By Warren Smith
Photos by Nick LaVecchia
Lights on, you surf Nazis! No time for poetry. Training facilities in the down time will occupy our bodies. Make sure all your logos are on right. We gotta go surfing! Snap! Air! Cutback! Beach gear! Dion just farted! If you act now you can buy it at Target! Drink the blood of the ocean and surf the neon vapor breakers of energy drinks! Get your Tiger Eyes ready! This is an extreme blog post!!!
Actually, Dion isn’t here. He went for real surfing somewhere exotic to perform extreme sports maneuvers. I did not go. I took a train over to Montauk with friend and photographer Nick LaVecchia to meet up with our mutual surf buddy and Montauk local Mikey Detemple. I went to see the sun and stretch my legs and do sub-par sports maneuvers. My body hasn’t felt the sun in a while. The sun felt warm and healthy and made my skin sting a little. It brought my hair back to life and washed the grime out of my sad eyes. Made me beautiful again.
The surf scene in Montauk was eclectic and a delight. A lot of people ride weird logs and fishes and sliders. Creativity seems to be rewarded in these parts. Joel Tudor is a lord among men here. Mikey Detemple surfed hard and threw fins on a board that looked like a bar of soap. Chris Gentile, who owns a rad surf shop in Brooklyn called Mollusk, chatted well, vibed nicely, slid and thrashed with enthusiasms. Chris Martin (singer of Coldplay) paddled over to Mikey and told him he loved his movie Picturesque and thought the music in it was great. Then Chris turned around, paddled, and rode the line for a really long time. Jimmy Buffet dripped wet in the parking lot post longboard ocean dance. Even Mick Jagger was a beach-goer at Montauk. He had on flame board shorts above his knees and a white tank top.
But the most extreme maneuver was not done in the water. It was performed at the bar later that night by a criminal of dark complexion and messy hair. I witnessed him attempt murder on another drunken patron with a quick, precise, backhand slice to the throat with a knife. Then he ran. Nick LaVecchia ran after the dark-complected man (Nick’s nickname is Mini Macho when he gets drunk) but Nick got no criminal. Attempted murder had just been executed in front of me. The sliced man lay unconscious with a pool of blood hauntingly oozing from his neck, seeping into the cracks of the pavement as I stood paralyzed. The bouncers immediately kicked everyone out, ambulances screamed, Nick slurred to the cops, and we went home. That was my Montauk surfing experience.
Back in the city I have rejoined my friends in the night cave. I’ve quickly shed my stinging skin, grime refilled my sad eyes, and my muscles have dwindled back to a nice clammy mush. My first night back is spent with my friend Jeremiah, who runs a gothic night club called After Midnight where a large guy named Dwayne swings his metal chains and makes grotesque faces. Dwayne is a very nice man. There is also a lady who pours blood on her naked body. Good bye.[Editor’s Note: Some of Warren’s photos made us feel uncomfortable when we saw them, so we didn’t include those in the post. They’re all available to be gawked at on Warren and Dion’s blog, Proxy Noise. Warren asked that we disclose this.]