We’re Hunting Rabbits

I wrote tomorrows date on the chalk board, hopped inside a Nissan four door, and was driven off in search of a particular Country Mexican.  The Indian we were going to see held the title to a particular piece of land that myself and a few others have had our eye on for the past couple of years.  We brought along a translator.  Spanish just wasn’t going to cut it.  It was 8am on Friday, February 24th, 2012.

We stopped for tacos along side the road just outside of Huatulco.  There was a skinned cow in the back of a nearby pick up truck.  Talk about gnarly.  We arrived to the secret estate around noon.  I had been there two times prior, yet this was my first time actually meeting The Jefe.  I counted five teeth in his mouth.  His expertise with the machete was mind blowing.  The coconut water was air temperature.

They sat and spoke.  I just half listened and nodded.  I was picking up some stuff, but like I said, this was country spanish.  Not to be confused with country music.  The meeting lasted about 30 minutes.  We then walked out to the point break.  A pitching right hander that breaks directly in front of a jetty hip of sorts.  In the summer months, this place goes off.  That’s about all I am allowed to tell you.

Rabbi Shlomo

For the past six weeks solid, I’ve been going back to my longboard roots.  It an 8’8” actually.  Thicker stringer.  Loads of rocker.  Heavy glass.  It was shaped with big point break waves in mind.  Main Beach at Zicatela doesn’t quite fit that mold.

When it gets four foot out here, you can count the number of longboarders on your middle finger.  It’s playing with fire.  If you have the strength to manage one, and the skill-set to ride one here at Main Beach, well then Good Luck With That.

But here I am.  Putting in my time.  Increasing my wave count.  Timing gauntlets, managing big equipment without a leash, and getting myself slotted from time to time.  I will say it again.  Getting slotted.  All wide-eyed, and screaming Hell Mary.

I befriended a Rabbi while I was spending some time in The Hamptons.  I told him to come visit me in CA.  He did.  My brother and I took him surfing.  We ate fish tacos.  He kept telling us that ‘Longboards Rule’.  And he was right, they DO rule.


I’m cracking.  I’ve cracked.  Things began getting dicey around the new year.  Mid January brought some hope that it was just a bluesy blip.  By early February, I was regularly playing handball with my own shit.  All hell broke loose by the middle of February.  I’d say that is right about when the straw hit the camels fan.

I am in desperate need of some homogenization.  White on white.  $5 milkshakes.  Hot showers.  Cold rain.  Cameras on 41st Ave.  Shoes & Socks.  Jackie Greene.  Sierra Nevada on tap.  Loyal teammates.  Family & friends.  Cuz everything and everybody here is wayyy too Down to Earth, and I simply can’t take it any longer.

Pit Bull Inn

There was a light tap on my heavy duty wooden door. I knew who it was. My fingers were woven, hoping to God that she would say the right thing. I was purposely hiding away, buying some time, doing the proper thing. Earlier in the morning lineup, I had been given the blessing to blow a fuse if I needed to. It was brought to my attention that I was already way up in the plus column by not having blown one the night before when all indicator lights said it was time to Get Nuts.

I remembered her from two years prior. Her voice actually. It’s Marge Simpson gone extra bad. You just want to jam a sock in there.  I couldn’t stand her chirp two years ago, and nothing had changed in the pitch to make me feel any differently this go around. Her voice just rings and rings and rings, and it doesn’t matter what she says, because the ringing just kills the content. And the echo of the ring within the confines of the cement hotel is almost too much to even handle.

I opened the door. For the final time, I told her I was very sorry about last night, and that it was just a perfect sort of storm. I followed that up by saying that I am glad nothing happened, and that I will really keep a closer eye on the little guy. She chimed in with a passive aggressive follow-up threat to her threat from the night before. She wanted to make sure that I had made other arrangements for the Mako Shark. “We can’t stay here unless He goes,” she cackled.

As she was pointing at The Little Big Man, I was pointing at The Rod Iron Gate. And take your sissy fried husband & Gerber baby with you. Now Git.


Bad Moon Risin’

The full moon remained full for about a week.  Maybe even ten days.  I just threw my hands up.  Nothing I could do.  I was just a moon puppet  Everything I touched short circuited.  Big Time Trouble.  Way Gnarly.  I wasn’t to the point of howling or biting someones throat.  None of that ghost and goblin lore either.  It was elemental and elementary.  A one-two punch.  Sometimes three.  It was bigger than the here and now.  It was all consuming.  The people, places, and things that were appearing out of thin air, and/or being placed within my tender and conscious reach, were just out of this fucking world.



The very finest piece of ass in this town walked right up to me the other day.  I was like here we go again.  Back up.  About three months ago, this other succulent piece of ass walked right up to me and said, “How’d you like to go fly somewhere together?”  I was like, “Where to Ms. Succulence?”  That was her cue to pitch the skydiving business that she reps down at the beach.  Of course!  Always a catch.  Too good to be true.  Anyway, where was I?  Oh yeah, the finest piece of ass in town.  Not just a fine piece.  The fucking finest.  The filet of the mignon.  So she walks right up to me and says, “Hola Aron, Do you have 200 pesos I can borrow?”  I was like Holy Shit, the finest piece of ass is asking me a question!  I reached into my bathing suit and pulled out a wet 200.  She took it and smiled.  I thought for sure that meant that she was testing me to see how loose I was with my dinero.  Testing to see if I had the money to provide for her and her family the rest of our lives.  And of course our family too.  She must not know that I am The Pressure Washing Kingpin of Santa Cruz, CA.  Sure..no problemo…take the money…i’ve got oodles of it.  FACT:  If she had asked 100 acquaintances in town for 200 pesos, nobody in their right(or wrong) mind would have coughed it up.  No wonder I haven’t seen her fine piece of ass lately.  

Candy and Ronnie

According to the time on the microwave, for the third straight night in a row now, I was awakened at 2:46 am, unable to fall back asleep.  Since you’re probably not wondering what I did with that newly found QT, I’m not all that inclined to want to tell you.  I will say a few things about the parallels: For starters, on the third morning, when the clock read 2:46 am, i came to find out later that it wasn’t really 2:46 afterall.  The clock read 2:46 because I had made microwave popcorn the night prior and had punched in five minutes, knowing in advance that it takes two minutes 15 seconds mas o menos to properly make this particular brand.  So apparently I decided it was done after two minutes fourteen seconds.  Capice?  Pretty gnarly co inky dink I know.  Now whether or not that counts in your book as three-in-a row, you still can’t take anything away from the first two identical 2:46 a.m. wake-ups.  I’m still blown to bits by it all.  The only thing I could put my finger on was the full moon was once again in full affect.  And when I say put my finger on it, I really mean put my finger on it.  Like break off a piece of Swiss cheese coming in my room putting my finger on it.  Te lo Juro!   I had a Major Tom moment.  Planet earth WAS blue and there wasn’t anything I could do except put the final polish on my version of Bennie and The Jets.  And so that is what I did.