He goes by Surfdog. It’s in his email address and on his license plate.
It works for him. He knows that out of the many surfers in the world, he is one of the dawgs who has clamored for — and succeeded at — sucking on the teat of the planet’s fine waves.
Most mornings or afternoons or evenings in his 54 years of tasting the salty suds and being pushed by a power much greater than himself, he would — not literally — salivate like a dog about to get a snack when all of the Earth’s conditions have been met for an upcoming surf session.
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RECOMMENDED READING at NickAbramo.com: “High Tops And No Socks: An Ode To The Doctor”
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Lot o’ variables. And he knows them all — and then some. Wind direction. Swell size. Buoy reports. Which size board to ride? Which break will be best suited for the can’t-wait-for-this session? And so much more. He has always been data-oriented.
For the purposes of this story, however, we’d like to keep the Surfdog name but add the more glamorous “Surfer Joe.” Picture the Ray-Ban sunglasses. The bleach-blond SoCal 1970s flowing hair, now a distinct whitish, blondish that was mixed on the ocean’s palette.
