“Barney Tales” has been on hiatus for the past couple of weeks, not because of a lack of cringeworthy content, but because I do not do this professionally, and it can be challenging to find gaps in a surf-centered, working life, to post on a blog that nobody reads. Yet, here I am.
Junkyard Hodad, my sidekick’n kook, my French adult-learned-surfer accomplice living in Maui, found himself at my home for the holidays. The year was 2016, and we were regretfully hungover from a night of secretly downing my Father’s homemade limoncello. The sugar content combined with the shear volume of yellow liquid drunk juice, made our heads feel comparable to Tony Dogs’ from the scene in Casino, when his head gets squeezed, and then ultimately flattened by a vice. A gruesome scene, but classic. Good thing Joe Pesci never got his hands on Kevin in Home Alone.
The reason for his visit was due to our new found obsession with surf. We talked surf, drank and talked surf, ate and talked surf, beyond annoyed our friends and, you guessed it, talked surf. We could not get enough of talking surf. Whatever that meant at the time. We probably sounded like two gigantic kook mongers (and probably still do). We checked Magicseaweed.com about 10 times a day, hoping that we could change the forecast with Jedi-like powers, from flat to something shreddable. Anyways, that morning we saw that there were some 3-4 footers at Rockaway beach. “Its go time J. H.” He nodded and we packed my black Subaru Impreza, aka the chick magnetic frother wagon, with his new 6′ 10″ Byrne, and my old, dented 6′ 7″ BIC. Two studs ready to charge 90th street in Queens, New York. In the summer, prior to this adventure, we had gone to a very special place called Cinnamon Rainbows Surf Co. in Hampton, New Hampshire. Here I bought a used, foul smelling quicksilver 3/2 wetsuit for only 40 dollars. Score! And J. H. bought his brand new surfboard, and a 50 dollar used, heavenly holy, 3/2 O’neill wetsuit. Score again! However, now it was the middle of a northeastern winter and we had no idea that thicker wetsuits existed.
We arrived at 90th street, and parked the wagon next to a housing project high-rise that was guarding the great Atlantic Ocean. We were practically drooling, and shaking with anticipation. We looked like a couple of rabid dogs barking, and snarling, as our hearts started palpitating at the thought of ripping some gnar. This was our FIRST winter sesh.
As we got out of the the chick-mobile, the ruggedly frigid air slithered onto our skin and down our spines, immediately turning my nips razor sharp and pulling my beans up into my stomach. IT WAS COLD. I wondered how cold the water was. In the winter, the water temp can drop below 40, and close in on freezing. Well, we came here to surf and that is what we were going to do. I thought, do wetsuits really protect surfers from this weather? Well, I hoped so. I was off to a bad start as my feet went numb as I pulled my wetsuit over my shivering body. J. H. had brought his wetsuit along with his girlfriend’s dad’s spring suit. He was so cold already that he decided to put that underneath his 3/2. It was a tight fit, but he succeeded. As we stood on the sidewalk, on a grey winter day, in the middle of a typical NYC neighborhood, where city meets ocean, we noticed something about the other surfers. They had hoods, boots and gloves along with their wetsuits. Interesting. I brought this up to my Icey amigo, and he replied, “Ohh, maybe those are just the more expensive suits, I think we should be fine.” I trusted him, and we threw the key on the tire (such a sneaky hiding spot, right?) and walked to the beach on two pairs of stump legs.
As we stepped out of the city and onto the beach, our eyes widened, and adrenaline flooded our systems, as our gaze became focused on reeling, 3-4 foot rides. These were probably the best waves I had ever seen in person. We looked at each other, looked back at the beach and started sprinting to the water. Who would get there first? It was me. I jumped in, and immediately experienced an Arctic shock as frosty salt water was introduced throughout my wetsuit. This could not be how every surfer felt could it? I paddled on. The first line of white water was approaching and I was inevitably going to have to go under and get my hoodless head wet. I duck dove, probably not properly, and felt that vice-squeezing pain from the morning times 20. It was like an ice cream headache’s mean older brother. I popped up feeling like a cat submerged in water. Frostbite was slowly but steadily trying to grasp onto my hands and feet. I had to get out. Another wave of blizzard water came through, and I belly boarded all the way to the beach, passing J. H., with a look of pure shock and shame. He was still going strong. I got onto the beach and ran to the car.
I could not feel my feet or my hands, and the wind chill was burning my face and neck. I was was being tortured as I tried to unlock the door while hitting the key’s buttons with my limp fingers. I blasted the heat, and sat down wearing my wetsuit in the car. That is DEFINITELY not how the other surfers felt. J. H. followed shortly after. We both sat there, defeated and confused in the damp, and hot interior of the shred mobile. We shivered and laughed until we started to feel our appendages tingle and come back to life. What had happened? Why had our wetsuits not worked? It was clear, we were truly the Beavis and Butt-Head of surfing. Well, I guess it was time to start our hour and half drive home. At least we got wet…
https://thebloggingbarney.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/Video-of-toine-surfing-the-bed.mp4
FOLLOW THE LINK TO SEE J.H. IN PRE-SURF MODE!!!
Thanks for reading!!! The Barn lives to rap another tale, shaka!!
-The Blogging Barney