A rough map was sketched out with crayola markers on the back of a page full of child’s doodling. With it I embarked on my first solo trip into the wilderness. On my second attempt at deciphering the map’s imagery (I think I was looking at the wrong side the first time around), I found what I’d come for. Looking as though the bears had chewed on it a bit, it was still pretty banged up. But on closer inspection it was clear that someone finally reversed the dishonor and properly fixed those bondo dings. Thank you, James. Riding a very fun summertime south swell at the mouth of a nearby creek with not a soul in sight from sunup to sundown, I revel in the PURE JOY of it all. As I think of this board that was taken out here by a surfer of remarkable ability and thereby designating it his board of choice for a perfect wave, I ponder the poetry of it all. The board that nobody wanted, yet given the highest honor. Somewhere off in a busy shaping room, the shaper stands covered in clouds of foam dust. After one final pass, he is finished. He steps outside and cracks open a cold beer. He drinks deep and knowingly smiles even deeper.