By Douglas Evan Weiss
For The Jungle Gazette
Dressed in glorious blacks and purples robes, staring down an entranced audience, fearless sounds that arouse the soul and sneer at the impossible. A rare ether of cosmic movement tied to neither land nor water. Madness with a swagger. Anything you may want. It seems like one thing but really it’s everything. History from tight suits and skinny ties to baggy pants and long hair. From Coltrane to Reggie Lucas. From So What to Tutu. The coolest man on the planet, the single name club, the ‘wake up we gotta go see Miles.”
What does this have to do with surfing?
These kids have no idea. Jungle debutantes. These kids have no idea. Old man language. These young boys crowded around the empty sodas; I wonder what they are playing and praying to. Three short boards in a bag on the back of a Honda 150 with no kick stand. No books and no budget. Enough for beans and rice till the tides come up. Sitting on tables looking out at the great abyss. Who cares about tomorrow. Bread and salt water. Shut up here she comes…..
“Sometimes you have to play a long time to play like yourself,” he said.
People come in the shop to order custom surfboards and it’s kinda the best. Various shapes and different experiences and evolving ambitions. People come in the shop and ask for long boards, or a shorter substitute, or something oddly nestled in between. Questionable volumes. Some people are fabulously clear about what they want. Some are figuring it out. They have a style they want to perform but don’t know exactly how to get there. A feeling without words. In the lexicon of surfboards there is a surprising array of choices. Some people are frustrated and resistant to the long learning curve that is surfing. Surfing is so hard. Takes a long time.
“For me music and life are all about style.” Miles Davis talking about the worn flip flops and dirty board shorts and dusty cars and matted hair and empty pockets. A certain young sun tanned flair burning across some jungle wasteland selfish and arrogant and revered. The style is so subjective. In Marbella it remains dreams of empty barrels and barren beaches and hard stares. In Brooklyn it is vinyl and vintage and clean pressed Pilgram pants and colorful Off White Nikes. In Bali it is skin and muscles and tang tops and making plans for after dinner. Here is dirt and more dirt.
“Don’t play what’s there. Play what’s not there.” Miles Davis slow and smooth across the face of everything.
Lunatics everyday. Wave riders and trail runners and yogis and business people and back hoe drivers and basket cases. Down to the beach and ready to dance. Up in the hills and endurance is a practice. To actually make a thing where previously there was no thing. Just empty space. To cut and mold molecules. Arrange the neutrons a certain way. Full nose, rounded pin tail; swallow tail and channels; A symmetrical madness with the big fin on the outside. Single concave and fast. Reverse V and loose. Acid splash tints and double pin lines. Ten inch fuck you single fins. All the notes that fill the empty space.
People walk into the shaping room and we talk about what they want. The vision. A toy that wasn’t there before. A mark of excellence to fill the space. We want to go fast. We want to be in control. To be small yet catch waves. All the wet dreams. Let’s draw it out and see what happens. The muse is always watching.
“Do not fear mistakes, there are none.” Written on the shaping room wall. 9’2 with a full nose and a big wide flat tail – medium 50/50 rails and fast down the line. Sure. Let’s go.
