By Douglas Evan Weiss
It has been an interesting week. Across a variety of platforms and places and humans. The waves have been lovely and the surfing good. Agreeable sized swell for the local beaches and well honed direction. Tides up all morning. Winds have been mostly holding, aside from a few days mid week when the wind turned side shore, then onshore, early. But still the mornings were mostly clean
I heard this quote in the morning on a podcast. “Are you optimizing for attention, or for service?” Spoken by Scott Galloway, midway through a memorial of Robert Mueller.
This morning while driving to the shop I was struck by this sentence. A clip from a longer rant about masculinity. What are we doing? I wondered. A gang of humans chasing these waves and inhabiting this short coastline. Driving across the jungles in search of beaches and a well formed ocean. What are we even doing? My brother’s keeper. My sister in arms. Standing here to sell wax and foam. Coffee beans. Hot sauce. The mugs are by Erin Clancy. We need better speakers.
“It was way bigger today and barreling,” she messaged.
”You got some?” I asked.
I really hope she got some waves. That we all win. She sent a video from the morning. The waves are bigger and barreling, but closing out more than yesterday. Sand bars overwhelmed by the new swell energy. Perhaps.
We chatted while seated in the shade. Reading Pachenko. Considering my performance. Don’t snap another longboard, I told myself. Don’t be unnerved by change. Like a tree planted in the forest……. All the wood and water….. At least we are not pumping gas in Sag Harbor. Not trimming weed in Northern California. Stubborn and delusional in the sand. Beautiful waves but strong offshore winds. Brave that she paddled out.
The weeks here have been inconsistent. Some days we have the most thoughtful humans come into the shop. For coffee. Or other items. Some days the most poignant of conversations across a wide array of semi connected topics. Tours of the shaping room; surfboard talk; wave characteristics; far off travel and accumulated scars. Many stories. This cadre of misfits, wrapped around a single culture. Original humans delivered from the. multitudes. Flawed and eventually beautiful.
Some days nobody comes in.
”6 months surfing and 6 months hut to hut is the goal.”
”He shoved 1500 euro in my hand and off we went to the club.”
”I am making a documentary on Lenny Kravitz.”
”Sorry for not saying hello but I was so infuriated by my session and did not want to speak with anyone.”
”Can you sell me some resin for ding repairs.”
There is so much. So many rogues pass through this single door. Travel along this single coast. Hard in the pocket and playing records. To buy more vinyl? I wonder. To be or not to be….? What greater sentiment has ever been announced.
The season is coming to a close. Next week is Semana Santa. Traditionally, after this holiday weekend, the high season is over, here in Guanacaste. Time always passes quickly. The dog lays on the floor immune. We are open on Sundays. The signs are out and the records are playing. Charles Mingus. The Hawk. Wayne Shorter. Seasons will change but this work will remain. All that remains is the work. The peaks and valleys of every living second. Everyone is suffering. Not enough waves at Marbella — still suffering. The seasons will shift and soon we will be into the low season, the Green Season, the slower time of the year.
This town always seems slow. Pick up trucks and back hoes pass regularly. So far from home. My mom asks if I really want to move to Brooklyn? Not at the moment, I tell her. I was just joking.
We are open on a Sunday, in service to these surfboards and their orbit of accessories. Recited stories of hope and bravery and humility.
”The man who is swimming against the stream knows the strength of it.” This Woodrow Wilson quote comes to me often now. Outside it is so hot and dry. I can see the burning earth and thirsty grass. We are all waiting for the rain. This morning I put on a resin hot coat. Shuffling between the glass shop and the retail shop. It is so hot outside. The local women walk by with umbrellas and pants on. Silence. The jungle and her cryptic silence. A visitor here. An immigrant. Humbled by service. Waiting to play Steve Okonski. Waiting to order Elvin Jones. A home of palm trees and dirt. What are we even doing here? Slaves to salt water and weird. Scrolling vinyl influencers. Watching reels from the Mentawai islands. Stories from this morning at Osti. Are we of service? This strange brand of plethora and death.
Listening to The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady all morning. Just this, the winds echo. Still offshore. In the back I drew out this big swallow tail. The twin fin mafia. The temptation of something new. By the fourth track he is swinging. She calls and says “you should get a job this summer.” But then who will open the shop doors? Who will feed the dogs? Who will be covered in foam dust and wonder? Who will stand firm on this silly retail ground? Who will pay the electricity bills and the rent? Who will dream? And be conflicted.
She says your friends must know about some kind of opportunity for you.
Heavenly bound and wrapped in a circle. All that noise. The bass like the core. Could have written about craft and intention and concave. Here in the jungle, considering grace and impermanence. Brand building and draft dodging. Buy me a lap top and a record collection and a pink pony. Pole dances every Sunday — come use the bar. Exquisite ambitions. Jungle ambitions. A grinder and a polishing machine and a bit of resin and Q Cell. Wonderful the impossibility of capitalism here. Wonderful our class wars and localism and disrespect. Outside the grocery store the same cowboy will be grilling pinchos. Mingus’s Solo Dancer on repeat. It is Sunday and we are all burning.
