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wb surf

my life in wrightsville beach, starting today

knee-to-waist
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Yesterday . . .




and today.

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indo-gestion
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In God's Hands

Watched "In God's Hands" the other night.  It's a narrative surf film directed by Zalman King ("9 1/2 Weeks") that blends surf travelogue (Bali, Africa, Hawaii), stoned zen koan dialogue (re: surf check:  "How big is it?" asks one surfer.  "Big," says the other, gazing trance-like into the distance), "acting" (real surfers playing surfers), a hallucinogenic malaria trip inspired by (plagarized from?) the last half of "Apocalypse Now," a getting-in-shape running-on-the-beach sequence just shamelessly ripped from "Chariots of Fire," lots of hetero-brotherly man-hugs / touching, and enough surf porn (killer--literally--waves; incredible surfing) to almost help you forget the film's soul surfer "plot," which is basically, "Surfing is LIFE, and I MUST surf (even if it means killing myself on a 40-foot wave)."  The tow-in surfing is just mind-boggling (minus Laird Hamilton, who was shown the script and ran for the hills), but then again, so are the non-surf passages.  Kind of like eating a meal you know is good for you then getting indigestion.