Marea Alta: February 2010

I met Stu by complete and utter chance. Courtesy of the Hawaiian Air baggage handlers, my recently purchased 6'10 pin tail was riddled with a few penetrating pressure dings on the flight from Honolulu to Kahului. I stumbled outside a few surf shops empty handed when my curiosity drove an inquiry of ding repair service upon a salty elder emerging out of the shop simultaneously. His only response, "Follow Me." A few turns and an insulting park job later and we were among a row of weather beaten storage sheds and the usual riffraff and oil rag dwellers. There was a handshake and a elated agreement on rising swell and the mystery guide departed, leaving us on the resin soaked hands of Stu. No logos, no signs, no advertisements, no price tags, just Stu; another salty dog who had seen the good ol days of the island in a time when sunblock was a foreign substance and crowds were just as uncommon. He asked my name and before i could finish introducing myself retorted "lets take a look at the board" . He never forgot my name though, addressing me between any and every break in dialogue during our several rendezvous in the weeks to come, for this was not the only ding i would bring to his attention. Good as new and back in the water before the sun could set the next day.
The next week a close out barrel sent my elbow gliding through the whitewash only to connect with the narrow pin tail, splitting it like a stubbed toe. Stu's number which was jotted down on a ripped envelope in the indelible scratchy blue ink of an empty fountain pen became my salvation. Two days and twenty bucks later i was back dooring bombs at the bay, but razor thin four ounce glass rails crack like saltines under the pressure of six foot reef waves and some untapped karma coming full circle. I found myself listening to Stu identify me over the phone as though we had never met, yet he knew my name the second i mentioned the board. He was at the airport, drinking himself into oblivion and reluctantly informed me he was not departing to the mainland to see his father on his deathbed. I mumbled some inaudible jargon after a moments pause and a whirlpool of emotion flung upon me. He said he would see me first thing the next morning. The next morning turned out to be two o'clock p.m. and he guaranteed me the previous phone call was absent in his memory bank. Stu informed me he had a few too many in tribute to his father passing, but was overwhelmed with excitement to fix the board. Another twenty to the cause i decided, and he assured me it would take a load off his mind. I agreed with no hesitation and the usual handshake ensued. He was no taller than I, with thin outstretched limbs and his long wiry fingers, permanently covered in the dust of shaved fiberglass, seemed to wrap effortlessly around the entirety of my palm. It was a soft handshake, one of experience, sincerity, and reserved strength.
I need to call Stu again.