The Peconic Puffin

Five of us sat in Scott’s pickup, eyeing the conditions from the Meschutt parking lot.   Every time there was a lull Scott whined that it was dead.  Every time there was a gust Jon Ford said it looked like 4.2.   The Wolf noted how grumpy Scott was, I made dumb jokes, and Peconic Jeff took it all in.

After about five minutes of this I noticed Scott’s hair.   It was looking quite good.  He appeared positively coiffed, and I was moved to comment.

“Scott, your hair is looking exceptionally good today.”

“What?” Scott replied.

“Your hair IS looking good,” Jon agreed.

“I got a haircut,” the Wolf interjected.   The Wolf did indeed look clean cut and keen, but there was no doubting that on this particular morning, Scott was taking the spotlight as a very handsome man.  Even Jeff agreed.  I began taking photos of Scott.

“What’s wrong with you people?” Scott demanded.   Then Frank pulled into the parking lot, a big gust shook the pickup, and the Scott Admiration Society disbanded to rig.

I went with a 4.5 and the 77 liter FreeWave, and was first on the water, pleasantly lit.  The freshly shorn Wolf followed soon after on a 4.2, which was the sail call for everyone else save mighty Jon on his 4.7. 

Someone noted that in this wind range Scott, Jon and the Wolf were all on blue Maui Sails (what my wife would call a “blue story”) which seemed nice except that yellow Jeff and the red contingent of myself and Frank were left out in the cold.  Speaking of which, both Scott and I were sporting some new heavy winter booties (warm, comfy, and lending a pleasing line to the drysuit legs) whilst Jeff sailed with new gloves and a personalized twist to his facemask.   The air was 34 degrees (water temp 41, for a “hundred rule” total of 75…pretty frickin cold) so our winter wear needed to be both fashionable AND functional.   When snow started to blow I donned sunglasses (Scott grabbed construction goggles) but these both fogged pretty quickly, so off they came.

The tide was near high, but before high tide the ramps were quite jumpable, and some faux backside waveriding was to be had.   During our frequent breaks to warm hands we’d huddle around Scott’s propane heater and wave our mitts in front of it, making sure to remove them before steam started to rise or plastic melt.  Jon sat in front of the thing at one point and began to lean back before Scott and I shouted, preventing a three inch hole from being burnt in.   Finding a tailor who could have mended that attractively would have been a bitch.

(Photos from top: Scott and Frank tear it up and mix colors, Scott is mystified by the crowd of admirers, Jeff sports new gloves, nose protection, and the cutest black bow atop his helmet, the editor warms his hands whilst Scott rigs.  All photos by Jeff except for the Jeff shot, by the editor.)