new surf dialogue

Took the 3am ferry from Wellington to Picton. On the road out of Taranaki, and all the way to Wellington, we were constantly reminded that “Lee Harris Narks!” by way of spray paint on the sides of big boulders and barn doors. Thought we could just sleep our way across the Straight, but had to leave the van in the holding tank and curl up in the dark lounge on cushioned benches. Leaving Picton, once off the big boat, the van was squeaking a bit, and visions of blown ball joints were dancing around our pocket books, so in Blenheim we pulled up to a garage. Hank put our minds at ease, ” just some worn out brushes up under there, nothing to worry about, nothing to fix mates.”

We cruised down to Kaikoura, checking out a few beaches along the Marlborough coast, cluttered with wine grapes and mountainous fields of straw. Found a decente freedom camp in front of Meatworks, a popular surf break, with heaps of locals and travellers fighting over quick drops and one turn waves. Found a few of our own at Mangamoana earlier, and we enjoyed watching the day grow dark and the ocean tide rise up. The waves lulled us to sleep and kept my dreams ebbing and flowing through the full moon night.

Spent a couple days and nights checking out the Kaikoura scene, which is a uber touristy overpriced bore. Thank the devil for free camping and a few good waves. A copper caught me roaring out of town a bit on the lead footed side, and now I have a pretty little fine to pay.

 With the weekend rolling into town, Christine and I decided to keep heading south, even as a good swell was predicted to turn the sea into a surfers playground. Have to keep the priorities straight at this point in the game. The readings are coming along nicely, and the writing is going to come soon.

Had another run in with the authorities last night. Turns out our dairyman back in Taranaki wasn’t so straight and narrow on his Paua harvesting, leading us astray in regards to legal size limits and we were caught with one just on the short side. The mriendly fish warden let us off with a warning and gave us a handy dandy measuring stick. However, we want to run back up to the milkman’s cottage and shove a knee in his nuts for so unabashedly poaching undersized shellfish – a lot of undersized shellfish. Says a lot more about the guy, that we were already saying to ourselves. We were able to gather a healthy amount of mussels, and had a campground feast of sweet chili sauced pasta with broccoli to accompany our green lipped bi-valves.

So we are stopped in Amberley, just north of Christchurch. Stocked up at the farmers market, and chatted with some folks about hitchhiking Hwy 101 back in Washington state, the taste discrepencies of manuka and clover honey and why New Zealand is better then Fresno.

Off to find a laundrymat. Thank you to everyone who has been viewing the blog, would love to hear from you, so please leave a comment or send  me an email.

Left Urenui and spent a few days south of New Plymouth, surfing a right hander until it went away. While laying in the van, parked under a pohutukawa tree and reading about the post WWII surf boom in southern California I heard engines revving and horns honking out on the highway. Carin Crawford, in her self published master thesis, “Waves of Transformation” explains how the aircraft technologies and rapidly developing highway infrastructure up and down the California coast where major factors in surfings rapid popularity development in the Golden State. People like Bob Simmons, a surfer and aircraft enginner, used the new military technologies and design theories to build lighter and incredibly higher performing surfboards that were also much easier and faster to build. Board shapers like DaleVelzy and Hobie Alter were then able to meet the post-Gidget and The Endless Summer surf craze board demand numbers and the beaches blew up into mass crowds and beach boy surf safari madness. Surfers, who came from the post war, white middle class affluent car crazed suburban  sprawland hit the roads in their woodies and studebakers and all other Detroit city metal mobiles in search of less crowded waves and that idyllic Endless Summer paradiso on earth. So I’m reading all this history, and the car engines are getting louder, and the honks are driving me crazy and a cover band strikes up down below me at the beach – playing some Creedence – and I look out the window at hundreds and hundreds of pontiacs, mustangs, camaros, falcons, the cream of the post war crop – some with Velzy boards strapped to their hoods, all flowing past me on the street! And American flags and confederate flags flapping  from their side view mirrors! Oh god, I’ve lost my mind. One toke over the line. Oh lord, I’m stuck in Lodi again…

Nope, Americarna was rolling into town. A New Zealand round the islands car show, celebrating America’s finest. Christine came back from the library and we walked down to the beach front campground and checked out the scene. A real kiwi melting pot of grease monkies, yuppie car freaks, bikers, rednecks, surfers, farmers and the curious tourists like the two of us. Real American hot dogs and burgers. Ass cheaks spilling out of Daisy Dukes. Beer cozies and Skynard. Oh say can you see…

A few days later we   point the van south, needing to be in Wellington for a Cook Strait crossing to the south island. In Opunake, where we witnessed Americarnage, the surf is rolling in. Big overhead sets A-framing at the creek mouth. Offshore winds and friendly locals. Mt. Taranaki sits there and watches as a small group of us get wave after wave. I meet Harry Larry out there, a local  organic dairy farmer who invites Christine and I to stay at his place. He has ragwort that needs to be pulled from his cow pastures, and philosophies to share. We take him up on his offer. Recently off the drink, he’s been searching out new mind and body cleansing ideas and methods. Digs some of L.Ron Hubbards Dianetics, thinks Tom Cruise gets a bad rap – who incidently filmed The Last Samurai right down the road from here. Katie Holmes is his dream girl. We talk and he talks and talks and talks. We have interesting discussions on surf tourism ideas. He owns undeveloped beach front property here, with grand ideas of surf lodges, massage parlors, cafes and beach cams. “Wouldn’t it be awesome mate! Oh just like in Bali, coke and toasties under thatch roof palm treed tea rooms. Locals bringing your boards down the hill. Its already coming man. I might as well do it right, get my share right?”

Stella and Ebony at CheeLoo, their little piece of magic land...

After a morning surf yesterday, he and I spend a few hours out in the paddocks pulling up the ragwort and solving the worlds problems, with both of us having some similar and very different ways of how to bring about those solutions. But whatever our differences, we both agree on the power of surfing and the healing waters that we soak ourselves in, letting the stoke flood our pores, endorphins running high and grins permanently affixed to our skull covers. Christine was running around with the daughters, Ebbie and Sara May. The Five of us headed down for a low tide Paua and green lipped Mussel harvest and feasted on the sea meat for dinner.

And now, after another morning overhead surf bonanza, we are heading for Wellington to make that crossing. The next week will be spent with nose in the books and hand to pen to paper, outlining this thesis thing into a reality. Going underground. The east coast south island hermit holiday. I heard about Moridor, it lurks down there somewheres around the bends and up in the hills.

More pictures to comes. Hope all is well with you the reader. Mine the stoke…

February 19th, 2010

Slowly getting the day going. The cicadas are filling the air with thier incessant hum buzz. The red-headed rooster has ceased the wake up cock-a-doodle calls and the morning bird songs have, become faint, headed deeper into the bush. Tea cups have been emptied, bodies lightly stretched and freshly picked fruit peeled and consumed.

Urenui alarm cock, er, clock

Maria showed us around the property yesterday morning, simultaneously unveiling the work that needs to be done. We fed the chooks, cleared leaf debris, cleaned the tomatoes of their blight stricken stems and foliage, and harvested lettuces, pole beans, basil and spring onions f tor the roadside veggie stand. Neighbors drive by and drop some coin into the honesty jar and head for home with dinner compliments. These honesty jars are everywhere along the roadsides and in the campgrounds. One fills thier own gas tanks here and then pays (although the pre-pay is slowly creaping into the country). But a general trust of one another seems to be an engrained social aspect of life here. Open doors, hand waves and hi-ya’s.

A couple of sandwiches filled with avocado from Scrubbs and Louia’s and tomato and lettuce from the morning garden work waltz fueled us for an afternoon surf check. Building swell wrapped its way into a particular river mouth and raised up a right hander that peeled 150 meters down the line. Not quite offshore, the winds were gusting hard out of the south, making the conditions less than perfect, but decent enough. Tucked into the pocket of a down the line wave sprint, I felt the grin of the surf mad creasing across my face. Aalloohhaa.

Back to the homestead, we made a trek down to a beach closer to home, reconnaissance for tomorrow’s session. With seatbelts unbuckled as we came back to SH 3, a police man drove past and took notice. He stopped up ahead of us and motioned us to pull over, standing in the highway and pointing to the shoulder, by now we were buckled in for safety.

“I see you weren’t wearing your safety belts when you came up to the main road.”

“Yeah, we were just putting them on actually, sorry about that.”

“Can I see your driver’s licence please. Looks like you been surfing, find anything good?”

“Yeah! down that one road on the other side of town, fun little peaks cruising through. Bit windy, but still working.”

“Oregon huh? Thought you sounded like you were a long way from home. What are you doing here, just traveling, surfing around?”

“Yes we are, and studying too. WWOOFing up the road.”

“Heaps of good surf around here. I surf too, looking forward to tomorrow. You should go down that road around the bend, the one right before the smokestacks. Really good spot. Sweet as really.”

“Awesome, awesome!You know, I don’t think we realized that you had to use seatbelts here, seen so many people without them on.”

“Oh yeah, gotta use them. A let you off with just a warning this time, but yeah, $150 fine actually. Pretty steep. Keep buckled up, and yeah, tomorrow, check out that spot. Might see you there.”

Steely Dan laughed with us as we made our way back to our empty home. Maria had headed to a weekend cheese making seminar that she organized, Simon still out in the field, working for a seismic drilling firm – a unfortuneate temporary necessity for paying off the mortage, to get free and clear and back to the land. Ironic but real. Molly is waiting for us though, Maria and Simon’s one year old Austrailian terrier, bouncing around the garden as I pick out the kale and courgettes for the evening feast.

And with Simon home we dine and converse of our day and our lives until the eyes grow heavy. Off to the mosquite net wrapped bed.

Front porch morning view

And now with oats in our bellies – thanks Crista – wood needs to be stacked, weeds need to disappear from under the zapp fence and surf needs to be ridden. Mahalo.  Read More…

February 19^th 2010.

Urenui, Taranaki, New Zealand:

Before leaving Opunake, I went in to the local surf shop and had a chat with the owner and employee. Typical surf shop with boards and all the needed accessories, and it also serves as a coffee shop with internet. The small community of Opunake really embraces surfing. Buildings have giant surf inspired murals painted on their fronts and sides as well as surf inspired names for their businesses, and the surf/ coffee shop seems to be a hot spot for everyone in town. At the local pub the night before, Christine and I were talking to a local woman – probably in her late sixties, non-surfer and local as – about our travels here and hoping that the weather and wave conditions were on the mend. She found a piece of scrap paper and pulled a pen out of her purse, and wrote down the name and number of a local surfer. “This is the man to call. Been surfing here all his life. Keen as to all the places to go. Give him a call.”

Talking with the shops employee between his pouring of espresso shots, he told me how people here recognize the tourist potential that surfing offers, especially to such a rural and sparsely populated township. We discussed the local weather patterns, swell forecasts, localism in the area or lack there of, and the struggle to keep the younger local population in the water.

Scott Rowley, a well respected board shaper in the Pacific Northwest and Kiwi expat is from this area too. I happen to have a 6’6’’ egg of his and totally stoked the guys at the shop when they asked me if I had ever heard of him. He had helped the owner build his shaping bay, and also shaped a few boards in it for the guys on his last visit home. A few blue hairs came in for lattes and I took off to find Christine down the street at the library. The wind was still howling. The sun was out though, and Mt Taranaki kept an eye on us all. We motored back up north to Urenui, to Maria and Simon’s homestead with the chooks and the cows and the kale and the Molly.