Memo from the Surf Desk: Salty Stink Eye

It didn't last long. Maybe just a moment. I was interested to know what he was riding. It looked long. And old. Yellowed from years under a southern sun. A dozen dings. Open sores and bandaged battle wounds. Some call it character. It was shaped by someone I sort of know, someone that's shaping me a stick. So I asked, "Matt make that thing?" It was an honest question. But I'll be damned if I didn't get some salty stink eye in exchange. Cause only kooks ask questions, right?

Shame on me for giving a shit. For acting interested. I guess you're supposed to stay steely-eyed at all times, staring straight ahead, acknowledging no one. Just you and your wave. Everyone else can go to hell! No, wait, that sounds like a buncha bullshit. All this hard as a fuck, salty stink eye stuff needs a new home. It's the ocean. You don't own it. And honestly, you probably suck at surfing. So lighten up. Smile when you see someone else sliding. When they're excited and you're envious. It'll make for more fun.

Sincerely,

Duke Dangerpants