Just for Fun

Who likes a stale blog?

Breeches in action (Photo/Mrs. Blog)

Eastside Surfblog past entries

01/22/09

OK, something had to give, so I took my own advice and I did indeed pack Mrs. Blog and a board, took a few days off and headed south. It was just too gnarly to get everything done at work in time to leave on Friday, so we sprinted on Saturday and made it all the way down to Jupiter Beach. I outran my swell prediction by about 60 miles, but I did catch a good session on Sunday morning nonetheless. Looking at the swell model before I left, I thought the surf was going to be in the head-high or better range that far south, and it just didn’t quite make it. It was only about shoulder-high and wasn’t breaking on the outside reef with enough size to be rippable — just sort of crumbled out there and sputtered out. I caught a few outside waves but then paddled in and rode the shore break reform like all the locals. Not the thrill I was looking for, but sure did enjoy being in that turquoise water with just a spring suit. I could have skinned it like most of the locals, but I’m too skinny and get cold in any temperature below a boil. I surfed about a mile north of the Juno pier — check it out. The pier was a zoo. There was only one peak working on the left side, and it was about head-high on the biggest sets and had a nice looking right. But with only one peak, there were at least seven guys paddling for the same wave. Imagine the Washout with only one wave. All in all, a pretty cool setup, and during the week when the majority of the flotsam are at school or work, it would be right on. So I’m keeping that plan on the front shelf for the next big winter swell.

Later that day, Mrs. Blog wanted to take a look at the International Grand Prix being hosted by the Palm Beach Equestrian Club. I thought it would be cool to hobnob with the rich and famous, so I figured what the heck. So we navigated the upscale sprawl maze with the rest of the hoi polloi. Nobody does sprawl better than the Floridians, and the only difference between Palm Beach and anywhere else in Florida is the price of admission. I think somebody forgot to tell all the rich people the economy was bad. Didn’t look to me like anybody was struggling to put gas in his Aston Martin. Living in a major tourist destination, we all know how stupid tourists can be at times, and one of the things I take pride in is my ability to blend in and not look like I’m from somewhere else. But that was a no-go at this horse show thing. Pretty hard for me to look like the gin and tonic set dressed in my ESA T-shirt and high-top Chucks — even the good blue ones with no grass stains. So I had to keep my head on a swivel to make sure Donatella Versace couldn’t sneak up behind me, swat me senseless with her handbag and have her footmen drag me behind the stable and throw me on the manure pile with all the other recently swatted riffraff.

The horse show was pretty cool, though, and the athleticism of the horses was impressive to see up close. Because this was an international event with a big money purse, the riders were from all over the globe, including a bunch of Olympic gold medalists, and the jumps were head-high or better. How do you get a horse over here from Belgium? Hate to be the flight attendant on that plane. Looked to me like the horses were doing all the work, so why does the human get the medal? Seems all you have to do is hang on, not get your coat and tie too dusty or lose your silly little hat. The horses looked cool, but Mrs. Blog seemed to enjoy looking at the male aristocracy dressed in their breeches and boots. This was a pretty high-class event. Not a hot dog to be found. If you wanted something to eat, you had to get a crepe made by some French dude. Or at least he had a French accent. Maybe it was a fake and next week he’s slinging barbecue at the Western show. Who’s to know? Since Mrs. Blog seemed to be taken by men in breeches, I sauntered into the Hermes tent to see if I could get similarly rigged and maybe spark up the ol’ marriage. The price on the first saddle I looked at was $45,515. “Why yes, my good man, I’ll have two of those. They’ll look splendid on the sorrel mare in my string. Have them sent to the trunk of yon Bentley and be quick about it.” I’m too skinny for breeches anyway. I don’t think there are any $600 silk ties and fine Corinthian leathers in my future; poor Mrs. Blog will have to settle for Velcro and surf wax.

Who likes a stale blog?

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Breeches in action (Photo/Mrs. Blog)

Eastside Surfblog past entries

01/22/09

OK, something had to give, so I took my own advice and I did indeed pack Mrs. Blog and a board, took a few days off and headed south. It was just too gnarly to get everything done at work in time to leave on Friday, so we sprinted on Saturday and made it all the way down to Jupiter Beach. I outran my swell prediction by about 60 miles, but I did catch a good session on Sunday morning nonetheless. Looking at the swell model before I left, I thought the surf was going to be in the head-high or better range that far south, and it just didn’t quite make it. It was only about shoulder-high and wasn’t breaking on the outside reef with enough size to be rippable — just sort of crumbled out there and sputtered out. I caught a few outside waves but then paddled in and rode the shore break reform like all the locals. Not the thrill I was looking for, but sure did enjoy being in that turquoise water with just a spring suit. I could have skinned it like most of the locals, but I’m too skinny and get cold in any temperature below a boil. I surfed about a mile north of the Juno pier — check it out. The pier was a zoo. There was only one peak working on the left side, and it was about head-high on the biggest sets and had a nice looking right. But with only one peak, there were at least seven guys paddling for the same wave. Imagine the Washout with only one wave. All in all, a pretty cool setup, and during the week when the majority of the flotsam are at school or work, it would be right on. So I’m keeping that plan on the front shelf for the next big winter swell.

Later that day, Mrs. Blog wanted to take a look at the International Grand Prix being hosted by the Palm Beach Equestrian Club. I thought it would be cool to hobnob with the rich and famous, so I figured what the heck. So we navigated the upscale sprawl maze with the rest of the hoi polloi. Nobody does sprawl better than the Floridians, and the only difference between Palm Beach and anywhere else in Florida is the price of admission. I think somebody forgot to tell all the rich people the economy was bad. Didn’t look to me like anybody was struggling to put gas in his Aston Martin. Living in a major tourist destination, we all know how stupid tourists can be at times, and one of the things I take pride in is my ability to blend in and not look like I’m from somewhere else. But that was a no-go at this horse show thing. Pretty hard for me to look like the gin and tonic set dressed in my ESA T-shirt and high-top Chucks — even the good blue ones with no grass stains. So I had to keep my head on a swivel to make sure Donatella Versace couldn’t sneak up behind me, swat me senseless with her handbag and have her footmen drag me behind the stable and throw me on the manure pile with all the other recently swatted riffraff.

The horse show was pretty cool, though, and the athleticism of the horses was impressive to see up close. Because this was an international event with a big money purse, the riders were from all over the globe, including a bunch of Olympic gold medalists, and the jumps were head-high or better. How do you get a horse over here from Belgium? Hate to be the flight attendant on that plane. Looked to me like the horses were doing all the work, so why does the human get the medal? Seems all you have to do is hang on, not get your coat and tie too dusty or lose your silly little hat. The horses looked cool, but Mrs. Blog seemed to enjoy looking at the male aristocracy dressed in their breeches and boots. This was a pretty high-class event. Not a hot dog to be found. If you wanted something to eat, you had to get a crepe made by some French dude. Or at least he had a French accent. Maybe it was a fake and next week he’s slinging barbecue at the Western show. Who’s to know? Since Mrs. Blog seemed to be taken by men in breeches, I sauntered into the Hermes tent to see if I could get similarly rigged and maybe spark up the ol’ marriage. The price on the first saddle I looked at was $45,515. “Why yes, my good man, I’ll have two of those. They’ll look splendid on the sorrel mare in my string. Have them sent to the trunk of yon Bentley and be quick about it.” I’m too skinny for breeches anyway. I don’t think there are any $600 silk ties and fine Corinthian leathers in my future; poor Mrs. Blog will have to settle for Velcro and surf wax.