Live Free or Die in New Hampshire

[ Live Free or Die in New Hampshire ] (part 1)

I've always figured, if you can't find yourself in the country, it won't happen in the town. I'm not holier than thou, understand - it's only my opinion, I may be right or wrong. Quick christ, I haven't even been to the Grand Canyon.
And, although they may be five years in the making, sometimes the schemes we hatch turn into full-fledged gulls and fly farther - like our boy Jonathan gull. This was the case when my two favourite road trip allies, Jaybird and Manny, and I set off for New Hampshire in July.
~
I arrived on Manny's porch at 4 am. The doors were locked, but the mosquitos and the motion light made me feel welcome in the early dawn. I sat down in the rocking chair, and began to wonder if the trip was all a hoax. After all, we'd been talking about going to visit Grain, Rye Airfield skate park, and Cinnamon Rainbows surf shop for many years. Each time whipping ourselves into frenzy, but not following throe - not actually getting down to the hard travelling.

But as Manny opened the door at 4:03, I could have sworn I heard the whistle of the 309. Nevertheless, the Toyota Matrix radio spoke up and said, instead, "Carry on my wayward son..."
~
When we picked up Jaybird, he clearly had a wicked case of the cholera, but no amount of sweat-stained evacuation drills could keep that kid down. He saddled up in the back seat, bloody and raw, among the 47 bags of camping gear that we didn't use. I didn't say a word about imagining a miniature version pro surfer Rob Machado being along for the ride somewhere in the compressed in a Gortex sacks. After all, sometimes, it’s hard to tell the difference between dreams and reality.
~
As we headed over the Cobequid pass Tom Petty took the wheel and Manny and I discussed what it means to find yourself following a path of self-destruction. I suppose this moment was the first truly ironic time I've ever known. Besides, I knew then that by the time I returned from this trip, I'd be unplugged for the first time in two years. Don't worry; I don't need you to understand me here. I would just like to say, for my own benefit, preferably over the Yankee stadium public address system, "True apothecaries, Maggie and Suze, thy drugs are quick, but I'll tell you this about that - someday babies, you ain't gonna worry po' me anymore."
Thank you for allowing me that cryptic digression.
~
Now:
By the time we cleared the Highway 9 Airline route into Maine it was 104 degrees F and I got naked in the back seat with my BBP. We stopped in the rest stop and, despite the remarkable capabilities of our GPS, picked up a map that would prove to one tough mother to learn on. Yet, somehow we made it to Grain. And my mobile roaming charges were only a mere $331.23.
~
The guys at Grain Wooden Surfboard Shop had to concentrate to catch our words through our Maritime accents, but there was no mistaking our enthusiasm. And unlike the "surfers" back in our hometown, they were happy to tell us where the breaks might peel. It seems enthusiasm does conquer all. (Rob Machado squirmed a bit in his back sack.)

I think it's fair to say that when we left Grain all of us felt 5 years old and free - maybe a little less our parents, and more hippies in a tent. Refreshed and encouraged by the wave of camaraderie we’d found in the time spent with the Grain crew.

At any rate, when we walked out of their wood shop, Jaybird went looking for a golf ball and baseball mitt, so he could revisit a game he invented, and played, as a child. He breathed a heavy sigh which sounded nearly cholera free. Meanwhile, Manny took photos to take back for his children; I wonder if they’ll ever get to see them and understand the significance.
~
Later that afternoon, at the Rye Airfield skate park, Manny and Jay got down to bowling their wheels and setting up for a few spares. I, frankly, was over-stimulated, and had to go sit in the car. I have no idea how long we stayed, but the youngsters leaving the parking lot spoke in whispers to their parents about the dudes who’d driven all the way from Nova Scotia, Canada just to skate. They pointed at our license plate with awe, and I tried to pretend I was asleep despite the black interior and heat wave.

(It pleases me more than the sea to know that Manny and Jay connected with these kids.)
~
Feeling like I just climbed out of my casket, we began the hotel shopping - everything in Portsmouth was booked for the cheerleading competition - so we decided to storm the beaches. Eventually, The Kentville stood out like a beacon of hope in a generation of madness. I spoke just for the French girl at the front desk, and she handed over a buttered croissant with a discounted room.

It was Wednesday evening, and that meant the good people in New Hampshire would be blowing up their beach with their atom bombs, or maybe, it was fireworks. At Ron's Landing Eatery, we met Terry or Tara or Shelley, who served us weak beers while Jaybird squeezed Tabasco sauce in a Caesar – the goddam cholera was upon ‘em again. And, goddam, there ain’t a cure.

The fireworks went on for hours – and, finally, Manny gave Tara my number. And I'd like to state for the record, Tara, that if you take a very sleepy man, he always stands a good chance of waking up with all of his faculties i n t a c t.
(End Part 1)

Virginia Beach Classics

When you think about it, even a stuffed blue marlin hanging in a seaside motel office once knew the mysteries of the deep ocean.
I’d like to think this was my first thought as I checked in to the Blue Marlin motel in Virginia Beach with surf fratelli member, Jacob Albury. However, it wasn’t my thought – nor Big Jake Dawg’s - for that matter. Instead, we were wondering how the airlines could lose our surfboards.
~
For those of you who know me, you know that my name is not Mr. Brian Cormier. But, according to United Airlines he’s the dude who ended up with our surfboards - somewhere in Washington. It was a case of the wrong tag on the wrong bag, said Dana the baggage agent. And as our airport taxi guy ‘B’ said, “It’s an international fuck up. And no one wants an international fuck up these days.”
But, to be fair, it only took the airline 9 hours to find the boards and fly them 45 minutes down to us at the Blue Marlin motel. And we only had to pay $100 bills, and make 47 phone calls for the trouble.
As ‘B’ pointed out from beneath his all-black Yankee cap, “It’s because they don’t have any competition that the airlines can get away with this shit. Now, if we all had some Star Trek beams, then they’d get their shit straight. Shit, if we could just beam ourselves everywhere, then the airlines would be like, Oh – can we please get you something?”
~
Yes, when we checked in to the Blue Marlin morale was low, and then the front-desk man, John – a displaced surfer from Del Mar, CA. - asked us to pay for the week’s reservation up front. This, to me, seemed sketchy, and I couldn’t help but wonder what ‘B’ might have to say about the situation. However, as our time in Virginia Beach would eventually prove, this town is one that is ever paranoid about the travelling rip off artist – who breezes into town to skip out on the bill at Harpoon Larry’s raw bar (where the seafood is ‘bad to the bone.’)
But, that wasn’t our game and it wasn’t our race. We were here for Jacob to surf in the East Coast Surf Championships.
~
Down at the Front Street jetty we were among the first in the water before the 7am contest start. A curious group of sleepy looking surf shop managers and reps were busy setting up their branded tents and stacking up merchandise. I’ve never surfed in front of a contest staging with music blaring, and as we caught some waves I realized it was America in all her capitalist glory unfolding before us.
Big Jake made it through to the quarter finals of the junior division, but the waves let him down in his last heat. I suppose it’s true what they say, “mother nature can be as cold as a killer.”
Perhaps the most important move of the day was to saddle up ourselves to a tent that was noticeably empty except for a couple of older dudes and a young kid who was obviously a native Costa Rican. Before long introductions were tossed around and we knew we were dealing with the older classics - Chappy and Rick - and that the Costa Rican kid was Jairo Perez.
Chappy was all amped up on our stories of Nova Scotia point breaks and filled us in on Jairo’s deal. Meanwhile, Rick was there with the camera – always ready for the money shot of any unsuspecting beauty, whether it was a Brazilian babe or some kook in a speedo.
~
The contest continued on and Big Jake surfed in the open men’s short board and the pro junior divisions. Yet again, the ocean was a cruel mix of high tide, onshore wind, and small chopped surf. However, we in the ‘international’ tent didn’t seem to mind all that much: Jairo was cheering Jacob on from the sideline. For me, this solidified a connection among us all.
In order to put this all into perspective, we must first state for the record that when we first saw Jairo, we thought he was a young grom - maybe age 14. As it turns out, he’s 20. As Chappy tells it, Jairo comes from a working class family in Costa, and although he rides for O’Neill, they’re only paying him $150/month travel allowance.
Sometime in round two of his open men’s heat, Jairo landed two airs on one wave. He scored a perfect 10 – the first ever in the contest. Meanwhile, the O’Neill reps hadn’t even come down to see if he needed anything, or introduced themselves.
But, Jairo didn’t need anything because he was getting by with help from himself, and from his friends. Friends like Chappy and Rick – just a couple of American working guys who happen to spend time surfing in Costa whenever they can.
At one point, I looked over at Jairo as he was unpacking a lunch. You could tell from the way he handled the zip lock bag that he had packed it himself. The contents of the bag consisted of 12 hardboiled eggs: just the protein needed to help him survive the marathon of heats that he would run in the next 72 hours.
And despite all the pressure and nonsense around him Jairo was up and whistling to Jacob to help him find a position for the sets. Let’s face it, Jairo didn’t have to get involved at all, but that’s the spirit of surfing. Behind the brand names and bullshit, there’s the stoked camaraderie of simply surfing with your friends and cheering them into waves. In my mind, Jairo is the spirit of surfing in a 5 foot frame that weighs in at 95 lbs.
~
We found camaraderie elsewhere as well. Over at the 17th Street surf shop we met up with surfboard manager, Cameron. He was so excited to tell us about the time there were no waves for the contest, so they called in the navy submarines to do a couple of stir-it-up drivebys out in front of the jetty. And dang gone it – bingo - a weekend of navy issue white pants swell.
America! Unreal!
~
Now, there are a lot of tattoos down here in Virginia Beach. Some go for the dragon, some the star, some the Polo logo, and others who put a bicep curling a dumbbell on their bicep. Yes. Jacob and I talked about possibilities as we killed time in a Wendy’s line-up.
Back at the surf shop, I couldn’t help but notice the tattooed inscription on Cameron’s lower calf which read, Faith. Now, I could see from his eyes that he was grounded in something deep, perhaps it was the church of his choice, or the Grand Canyon at sundown; I don’t know, but I’m glad he’s got something upon which to hold fast.
~
There are others here that, unlike Cameron, are lost without an anchor. Take, for example, our sometime cabbie, Gene. Now, as Jacob tells it, this guy is the spitting image of Kip from Napoleon Dynamite. I didn’t get a good look at his face, but Gene laid out some quotes concerning female beauty that he saw around him at the beach. Quotes that were just borderline enough to laugh off, but not quite accept. Things like, “Pink, nah.” I’m sorry, but it would be impossible for me to elaborate on that one….

Resuming

[ Gravel Pit Trailer Edges ]

Maybe this is a story about first impressions.

I first met Bernie as I sat on a rock outside the high school in Chester Basin, Nova Scotia. I had just signed up to work there for a semester. I was finding my way back home from Miami, as I recall.

I didn’t know that the other teachers didn’t necessarily sit on the rocks out in front of the school to eat their lunches - even on sunny days. But, Bernie appeared in the September afternoon sun and said hello. And I said hello back.

Somehow, we got right into talking about music – was he the music teacher? Maybe. Maybe not. We both squinted. I remember mentioning Warren Hayes to see if Bernie was legit. Bernie recommended “Cortez the Killer” performed live by Warren at Central Park with Dave Matthews Band.

Later, I went home and looked into it. Apparently, Bernie was legit. Since then, he is the reason I know about Miles Davis, Ryan Adams, and, obviously, “Cortez the Killer”.

Bernie is also the reason that, at the age of 32, I’m still teaching. I can’t over-emphasize how important this all is to me. You see, at the end of that year in Chester Basin, I retired from teaching at the age of 28. I said I would be moving up to the North Country with my one true love to start helping out on her family’s maple syrup farm. Bernie said I would be back. I said I doubted it.

As it happened, he was right, and when the bottom fell out, I had to call on Bernie to help me find a job back in the South Shore Board. He’s helped me out of a jam or two, in fact. One of these days, you’d think I’d properly thank the guy.

~

These days, Bernie and I work at separate schools and we don’t get to hang out much to talk about big things like music, the written word, canoes, jeeps, beer, bitches, whatever. He has a young son now, too, which keeps him busy. But, feeling the momentum of the summer, I stopped in on him one morning as I was returning from checking the surf at a faraway break. Bernie was mowing his lawn. He stopped the mower, and I gave him a hug – call it a meagre attempt at a thank you. Pretty soon, we had made a plan to go on the obligatory summer road trip to… Cape Breton?

~

My only memory of the Cape comes from my childhood when, as my dad tells it, I found a pack of cigarettes and started puffing away at age 7. When my dad found out, he took me to the playground and encouraged me to smoke my brains out. I did, and got good and sick – since then, I don’t have the taste for tobacco. Dads have a funny way sometimes, or so it would seem.

At any rate, when Bernie picked Cape Breton – that was the memory I recalled between smiles over the thought of enjoying some hard road travelling.

~

Eventually, Bernie was able to clear his schedule and plan on the day. Dads have to plan ahead, or so it would seem – meanwhile, I had no plan whatsoever; no wife to check with, no son to think on, and I suppose I was a bit jealous. But that’s another story…

In the end, we left on a Saturday morning and returned on a Sunday afternoon – and we squeezed everything we could out of that fine island with the highlands in those hours between daybreak and dusk.

~

We started the driving with a playlist of songs blaring that Bernie called Stage 1. (He’s a planner, Bernie, because he’s a vice principal). I just do what I’m told – but we started playing the 3-on-3 Ipod swap game sometime after the 17^th cup of coffee. (He drinks a lot of coffee, Bernie, because he’s a vice principal). I thought it would be best to keep up, and teach him a thing or two about balancing everything out through old- fashioned hydration. Bernie looked hesitantly at the Gatorade bottles between coffees. I tried to ease his mind saying, “This shit here was made for football players down in Gainsville.” (Isn’t it funny how your phrasing and word selection changes when you’re yelling everything across a gearshift from a wind-blown shotgun seat at 120 km/hr?) Nevertheless, Bernie got on board.

I like that about Bernie – it doesn’t take him too long to get on board when something is legit. Case in point when I chose Bob Dylan’s “High Water” to bring us back over the island’s causeway sometime on Sunday afternoon. Due to the hydration trend, neither one of us had even the slightest trace of a hangover - despite drinking vodka sodas from 4pm to 3am - and Bernie proved it to be so when he was quick to ask, “Which album is this from?” I was glad to yell out, “Love and Theft!” I hope he caught the approval in my voice.

Not to be out-done, Bernie set me straight a few times on the drive with song selections from Ashley MacIssac, Estelle, and something from the soundtrack to Trainspotting that I really must look up.

I suppose therein lies the definition of true friendship – challenging one another to meet other, new points of view. Damn, one of these days, you’d think I’d properly thank the guy.

~

The cover band at the bar in Sydney took us both by surprise. We arrived early enough to catch their soundcheck, and as I looked around at the crowd of five, complete with the one-armed go-go dancer in the corner, I had the feeling that maybe we should have kept trying our luck back down by the harbour docks. But, because he’s the vice principal, Bernie made the decision to go down with the ship.

About five songs into their set, the band stepped it up by playing John Mayer’s “Gravity”. I was in the bathroom, dealing with the excessive hydration when it happened. When I came back to our table in the corner, I exchanged a glance with Bernie that he was quick to confirm – we were, in fact, in the right place, at the right time. About 30 seconds later a stagette party that would turn Lady Gaga’s head strolled through the door. Then, the band played “Pokerface” for the first of three times throughout the evening. All squalid hell was breaking loose in that deserted steel town, and Bernie and I had a front row seat.

~

It doesn’t matter now that I lost out on my blonde gal target for the evening to a muscle-freaked steroid kid. It doesn’t matter now that Bernie and I were fish out of water in Sydney. It only matters that we stepped out into the night as friends, and found out where the soul shine fits into Cape Breton.

AS IT TURNS out, the soul shine hits the Margaree Valley with its full force. So, we crossed the river that Bernie recalled from his childhood; he stated that it was the cleanest water he knew. I gazed around and felt the splitting edge of Cape Breton: the squalor of Sydney vs. the cool clean waters in Margaree. “They’re selling the houses in this valley for cheap,” Bernie said. He spoke about it in a calm way, despite the coffee. I could see he was younger than before. I took a photo to prove it – maybe something useful further on up the road. I don’t know how else to say it: it’s a humbling thing to witness someone’s soul coming home.

~

Of course, I should mention before the end of whatever this is that on the way up to Cape Breton, we passed by a gravel pit which featured a left-behind trailer. Its thin sides were rusted out and sagging. Bernie looked at it and said, “Whenever I dream about killing people, it’s always in that trailer.”

Maybe that’s the edge in him speaking – the one that helps him get through the work days, and the tests of fatherhood. The one that helps him make executive decisions for a teaching staff that may stab him in the back. The edge that helps him tell a nurse to fuck herself when she’s messing with his son. And maybe that’s the edge in him that saw fit to help me out of a jam or two. I can’t be sure. But, whatever it is, I’m thankful it’s part of him.

Yeah, one of these days, I’ll thank him for it.

Semester Two

Let the games begin. My skull has healed from the Gaspereau stairway incident. It should be a time to season.

Left Pencey Walks the Plank

All of the dirty dishes have been stacked on the green towel.

Thoughts of the Rio Grande abound on this wintry January day.

It looks as though this nor-easter has stirred up some surf.

Grab your mittens and get your kittens.

Left Pencey Project branches out

Left Pencey has witnessed a change of values. In short, donde estan los olas? Translation: where are the waves?

Good question.

Left Pencey Begins

I'm fighting off severe caffeine-induced dehydration. I sip my Gatorade like a Madison Avenue highball. And then, bam. Down the hatch. "Fetch me a pack a Popeye cigarettes!" I bark into the street.

As I look around at the populace, I see that they're lining up for the latest video game console. Congratulations. I don't know much, but I know this is a crazy time. Even the moon, I've heard, is belching into space. And then there's the case of the corrupt children's aid agency spending its monies on SUV's for the needy executives. Somewhere in Florida, even as I type, there is an inflated snowman sweating like a bastard. Meanwhile, a new Internet company offers clients bogus cell phone calls to boost their popularity. What does it all add up to?

The Left Pencey Project has been called upon to respond.