In 1985 I had a ’66 powder blue Karmann Ghia, a graphite Dunlop tennis racket, a warrant out for my arrest for stealing a double scoop of chocolate fudge ice cream from Baskin Robbins, a custom-size Rip Curl fullsuit with hot pink-to-fluoro yellow tequila sunrise gussets, a tremendous amount of guilt and regret after bailing out last second on an Isla Natividad run with Surfing magazine (Karmann Ghia broke down on the 101), a tetracycline prescription (chlamydia picked up from sex in a jacuzzi — who’d have thought?), a white cat called Ninkerstinker, involuntary semi-erections that my Quiksilver ST Comps did nothing to hide –
a much-anticipated date with a Material Girl –
a decent backside snap –
a really great pal named Rick Brown who coached and mentored me (and lived in a badass house overlooking Little Dume in Malibu) –
and not the slightest inkling that (a) technology would evolve in such a way that I’d be able to turn this shit into blogposts, and (b) I’d become so pathetic that I would actually do so.