winter.

Convinced by convenience

Land, fish, timber, and water use.
The theology of resource use.
Natural capital?
Natural capitalism?
Or natural capitalism caps?

What to harvest?
Where to harvest?
When to stop?

Your wood desk.
The paper filled books on your bookshelf.
The newspaper.
Wooden floors ---- real wood planks.

And Ikea laminate floors made of recycled plastic bottles.
Plastic everything.
HUNT to  find ketchup in a glass bottle.

Squeeze those plastic bottles.
Dry.
But they are still here.
For  2.4 million years.

Glad it’s raining on our beach today.
No one is there.
One less day of litter.
One less plastic bottle in the sand.


Wood.
Glass.
Metal.
Rock.

Real.

The fish you  eat in your sushi.
The fish you buy at the market in filets.
Catching a fish and bringing it home to eat.

And  fish sticks in a plastic tray.
Microwave 2 minutes and 30 seconds.
You are so modern.
So efficient.
So intelligent.
You are moving faster each day.
No time to cook.
Faster.

No time to go catch a fish.
No.
You would have to put a raincoat on for that.
Go outside.
Rain is not convenient.


That thin clear plastic.
The lid on the tray.
So thin.
Microwave it.
Cook it.
Hear it pop and spit.
No smell in the kitchen.
No mouth watering urge.
Just popping, spitting, and DING DING DING.

What an invention.
The plastic tray and clear plastic lid.
They did
Not
Melt

You just cooked a “meal” in it.
You are such a fucking genius.

Maybe you have been caught?

Convenience is killing you.
The baited hook.
You bit.

Wake up.


Wood
Glass
Metal
Rock

Real.

The theology of resource use.
When to stop?

I say let’s start it up again.

Wood
Glass
Metal
Rock

Fingers typing on a plastic keyboard.

Disturbing irony.