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Newsgroups: alt.surfing
Subject: Hog Heaven...In your dreams
From: Foondoggy <wfover@nist.gov>
Date: Wed, 07 May 1997 11:55:31 +0100

One for my Right Coast Brothers.

Oct.18, 1996

The call came right in the middle of my post-session nap. I grogily
picked up:
"Hello?"
"Hello, you Fuck!" It was the dulcet voice of my old college roommate
and longtime surf bud, Stan. He always greeted me that way and never
failed to burst into laughter when he did.
"Well hello Mister big shot stockbroker. How many millions did to make
today?"
"Hey Foon, I did real well today thank you. How'er you doin'?"
"Well I just got back from a 2 hours session at the homebreak that was
schweeeeet! I'm tellin' you Stan, Lili's been out twirling around way
off in the North Atlantic and we've been catching some quality juice for
the last three days. When's the last time you were in?"
"Labor Day, and don't remind me what a slave I am to my job. Look Foon,
I got a proposition for you. How would you like to go on a boat ride?"
"I'd rather go surfing." I said dryly but my interest was peaked.
"How would you like to do both?" He started to laugh already knowing my
answer.

"Don't tell me.....You got the Boat!!" I Yelled.

Stan was the Senior VP of a brokerage house on Wall Street. He and his
wife and two kids lived very comfortably in a big house out on Long
Island. Stan's weaknesses were big sport Uts, a ski chalet in
Pennsylvania, and surfing vacations. He owned about ten boards dating
back to the early 70s and ranging in size from a small 6'8" swallow
tail, to a 9'6" Weber Noserider (original).. He had some classy boards
in between but seemed to favor a 7'8" round pintail.

Stan's boss, the President of the company, owned a big 65 foot motor
yacht that he liked to have sailed down to the Caribbean in anticipation
of his winter vacation. He usually paid someone to do this but Stan, a
qualified seaman, had apparently convinced him to let Stan take it down
the safe and sane intracoastal waterway along the Right Coast. It
appeared that for the next two weeks Stan and his 17 year old son,
Griffin (an excellent young surfer) would be motoring down the coast to
the Bahamas. "It's a dirty job Foon, but someone's gotta do it." The
smile in Stan's voice was infectious.

"So what do you say Foon, wanna do the coast?"
I quickly calculated my leave and the number of projects I had to finish
before the end of Rocktober and the number came up "3". I had about a
three day opportunity to sign onto this adventure.

"Tellya what Stan," I said, "How 'bout we explore the part of the
Delmarva Peninsula we've never seen?"  I was referring to, of course,
the Virginia part of the peninsula I call the "Mystery Coast". 50 miles
of virtually virgin, barrier islands and saltmarshes that are accessible
only by boat and stretch along the peninsula from Wallops Island to the
mouth of the Chesapeake.

The boss's boat, curiously named "Dow Jones", was docked in Tom's River,
NJ. It would take less than a day for Stan to come get me. We agreed to
meet in Ocean City, Maryland. From there we'd make a slow and careful
search of some magnificent barrier island coast. It was a calculated
risk to ignore good surf we knew about in search of unknown breaks
during Lili's good swell.

Stan docked at the Ocean City municipal pier the next day at noon. His
face was flushed with excitement. "Hey Foon, we were rockin' pretty good
out near the mouth of the Delaware River. The buoys must be goin off." I
didn't need the buoys to tell me something was up. I just seen a near
perfect peeler at 8th street on my way in. Even with the slight onshore
wind, things looked good. The break was crowded. With a couple of
brewskis and some cigars firmly planted in our faces, Stan motored the
big boat out of the OC inlet and headed South.

Stan looked good. He's the fittest middleaged man I know. In college he
would have qualified for the Olympics in long distance running had he
not been run over by a drunk during a surfing trip in Florida, snapping 
his right leg in half. Though he never came back fully from the
accident, Stan remained and avid runner and sportsman.  He could "do 5"
(miles) without breathing hard and his body fat was the lowest I've ever
seen on a man his age. Bald a a cue ball, we still called Stan, "the
Man".  Since the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, Griffin looked
like his old man did 25 years ago - a perfectly conditioned specimen,
and a full head of hair.

The boss's yacht was one of those hugely expensive luxury barges that no
self respecting sailor would own. Strictly a showcase piece he never let
it out in the open ocean very far, preferring to cruise the intracoastal
waterways and the quiet Caribbean. It had 3 full bedrooms, a large
galley, a plush "salon", a big flying bridge and enough amenities to
start your own resort. Everything was fully stocked and first class
-food, drink, and entertainment. It even had an 8 foot zodiac rubber
boat for short hops. The Coast Guard radio gave us up to the minute
weather and marine conditions. As we headed South, it looked like the
weather would hold. Now if only Lili would give some swells.

We bypassed Assateague Island completely and docked late in the
afternoon at a sheltered part of Chincoteague. That night we took our
map to a wonderful local seafood restaurant on shore to make our plans. 
The string of barrier islands had some curious names; Metomkin, Cedar,
Parramore, Hog (next to Machipongo Inlet), Cobb, Wreck, Smith and at the
very tip of the peninsula, Fisherman's Island. (Coming over the
Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel I had often seen good surf wrapping around
the tip of Fishermans).

Over beers and fresh oysters we questioned the locals about the
probability of surf at any one of these islands. Finally, an old
fisherman, under the influence of a couple of our beers said, "Yeah, I
seen waves breakin' off Hog Island. The sandbars got filled in by them
hurricanes, Edouard and Hortense. You gotta be careful boating out there
at low tide, but on the incoming tide you can see some big surf." Our
eyes all met, sparkling with glee. We were goin' to Hog Island.

The next morning, way before dawn, Stan pulled the big boat out of the
slip and aimed it South. He's used to getting up early, running a half
dozen miles, then commuting on the Long Island railroad into New York
City for work. I on the other hand needed a good jolt of black coffee to
get my ticker going. By sunrise we were about half way there. Griffin
had the helm on the flying bridge, Stan was scanning the islands with
binoculars, and I was nursing a small hangover.

In a little more than two hours Griffin yelled, "Dad, starboard about a
mile down," as he throttled down the boat to half speed. Stan and I
raced up to the bridge to see. There in the distance, shimmering in the
morning sun, with just a slight veil of spray blowing off the top, a
perfect 8 foot A-Frame. The wall came over with a solid "whummp" but
seemed to peel better to the South toward an absolutely empty beach that
curved around to an inlet. We watched as two more waves broke in
approximately the same place and peeled the same way.  This is the way
it's supposed to be. Clean empty beaches, clear, warm, water, good surf
miles from anyone, in a place completely undisturbed by condos, beach
replenishment projects, tourists and traffic. It was hard to believe
this was the Right Coast.  Stan looked down at his map to check his
bearings, then looked up smiling. "Gentlemen.....We are in Hog Heaven."
He beamed.

We decided to anchor offshore a ways and take the zodiac to the beach.
This time of year the water was still warm and the bugs weren't too bad.
We would set up a small camp to come in to if we got tired, or hungry.
We launched the zodiac and started throwing our stuff in it. Stan got in
with his video camera and was taping Griffin who was so stoked he could
hardly talk. I went to get aboard, standing on the diver's shelf at the
stern of the boat while I cast off the line. Just as I was about to step
in, a swell move the rubber boat sideways and I fell forward, face first
in the water. Stan was filming all this but had to stop 'cause he was
laughing so hard. Watch for me on America's Funniest Home Videos.

Lili's sets were well spaced apart and we had no problem timing our
short ride to the beach. Once there, we could check the break better.
Sure enough, though by definition a beach break,  the island's beach
tailed off to the South curving into the Machipongo inlet. The place
looked like a shallow, fast, point break that ended in the deep water of
the inlet. Rides, depending on swell length and form, could easily go
for 50-75 yards. We all mentally rode the next set, sizing up what faced
us.

With a hoot we all hit the warm surf at once. Stan was on a 7'8" round
pintail, Griffin started with a short thruster, but switched soon to
longer speed shape, I had my trusty channel bottom Toobs BC.  Griffin
tore the place apart from the getgo. Stan and I took our time reading
the takeoffs to minimize the pound factor. Griffin dialed into a  hunky
overhead wall as I was coming out from  being axed so I had the water
view of his ride. As he took the drop, he gashed a precise mid-face turn
and pulled into the sweetest hook. Squatting at midboard toward the end
of the ride, the lip began to splatter on his back. Instead of grabbing
a rail to steady himself, he stood up through the lip and turned quickly
back down the wave for speed, powering out of the section.

Not one to dwell on my own successes, my personal best came late in the
session after I'd eaten my share of speed walls. Both Stan and Griffin
had taken early set waves and I was left to move out to find the last
one. I scrambled over a few and spotted the last one, big and ugly -too
broad to peel evenly, too steep for a normal takeoff and a certifiable
widowmaker (by my standards).  I could hear Stan screaming inside, "TAKE
IT YOU KOOK!!!" So against my better judgement, I turned and dug in.

Looking back I quickly realized it was a late takeoff or bail. I angled
my bodyboard on a severe line hoping it would carry me through the drop
without a freefall. With the lip cascading water all over me I was
launched down the face of the wave instantly fighting for edge and
praying for speed. Spray shooting off my inside rail blinded me and I
kept waiting for the axe to drop. I could hear Stan and Griffin hooting
like crazy. I finally cleared my eyes to discover myself racing along
the top third of an 8 foot wall hanging in the face with two inches of
rail and one fin, screaming at the top of my lungs. Convinced I would
now make the shoulder that tapered off in the distance to the inlet, I
dropped down the face to do a little "stylin". This was a huge tactical
error. As I came back up the wave face from what I thought was a pretty
cool bottom gash, I looked up into the face of......  In minutes I was
back on the beach draining my sinuses of what had to be a gallon of
seawater.  Stan said later it was the second biggest wave, next to his.

By mid-afternoon, the tide had come in sufficiently to make our break a
big, dangerous, dumping, asskicker.  Getting the zodiac back out to the
yacht was a little more interesting now and of course Stan had to time
it so he could stand the thing up on it's tail as we punch through the
top of a wave. oh, what fun. Back on the yacht hot showers, cold beer
and stinky cigars were the reward for our efforts as Griffin took the
big boat down toward the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay.

Later that evening we docked at a marina in Hampton VA and went ashore
for another great seafood dinner. After a few cold ones I came to
realize, in my entire life living on the Right Coast, this was an
experience I'd only dreamed about.

The next morning I awoke to the phone again. I opened my eyes and
wondered how I'd gotten back in my own bedroom at home. Still confused I
picked up:

"Hello you Fuck, how's the surf?"
"Stan?? Where's the boat?"
"Oh my boss decided to sail it down himself this year. Maybe I can get
it next year. How ya been Foon?.....Foon?......Yo Foonboy, you there?"

-Foondoggy