Gimmie Gimmie

Last Autumn I ventured over to the upper upper East. Roll into the small fishing town where my buddies call home. Drinkin' and laughin' at the local dive bars waaay up in our country. Fishing stories. Surf stories. Non-West coast stories. Hard stories.

The freezing bite of the air makes you so very awake and aware of all of your senses. Ending the first night by sitting on their porch at 1am burning a nice northeast spliff and planning the following morn, I knew it would be a special trip. Drift off to a tape of some local surf grainy footage.

Next morning came fast but when you aren't home, missing your sleep doesn't really have the same effect. You are stoked and ready. Buddy telling me to close my eyes are certain turn-offs on our surf check. He is kidding, but not really. I understand. Windy green roads. Up and down little hills. In and out of nooks. Trees turning every color. Too beautiful for a California kid's eyes.

Finally pick a spot. Peelin' left point. I am overly giddy and slightly bummed knowing this is the last new spot I will see this morning. Who cares. Water is clear and the swell is head high. Pumpin'. Scary. Exhillarating. Booties and hoodies. Hit the ocean and you instantly feel ALIVE. Backside lefts, missing barrels, outrunning the lip, electrified, getting the point wired, skate ramp feel, take in the scenery, the feel of the Atlantic Ocean. Hootin' and hollerin'. Repeat. And then repeat.

Gotta get back. Soon.

Didn't check the small high tide mush this morn, but the buoys showing 2.2 @ 11secs from 315