From ???@??? Sat Feb 01 18:31:52 1997
To: wfover@nist.gov
Newsgroups: alt.surfing
Subject: the Seeker
From: Foondoggy<wfover@nist.gov
Date: Sat, 01 Feb 1997 12:31:52 -0600

"I speak the truth, not so much as I would, but as much as I dare; and I
dare a little more as I grow older."  -Montaigne

In the late afternoon of a cloudless Fall day, the young man guided an old 
rented boat toward the deserted island miles off the Carolina Coast. No 
one had lived on the island since the monstorous and deadly Hurricane 
Amschel all but leveled it in July, 2035. In fact, most of the Carolina 
Coast had been abandoned to the unpredictable whims of the ocean after a 
25 foot storm surge powered by 175 mph winds slammed ashore destroying 
everything in it's path for hundreds of miles. After the catagory 5 storm, 
millions of people moved inland when the government declared it would not 
pay for the $180 Billion dollars of damage and further, would not 
underwrite insurance for any future construction within 75 miles of the 
coast. The only people who lived in Coastal Carolina now were a few 
fishermen, some squatters and the mentally infirm.

The young man landed the boat on a quiet beach near an ancient promontory 
called Cape Fear. Off the point he could see a riot of wave breaking all 
the way to the horizon as the confluence of the Gulf Stream and swells 
from a Nor'Easter met on the trechorous sandbars of the Frying Pan Shoals. 
It was no wonder this area was known as the graveyard of the Atlantic. The 
sight of waves stirred uneasy feelings in the young man's heart and he 
chided himself to concentrate on the reason he was here.

The young man was actually a professional surfer of some repute. He had 
followed in the footsteps of his grandfather and conquered the 
professional surfing world, claiming six world championships in as many 
years. There came a time when he got tired of being known as Kelly 
Slater's grandson and he dreamed of becoming unknown again. Burned out by 
the pro circuit, he'd spent 2 years alone, surfing the great breaks of the 
world; Australia, California, Hawaii, Indonesia, Orlando, always searching 
for the answer to a question that clung tightly to his soul. The 
uncertainty of his life prompted him to ask the question of his 
grandfather who shook his head in puzzlement and said, "Seek the truth, 
grandson. There you will find the answer."

For years now the young man had been following the path of clues in a 
purposeful search to discover his truth.  He'd spent weeks at the National 
Computer Files Archives in San Jose, CA,  reading volumes of old and 
primitive computer files that revealed powerful dialogues amoung the great 
minds on an early version of the OmniNet (called the Internet). People 
named Surff, Bonzer, Ciaccio, Sandman, Dagum, Airey, Necfy (a malibu 
surfer), Tweed, Ric, Johnny-the-Shu, Da Hulk, Will, Surfer Bob, VXLMD, and 
many many more gave voices to the great issues of the times. Among them 
there was a voice which, though muted by self depreciating humor, used 
thoughtful introspection and quotations from famous men to reveal a secret 
wisdom. The young man knew if he could find that voice, he would find his 
truth and the answer to his question. Rumors heard in the few 
remaining barbacue shacks along the Carolina Coast spoke of the old man 
who lived on a deserted island. "If he's alive," they said, "He'll be 
there. Check the lighthouse."

The old lighthouse, built in 1861, had survived the worst that mother 
nature had thrown at it. It stood now in the distance as the only standing 
structure on the island. The 13 foot thick walls were worn and pitted, but 
still it stood facing the ocean, ever vigilant, always watching. The 
ancient lantern housing at the top was a rusted mass of mangled metal and 
shattered glass.  The young man entered the old tower and gazed in dismay 
at the decrepit stairway that spiraled its way to the top. He stood still 
and listened. Ever so faintly he could hear a few soft notes from the 
theme song of an old surf movie. "Hello" he yelled, "Is anyone there?" 
There was no answer so he reluctantly decided to risk climbing the rickety 
stairway. Forty-five frightening minutes later he came to the threshold of 
a small room that existed at the very top of the lighthouse. He looked in 
and saw a wizened old man sitting on a faded, canvas, slingback beach 
chair. He knew his search had ended.

The old man's eyes were fried and blind, probably from staring directly 
into too many Right Coast sunrises, looking for waves. Looking up 
slightly, the old man said softly, "Enter, young seeker." The young man 
started to say "Thank you, Foo..."  "Quiet" the old man interrupted. 
"Listen to the ocean. Therein lies the answer to your question."

The young man sat down on the bare wood floor and listened to the waves 
breaking in the distance. He gazed about the room and observed the 
simplicity of the old man's existance. An old, faded Endless Summer poster 
hung crookedly from a dart on the wall. A small dusty cassette deck played 
one of hundreds of tapes that were stacked in a milk crate against the 
wall. Nearby, an ashtray held a smoldering cigar and a half bottle of 
bourbon sat next to a framed picture of a very attractive woman who 
was shown standing ankle deep on a sandbar at some beach.  In the corner 
was an old creased and punctured bodyboard, with a few darts stuck in it.

The old man sat quietly, head bobbing slowly to the soft music. His 
sightless eyes seemed to see the pale setting sun which angled through a 
small window. In his right hand he slowly twirled a cracked and splintered 
drumstick.  He wore on his nearly hairless head a threadbare and filthy 
ball cap with the words, "urf Free or Di" in faded letters on the crown. 
Some of the letters appear to have been lost. His only clothing seemed to 
be a wrinkled and faded Hawaiian print shirt which pictured erupting 
volcanoes and outrigger canoes charging down some wave rushing toward a 
lush tropical paradise. That and a patched pair of green canvas 
boardshorts, stained with ashes and coffee. The most disturbing feature of 
the old man was his skin, which had the appearance that of an alligator.
There must have been a time in his life when the old man was fair-skinned 
and freckled, but the ravages of time, sun, wind and water had taken their 
toll. Soon the old man spoke.

"Ask your question young seeker, though I already know what it is." The 
young man hesitated, knowing this was his opportunity to find out what had 
been heavy on his heart for so many years. He spoke slowly to the old man,
"Tell me please sir, will there ever be a time when I will not need to 
sooth my soul by riding waves?"  There was a long silence as the old man 
drew slowly in his cigar, blew a smoke ring and sipped lightly from a 
small glass of bourbon. "Yes, young seeker," he began. "When your body no 
longer needs food to sustain it, and your lungs cease to draw breath to 
continue your life. Only then will you no longer need what feeds your soul 
by riding waves."

The young man was smitten by the enormity of this truth. Yet the 
uncertainty about the meaning of his life suddenly disappeared. He rose 
slowly, cleansed by the knowledge of this truth and comforted by the clear 
path his life would now take. As he backed toward the door he murmured 
most gratefully, "Thank you, Foonmaster".

The old man seemed to look toward the small window as if he could see the 
light of the setting sun as it fell upon his deeply lined face. "One more 
thing, Son." The young man waited with breathless anticipation.
"That piece of advice 'ill cost you $25, bub. Do you know what cigars and 
good sippin' bourbon cost these days."

Startled by the nature of the comment the young man stepped back and 
accidentally tripped on the doorsill of the small room, pitching backward 
and crashing through the rotten handrail of the staircase. He began to 
fall 15 stories from the top of the lighthouse into the dark interior of 
the old tower but he could not even scream as he felt himself enveloped by 
blackness.  His only thoughts were wonderment at how stupid the end of his 
life would be, that and curiousity about the small light below him that 
grew in size as he plummeted downward. Strangely, without fear, he began 
to feel an attraction to be in the light. He reached out as if to touch 
it, and closed his eyes as he accepted the inevitable. Even with his eyes 
closed he could still feel the presence and the warmth of the light.

When he opened his eyes again he was staring at a large orange orb that 
seemed surrounded by rose colored tendrils and shimmering lights. Suddenly 
he realized he was lying on the cool sand of the small deserted island, 
looking at what appeared to be a magnificent sunrise.  He slowly stood up 
and looked out at the waves coming in at the apex of Cape Fear.  Offshore 
winds and the Nor'East swell had combined to organize the waves overnight 
producing what looked like some of the best surfing conditions he'd ever 
seen. Long lines of 10 foot waves wrapped precisely around the now uniform 
sandbars forming a tunnel-like left breaking wall that stretched a quarter 
mile 'til it ended at the Cape Fear rivermouth.

The young man turned to run back to the lighthouse to find the answer to 
this mystery but instinctively he knew the old man was not there. He never 
was. He realized now that everything he knew of the old man called 
Foondoggy was found in the messages of an obscure old newsgroup called 
alt.surfing, that existed many decades ago.  And though he understood that 
everything he'd read could have been the bourbon soaked ramblings of an 
old man's imagination, one thing he was absolutely certain of. What the 
old man had told him in the tower was in fact a window on his soul and 
ultimately the truth he had been seeking.

The young man walked over to his boat and picked up the small surfboard 
he'd brought with him. He started to head towards the point but suddenly 
stopped to pick up what appeared to be an old, worn ball cap half stuck in 
the sand. He shook out the cap and read the faded words on the crown.
" urf Free or Di," it said and as he placed the cap on his head he would 
not realize the significance of these words until years later, himself an 
old man, when he would come across the obituary for the man named 
Foondoggy. It seems he was never seen again after the huge Hurricane 
called Amschel. No one was ever sure what happened to him, and no one but 
the young seeker even cared.


-Foondoggy  (Mrs.Foons in Canada, got up and wrote this at 3:00 am last 
night)


-------------------==== Posted via Deja News ====-----------------------
      http://www.dejanews.com/     Search, Read, Post to Usenet

From ???@??? Sat Feb 01 18:31:52 1997
To: wfover@nist.gov
Newsgroups: alt.surfing
Subject: the Seeker
From: Foondoggy<wfover@nist.gov
Date: Sat, 01 Feb 1997 12:31:52 -0600

"I speak the truth, not so much as I would, but as much as I dare; and I
dare a little more as I grow older."  -Montaigne

In the late afternoon of a cloudless Fall day, the young man guided an old 
rented boat toward the deserted island miles off the Carolina Coast. No 
one had lived on the island since the monstorous and deadly Hurricane 
Amschel all but leveled it in July, 2035. In fact, most of the Carolina 
Coast had been abandoned to the unpredictable whims of the ocean after a 
25 foot storm surge powered by 175 mph winds slammed ashore destroying 
everything in it's path for hundreds of miles. After the catagory 5 storm, 
millions of people moved inland when the government declared it would not 
pay for the $180 Billion dollars of damage and further, would not 
underwrite insurance for any future construction within 75 miles of the 
coast. The only people who lived in Coastal Carolina now were a few 
fishermen, some squatters and the mentally infirm.

The young man landed the boat on a quiet beach near an ancient promontory 
called Cape Fear. Off the point he could see a riot of wave breaking all 
the way to the horizon as the confluence of the Gulf Stream and swells 
from a Nor'Easter met on the trechorous sandbars of the Frying Pan Shoals. 
It was no wonder this area was known as the graveyard of the Atlantic. The 
sight of waves stirred uneasy feelings in the young man's heart and he 
chided himself to concentrate on the reason he was here.

The young man was actually a professional surfer of some repute. He had 
followed in the footsteps of his grandfather and conquered the 
professional surfing world, claiming six world championships in as many 
years. There came a time when he got tired of being known as Kelly 
Slater's grandson and he dreamed of becoming unknown again. Burned out by 
the pro circuit, he'd spent 2 years alone, surfing the great breaks of the 
world; Australia, California, Hawaii, Indonesia, Orlando, always searching 
for the answer to a question that clung tightly to his soul. The 
uncertainty of his life prompted him to ask the question of his 
grandfather who shook his head in puzzlement and said, "Seek the truth, 
grandson. There you will find the answer."

For years now the young man had been following the path of clues in a 
purposeful search to discover his truth.  He'd spent weeks at the National 
Computer Files Archives in San Jose, CA,  reading volumes of old and 
primitive computer files that revealed powerful dialogues amoung the great 
minds on an early version of the OmniNet (called the Internet). People 
named Surff, Bonzer, Ciaccio, Sandman, Dagum, Airey, Necfy (a malibu 
surfer), Tweed, Ric, Johnny-the-Shu, Da Hulk, Will, Surfer Bob, VXLMD, and 
many many more gave voices to the great issues of the times. Among them 
there was a voice which, though muted by self depreciating humor, used 
thoughtful introspection and quotations from famous men to reveal a secret 
wisdom. The young man knew if he could find that voice, he would find his 
truth and the answer to his question. Rumors heard in the few 
remaining barbacue shacks along the Carolina Coast spoke of the old man 
who lived on a deserted island. "If he's alive," they said, "He'll be 
there. Check the lighthouse."

The old lighthouse, built in 1861, had survived the worst that mother 
nature had thrown at it. It stood now in the distance as the only standing 
structure on the island. The 13 foot thick walls were worn and pitted, but 
still it stood facing the ocean, ever vigilant, always watching. The 
ancient lantern housing at the top was a rusted mass of mangled metal and 
shattered glass.  The young man entered the old tower and gazed in dismay 
at the decrepit stairway that spiraled its way to the top. He stood still 
and listened. Ever so faintly he could hear a few soft notes from the 
theme song of an old surf movie. "Hello" he yelled, "Is anyone there?" 
There was no answer so he reluctantly decided to risk climbing the rickety 
stairway. Forty-five frightening minutes later he came to the threshold of 
a small room that existed at the very top of the lighthouse. He looked in 
and saw a wizened old man sitting on a faded, canvas, slingback beach 
chair. He knew his search had ended.

The old man's eyes were fried and blind, probably from staring directly 
into too many Right Coast sunrises, looking for waves. Looking up 
slightly, the old man said softly, "Enter, young seeker." The young man 
started to say "Thank you, Foo..."  "Quiet" the old man interrupted. 
"Listen to the ocean. Therein lies the answer to your question."

The young man sat down on the bare wood floor and listened to the waves 
breaking in the distance. He gazed about the room and observed the 
simplicity of the old man's existance. An old, faded Endless Summer poster 
hung crookedly from a dart on the wall. A small dusty cassette deck played 
one of hundreds of tapes that were stacked in a milk crate against the 
wall. Nearby, an ashtray held a smoldering cigar and a half bottle of 
bourbon sat next to a framed picture of a very attractive woman who 
was shown standing ankle deep on a sandbar at some beach.  In the corner 
was an old creased and punctured bodyboard, with a few darts stuck in it.

The old man sat quietly, head bobbing slowly to the soft music. His 
sightless eyes seemed to see the pale setting sun which angled through a 
small window. In his right hand he slowly twirled a cracked and splintered 
drumstick.  He wore on his nearly hairless head a threadbare and filthy 
ball cap with the words, "urf Free or Di" in faded letters on the crown. 
Some of the letters appear to have been lost. His only clothing seemed to 
be a wrinkled and faded Hawaiian print shirt which pictured erupting 
volcanoes and outrigger canoes charging down some wave rushing toward a 
lush tropical paradise. That and a patched pair of green canvas 
boardshorts, stained with ashes and coffee. The most disturbing feature of 
the old man was his skin, which had the appearance that of an alligator.
There must have been a time in his life when the old man was fair-skinned 
and freckled, but the ravages of time, sun, wind and water had taken their 
toll. Soon the old man spoke.

"Ask your question young seeker, though I already know what it is." The 
young man hesitated, knowing this was his opportunity to find out what had 
been heavy on his heart for so many years. He spoke slowly to the old man,
"Tell me please sir, will there ever be a time when I will not need to 
sooth my soul by riding waves?"  There was a long silence as the old man 
drew slowly in his cigar, blew a smoke ring and sipped lightly from a 
small glass of bourbon. "Yes, young seeker," he began. "When your body no 
longer needs food to sustain it, and your lungs cease to draw breath to 
continue your life. Only then will you no longer need what feeds your soul 
by riding waves."

The young man was smitten by the enormity of this truth. Yet the 
uncertainty about the meaning of his life suddenly disappeared. He rose 
slowly, cleansed by the knowledge of this truth and comforted by the clear 
path his life would now take. As he backed toward the door he murmured 
most gratefully, "Thank you, Foonmaster".

The old man seemed to look toward the small window as if he could see the 
light of the setting sun as it fell upon his deeply lined face. "One more 
thing, Son." The young man waited with breathless anticipation.
"That piece of advice 'ill cost you $25, bub. Do you know what cigars and 
good sippin' bourbon cost these days."

Startled by the nature of the comment the young man stepped back and 
accidentally tripped on the doorsill of the small room, pitching backward 
and crashing through the rotten handrail of the staircase. He began to 
fall 15 stories from the top of the lighthouse into the dark interior of 
the old tower but he could not even scream as he felt himself enveloped by 
blackness.  His only thoughts were wonderment at how stupid the end of his 
life would be, that and curiousity about the small light below him that 
grew in size as he plummeted downward. Strangely, without fear, he began 
to feel an attraction to be in the light. He reached out as if to touch 
it, and closed his eyes as he accepted the inevitable. Even with his eyes 
closed he could still feel the presence and the warmth of the light.

When he opened his eyes again he was staring at a large orange orb that 
seemed surrounded by rose colored tendrils and shimmering lights. Suddenly 
he realized he was lying on the cool sand of the small deserted island, 
looking at what appeared to be a magnificent sunrise.  He slowly stood up 
and looked out at the waves coming in at the apex of Cape Fear.  Offshore 
winds and the Nor'East swell had combined to organize the waves overnight 
producing what looked like some of the best surfing conditions he'd ever 
seen. Long lines of 10 foot waves wrapped precisely around the now uniform 
sandbars forming a tunnel-like left breaking wall that stretched a quarter 
mile 'til it ended at the Cape Fear rivermouth.

The young man turned to run back to the lighthouse to find the answer to 
this mystery but instinctively he knew the old man was not there. He never 
was. He realized now that everything he knew of the old man called 
Foondoggy was found in the messages of an obscure old newsgroup called 
alt.surfing, that existed many decades ago.  And though he understood that 
everything he'd read could have been the bourbon soaked ramblings of an 
old man's imagination, one thing he was absolutely certain of. What the 
old man had told him in the tower was in fact a window on his soul and 
ultimately the truth he had been seeking.

The young man walked over to his boat and picked up the small surfboard 
he'd brought with him. He started to head towards the point but suddenly 
stopped to pick up what appeared to be an old, worn ball cap half stuck in 
the sand. He shook out the cap and read the faded words on the crown.
" urf Free or Di," it said and as he placed the cap on his head he would 
not realize the significance of these words until years later, himself an 
old man, when he would come across the obituary for the man named 
Foondoggy. It seems he was never seen again after the huge Hurricane 
called Amschel. No one was ever sure what happened to him, and no one but 
the young seeker even cared.


-Foondoggy  (Mrs.Foons in Canada, got up and wrote this at 3:00 am last 
night)


-------------------==== Posted via Deja News ====-----------------------
      http://www.dejanews.com/     Search, Read, Post to Usenet