the dogs of winter * bay cliff dwellers

Being that we are nary mid of winter and just past ye ol’ Chinese Lunar New Year of the Dog, can’t help myself in wanting to pay tribute to the dogs of winter, and of which I may have been one once upon a time, and as similar to the dog days of summer, where days are long and hot, mid winter is cold and heavy. If you plan to surf real surf at that time of year, guess it helps to have some “dawg” in you.

illustration Alexandre Flores Torrano

Surf dogs can be territorial and are most oft rather loyal to their clan, and most happy to call their home break home. Local cred is valued and localism its better know dividend or residue, and depending on your vantage point, and/or geographic locale. Photographers are usually not welcome, as locals prefer that their spot is rarely if ever mentioned in public, if not better left as a no name spot.

illustration Alexandre Flores Torrano

North Shore sabbaticals are not looked down upon, and an occasional summertime jaunt south to Trestles or north to Jalama is understandable, or if you had a boat maybe you made it out to the Channel Islands (or to Fiji/the Mentawais). Otherwise you made due surfing the “beaches,” and perhaps with an annual migration to Puerto Escondido or thereabouts.

illustration Ron Croci

The uniform was flannel shirt, jeans, a winter turtleneck and worn down jean jacket and construction boots, and all adorned in a good dose of stink eye for if and when called for and/or upon. Sometimes the local police were even in on the rue, as unwelcome visitors usually just meant more trash, noise and bothersome incident, again at least on some accounts.

The surf mags would recount stories of razor blades glassed into the nose of the surfboard, and then you’d see a guy paddling out with a diving knife strapped to his ankle, and that was perhaps after they had greeted an innocent enough arriving party with screwdrivers to the bottom of their fiberglass boards, and that was before they even ventured out of their car. It’s a dog’s life.

Na Pali by Patrick Parker

bay cliffs * two of rocks

The “dogs of winter” sit watch over our All Souls Bay of the Earth. Sacred seascape and natural shrine unto the beauty and splendor of our mother ocean and earth mothers, our dream idyll is seat unto our surfing’s soul. Main arena and testing ground, our coastal ecosystem is where open ocean meets sea shore, and the unconscious becomes conscious. Descend the stairs to the rocks below and you have a connection to another world. Stereophonic breakers blast up against promontory and point, requiring a seasonal change in equipment. Differences between peak and trough are maximized and accentuated. No longer, “on top of the world” or “above it all,” our enclosed community has a deep bond, as “the Bay,” is protected and the best place to hide from the wind. We gain a deep relationship within our winter wonderland and enter again unto our relationship with the Unknown. With raven overhead and sea priestess floating upon her beds of kelp outside, board and rider still must ask, “to ride, or not to ride ?”

Bay cliffs can be foreboding fortress. With uneasy access or impassable rockslide, you can often check in, but never check out. Enslaved by the rhythm you become vulnerable upon your “descent into the underworld.” Unthinking and unconscious, you have crossed over into “protected territory.” The rain has worsened your footing and judging by just the inside walls of water, you don’t have enough board. You’re not ready for prime time and have chosen the wrong pursuit for yourself. You’re not happy here. The surface flotsam looks more like “medussan sea hag,” and you realize you’re at an all time low. You can’t hold things together, and it’s getting “spooky.” You soon become cognizant of a “strict code” and a peoples obsessively protective of their “fantasyland.” Your survival skills are a mixed blessing.

What is your temperament of choice? Adopt the temperament of the “spirit rocks.” Adapt to a new set of circumstances. Meditate on the ocean. Absorb the solemnity. Be connected. Have patience. Regain consciousness. Pause to contemplate, “moving only when it feels right.” Ascend back up “the stairs” to “heaven on earth.” Get an overview. Were you prepared? Perhaps you need a local shaper? Next time check in with others before venturing beyond “propriety.” Consider that others are yet tender and kind hearted under their melancholic machinations. Know that you have roots like the tall coastal redwoods. Safeguard your habitat. Draw nutrients from deep within your “soil” and deepest recesses of your soul.

Her Majesty by Victoria Trujillo

cliff dweller * soul of rocks

It’s not that they don’t like, other surfers…. it’s just that they feel better, when they’re not around.” The cliff dweller is our surf stalwart and select member to any “sub rosa surf sect,” per se, with “minimal intersection on the whole” with our surfing world. “Sure footed in and out of the water,” he has never bought into the hype of contests, or in with any of our commercial, surf industry aspects. The cliff dweller sees the ocean and surfing as sacred, and gathers daily at cliff top. He spends quality time with his spot and makes daily visitations. He wouldn’t surf anywhere else. For most, winter predominates, with summer more for sabbaticals, as “the slow cycle through one’s home grounds, answers all need for seasonal movement, as swell and wind come from different directions, with somewhere breaking well on virtually every variation.” His homebreak is often already a natural surf temple, with “barrier to entry steep during periods of swell.” As “surfioso” and the “Unknown surfer,” the cliff dweller is baykeeper and keeps “baywatch” with his fellow “dogs of winter.” Whether rockrider helgie or simply the unlikely “unsurfer,” the cliff dweller leaves well knolled knots on surfing’s family tree.

illustration Alexandre Flores Torrano

The cliff dweller knows his place. Of an unadulterated, bedrock philosophy and majestic perspective, he is down to earth and understands our connection to the land. As faithful bay guardian he is custodian of our coastal treasury. As local caretaker of our “enriching environment,” he is single minded in upholding any locally held “bastions of tradition.” He walks and gets to the Point. He has staying power. He is keeper of the land and extolls the complete exploration of your local territory. Of spiritual strength and prophetic vision, he has been gifted with “crow medicine” and is gatekeeper between levels of consciousness. Like ancient, indigenous souls, he is keeper of the sacred, and not swayed by, nor has much need for modern man, nor age. Not overly concerned with his popularity outside the tribe, he is protective of the clan’s silent credo and steadfast in his support of the tribe’s sovereignty. His deep conviction is of a wayward and intractable mind, and shows of his loyalty to the inner circle. He is always there for you. Garbed in local uniform, he is entrenched within a clandestine solidarity, a virtual encampment within our sacred surf Rota. Solitude is his seat of comfort, grateful for his own resolute and stable spirit. Like gnomes and “mudheads” before him, he is of an herbal knowing and midwinter weatherman, and sure that his “paraffin paradox” is in no need of change.

“The water molecule is unbelievably hard and hates to bend or stretch,” which is the core essence of the cliff dweller despite the “collective properties” of the surfer on the whole. Inflexible and unyielding, he is left isolated and stuck out in the cold. As lost surfer on the Lost Coast, he is “frustrated with our urban malaise,” and resigned to life as scalawag holdout. His stubborn intellect is short on compassion, as he is an estranger to strangers. His narrowmindedness limits outside opportunities and contact. Socially stranded, his character has a lonely destiny in waiting. Impassive, his steely eyed gaze will rarely change as he hides from within his pained mental fortress. Irascible upon intrusion, he holds other “knobheads” in contempt, with the harried visitors often unaware of his territorial imperatives. His dictates hold sway as his “ruthless maintenance of code” and logic is essential to enforce. His private province is well patrolled as the local beach heathen goblins reputation precedes them. Insecure under their armor, the unchallenged alpha males are like tyrannical “urchins,” whose overreaction shows of their weakness.

Our misanthropic intolerance and malevolent, untoward behavior looms ominous as the raven sits on exposed rocks. Sardonic and bemused at once, the cliff dweller will not surrender unto his sensual freedom. Our stone faced stink eye belies our genteel upbringing, as we ourselves are of the highland hoi polloi, and hole up with the rich elite. Such self betrayal begets a “reality that he breaks down and acts out what he most despises,” as “conditions can force a fellow to participate in the human drama and surf the more crowded breaks in town.” Long a symbolic holdout from mass globalization, localism is like the baying of sea lions. In this case of “beach melody versus urban malady,” the cliff dweller is a dwindling sub species and a cult of antiquity. Behind the scenes, and times, his primeval “patina of cynicism” has lost its luster and he feels threatened. His unexplained misfortune stems from his malice.

Move “from armor to amour.” Know your place. Stay on the path. Don’t deviate. Treat your spot as sacred. Surf in cold water to care for your spiritual body. Tend to your wavefield and grant permission. Know that nature is timeless in her beauty. Water the trees. Cherish the gifts of the coast. Keep your beach clean. Preserve your culture. You are not a surfer until you’ve developed soul. Hold sacred space. What board do you ride? Where have you surfed? How big of waves have you ridden? How long have you surfed for? Pick a spot and be happy with it. “One at hand is better than two off in the bush.”