F
Field Ethos
Guest
By Vincent Bini
I was sending a meme to my buddy the other day and he responded with laughter, as per usual, then proceeded to let me know he was on an adventure. The picture he sent was all I needed to know where he was. Costa Rica. He was on a surfing trip. Of course, I was instantly happy for him—he most certainly needed it. The volley of texts got me thinking about surfing. And once I get my brain going, hold on. I immediately arrived at my first encounter with surfing and followed the ride all the way to my current place in life. Long ride for sure.
My earliest days on the water were with my longtime friend Rob. He had the first surfboard. I can still see it—an old twin-fin Channel Island. It had seen better days, but it did the trick. It helped catch waves, and me. The first time I stood up on a barely knee-high wave, I was sold. Sure, I rode it straight into shore, but for an 8-year-old, I may as well have been at Pipeline. From that day forward, all I wanted to do was surf.
Surfing was running the show. It’s all I wanted to do, and when I couldn’t, I fished. I was bound to the water one way or another. That continued until middle school—then it got worse. They opened a surf shop just up the street, so naturally I hung out there way more than I should have. So much so that they gave me a job at the ripe old age of 14. I was making less than $3.50 an hour yet felt like I won the lottery. Cash on hand and generous custom surfboard discounts turned me into a monster. My one board soon turned into three and my thirst for waves only grew stronger. So much so that I had all toll calls blocked on my home phone. I guess I called 976-SURF a few too many times one month and ran up the phone bill a bit. Three hundred dollars. My mom was livid.
I met so many people who shared my affinity for the water. One of them was my friend J, who worked with me at the shop. He was a few years older than me, but that didn’t matter. He took me everywhere, especially to the beach whenever there were waves. I remember sitting in class staring out the window—if I was lucky enough to have one—watching the trees bend in the wind. If it was blowing hard enough out of the east, I’d call J and have him come pick me up from school. He got out earlier than I did, so it worked out perfectly.
J was a good guy, and he trusted me. Like, really trusted me. He let me take his brand-new Mustang—manual transmission, by the way—to go pick up food. Normally wouldn’t be a big deal, except I was 14. I was out-of-my-head excited. I couldn’t get over how cool he was to let me use his car. Without a license. The longer we hung out, the closer we became. Although he treated me like an equal, he put his big brother cap on more than a few times. One night he took me and his cousin to a high school party—we were still in middle school. We snuck outside to smoke a cigarette, which J didn’t know about and wouldn’t have approved of. We were sitting on a curb minding our own business when a group of guys walked up. As luck would have it, it was the biggest bully in school, drunk and looking for a fight. He got in our faces, trying to get a rise out of us, when J appeared out of nowhere and stepped right between us. No punches were thrown—no need. By the time J was done with him, the guy was apologizing. Nobody messed with us after that night.
We had some great times and made some great memories over those years, but the greatest one for me was the summer before my freshman year of high school. We had planned a nearly two-week trip to Cape Hatteras, N.C. My mom had signed off on it—not that it would have mattered. I had a bad habit of doing whatever I wanted. So, with Mom’s blessing and some cash to burn, we loaded up J’s Mustang and headed north. It was me, J, and our other buddy PJ, who was a little closer to my age but someone I still looked up to. No internet or cell phones back then, so we just winged it on the weather. We did have our AAA map with a highlighted route, so we were set.
After a long drive we got to our motel, right on the beach by the iconic groins. I was in heaven. We unpacked the car, threw our stuff into the room, and decided to surf by the lighthouse for the first day. It was perfect—chest-high sets breaking clean. My first wave caught me off guard. I barely had to paddle; the waves were that strong. Everyone was hooting and hollering. It was epic.
Once the sun started dipping, we paddled in and called it a night. We were hungry and had to pace ourselves. We had time. After a short walk through the dunes, we were back in the parking lot, peeling out of our wetsuits, when a Honda Civic came racing in with three very good-looking girls hanging out the windows hollering in our direction. Couldn’t be for us. Could it? They circled the lot a couple of times before pulling into the spot right next to us. We were shocked that girls of their caliber were talking to us, but we weren’t complaining. We chatted for a bit, told them our plans, and let them know they were more than welcome to hang with us. As luck would have it, they did—for the entirety of the trip.
On the ride back to the room there were some serious negotiations over who wanted who, but ultimately the girls made their own choices, and nobody was upset. What a trip it was. All we did was surf and party—definitely not with alcohol, because I was underage and that would have been illegal—but fun was had by all.
It all seemed like a blur, especially one night after a long day. Me, J, and PJ each split off with the girls for a bit. We went out to eat, then ended up down at the beach under the lighthouse. At the end of the night, we headed back to the motel to find a bit of chaos. PJ had locked us out. J had some words through the two inches of open door that the security chain allowed. Cooler heads prevailed and everyone called it a night.
We finished the trip strong—a few days of head-high surf with some overhead sets mixed in. I was stoked to put my custom 6’6″ Kechele to work, paint job nearly identical to pro surfer Richie Collins. I could not have scripted a better trip if I tried.
When it ended, we said our goodbyes and headed south. I made them stop in South Carolina for fireworks. Hey, I had money left over.
Shortly after that, high school started, and I no longer worked at the surf shop—that’s a story for another day. But leaving put a wedge between me and J. Our time together got shorter and shorter until it just dropped off. Surfing got replaced by fishing and we drifted apart. It’s been over 30 years since I spoke to him. He guided me through some rough times and was more like a big brother than a friend. Our friendship may have drifted apart, but the memories we made will live on.
There will always be Hatteras.
The post Hatteras Dreaming appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
I was sending a meme to my buddy the other day and he responded with laughter, as per usual, then proceeded to let me know he was on an adventure. The picture he sent was all I needed to know where he was. Costa Rica. He was on a surfing trip. Of course, I was instantly happy for him—he most certainly needed it. The volley of texts got me thinking about surfing. And once I get my brain going, hold on. I immediately arrived at my first encounter with surfing and followed the ride all the way to my current place in life. Long ride for sure.
My earliest days on the water were with my longtime friend Rob. He had the first surfboard. I can still see it—an old twin-fin Channel Island. It had seen better days, but it did the trick. It helped catch waves, and me. The first time I stood up on a barely knee-high wave, I was sold. Sure, I rode it straight into shore, but for an 8-year-old, I may as well have been at Pipeline. From that day forward, all I wanted to do was surf.
Surfing was running the show. It’s all I wanted to do, and when I couldn’t, I fished. I was bound to the water one way or another. That continued until middle school—then it got worse. They opened a surf shop just up the street, so naturally I hung out there way more than I should have. So much so that they gave me a job at the ripe old age of 14. I was making less than $3.50 an hour yet felt like I won the lottery. Cash on hand and generous custom surfboard discounts turned me into a monster. My one board soon turned into three and my thirst for waves only grew stronger. So much so that I had all toll calls blocked on my home phone. I guess I called 976-SURF a few too many times one month and ran up the phone bill a bit. Three hundred dollars. My mom was livid.
I met so many people who shared my affinity for the water. One of them was my friend J, who worked with me at the shop. He was a few years older than me, but that didn’t matter. He took me everywhere, especially to the beach whenever there were waves. I remember sitting in class staring out the window—if I was lucky enough to have one—watching the trees bend in the wind. If it was blowing hard enough out of the east, I’d call J and have him come pick me up from school. He got out earlier than I did, so it worked out perfectly.
Making Waves
J was a good guy, and he trusted me. Like, really trusted me. He let me take his brand-new Mustang—manual transmission, by the way—to go pick up food. Normally wouldn’t be a big deal, except I was 14. I was out-of-my-head excited. I couldn’t get over how cool he was to let me use his car. Without a license. The longer we hung out, the closer we became. Although he treated me like an equal, he put his big brother cap on more than a few times. One night he took me and his cousin to a high school party—we were still in middle school. We snuck outside to smoke a cigarette, which J didn’t know about and wouldn’t have approved of. We were sitting on a curb minding our own business when a group of guys walked up. As luck would have it, it was the biggest bully in school, drunk and looking for a fight. He got in our faces, trying to get a rise out of us, when J appeared out of nowhere and stepped right between us. No punches were thrown—no need. By the time J was done with him, the guy was apologizing. Nobody messed with us after that night.
We had some great times and made some great memories over those years, but the greatest one for me was the summer before my freshman year of high school. We had planned a nearly two-week trip to Cape Hatteras, N.C. My mom had signed off on it—not that it would have mattered. I had a bad habit of doing whatever I wanted. So, with Mom’s blessing and some cash to burn, we loaded up J’s Mustang and headed north. It was me, J, and our other buddy PJ, who was a little closer to my age but someone I still looked up to. No internet or cell phones back then, so we just winged it on the weather. We did have our AAA map with a highlighted route, so we were set.
After a long drive we got to our motel, right on the beach by the iconic groins. I was in heaven. We unpacked the car, threw our stuff into the room, and decided to surf by the lighthouse for the first day. It was perfect—chest-high sets breaking clean. My first wave caught me off guard. I barely had to paddle; the waves were that strong. Everyone was hooting and hollering. It was epic.
Once the sun started dipping, we paddled in and called it a night. We were hungry and had to pace ourselves. We had time. After a short walk through the dunes, we were back in the parking lot, peeling out of our wetsuits, when a Honda Civic came racing in with three very good-looking girls hanging out the windows hollering in our direction. Couldn’t be for us. Could it? They circled the lot a couple of times before pulling into the spot right next to us. We were shocked that girls of their caliber were talking to us, but we weren’t complaining. We chatted for a bit, told them our plans, and let them know they were more than welcome to hang with us. As luck would have it, they did—for the entirety of the trip.
On the ride back to the room there were some serious negotiations over who wanted who, but ultimately the girls made their own choices, and nobody was upset. What a trip it was. All we did was surf and party—definitely not with alcohol, because I was underage and that would have been illegal—but fun was had by all.
Dreaming of Hatteras
It all seemed like a blur, especially one night after a long day. Me, J, and PJ each split off with the girls for a bit. We went out to eat, then ended up down at the beach under the lighthouse. At the end of the night, we headed back to the motel to find a bit of chaos. PJ had locked us out. J had some words through the two inches of open door that the security chain allowed. Cooler heads prevailed and everyone called it a night.
We finished the trip strong—a few days of head-high surf with some overhead sets mixed in. I was stoked to put my custom 6’6″ Kechele to work, paint job nearly identical to pro surfer Richie Collins. I could not have scripted a better trip if I tried.
When it ended, we said our goodbyes and headed south. I made them stop in South Carolina for fireworks. Hey, I had money left over.
Shortly after that, high school started, and I no longer worked at the surf shop—that’s a story for another day. But leaving put a wedge between me and J. Our time together got shorter and shorter until it just dropped off. Surfing got replaced by fishing and we drifted apart. It’s been over 30 years since I spoke to him. He guided me through some rough times and was more like a big brother than a friend. Our friendship may have drifted apart, but the memories we made will live on.
There will always be Hatteras.
The post Hatteras Dreaming appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...