Wake Me Up When it's Over

I hate August. Let’s just get that right out in the open before we begin. It’s the wrong kind of hot — pavement smoking heat with bad breezes that do the ocean no good. When swell and things come together, fog usually crashes the party. And I’ve mentioned how I hate surfing in trunks before, right? August makes people spill all over the place and litter piles up and every task moves at the speed of the Sunday brunch crowd. Getting a cup of coffee on Saturday morning is a feat akin to hiking the Pacific Coast Trail. And don’t even get me started on “preseason” football. August is gross, unnecessary full-frontal humanity and I just don’t like it. No offense to you or anyone who treasure this dreaded month, just stay away from me until August ends. I’ll hide in the fog off the coast until September breaks.

This August has been especially excruciating. For one, I moved — which has to be one of the more insane things we do as humans — we become rodents dragging all the sticks and twigs we’ve accumulated and move them from one place to another. Usually in the heat.

I started my move right after we cleaned up our Factory by the Sea event and well, it’s been a bit of a logistical shit show here at IB thanks to my decision to move my sticks in the worst month of the year after our biggest event of the year. Deadlines have been missed (whoops, Friday afternoon newsletter!). Vacations skipped. Surf trips lost. Family gatherings forgotten. Surfing became a conversation I have as opposed to an activity I do. That and everyone I encounter seems to have just taken up surfing in the meantime. In August of all months! If they only knew how much it sucks! I’ve just decided to let them have this month. Wake me up on Labor Day please.

As we enter the dregs of this detestable month, and my rants about it turn stale and old, we got some fun news and August is trying to seduce me with Hurricane Hilary. If there is one saving grace for August in California, it’s the long-shot chance that we get some rare and fickle (but exciting!) hurricane swell. And that is always interesting because hurricanes are the rodeo cowboy of storms: they buck and bronco all over the place, refusing to be forecast friendly — a 50-mile difference in location of the edge are the difference in it being flat or 15 feet. I love that forecasters don’t know how to predict them. It takes us back to the good old days of wake up and check it. I mean, Hilary is expected to hit us tomorrow and we still don’t have a great handle on what’s going to happen in the ocean or on land. So while I still hate August, I do love that it’s willing to flirt with me. Maybe time for one last summer fling? See you tomorrow Hilary.  —Travis Ferré

[Above photograph: Larry Sultan]