Surfer Sayings Quotes

Oh, he was definitely doable. Did Hawaiians have the saying “Save a surfboard, ride a surfer”?

When I finally saw Timmy before my surgery, I started saying over and over again, “Get me water, get me water.

I wouldn’t want to, say, move to L.A. or New York or some other fast-paced city where there’s lots of action and excitement. Here’s what I think: you make your own adventure in life. And I truly believe that if you open your eyes to your surroundings, there’s lots of neat stuff to be found practically anywhere on earth. For me, the grass is never greener outside of Hawaii. If you ask me my

Anyone who says I wasn’t mature is I mean poopy head.

For your life to be great, your faith must be bigger than your fears. It’s only when you have faith in the fact that, as you say, the universe is a friendly place and it’s bigger than the fears that have limited you—only then will your brightest life come calling.

Jerry Seinfeld is a genius. Seinfeld, who doesn’t need to work, still does stand-up comedy, fine-tuning his bits obsessively, averaging close to a hundred shows a year. He says he’s going to keep doing it “into my 80s, and beyond.” In a recent interview, he compared himself to surfers: “What are they doing this for? It’s just pure. You’re alone. That wave is so much bigger and stronger than you. You’re always outnumbered. They always can crush you. And yet you’re going to accept that and turn it into a little, brief, meaningless art form.” Selya

There is this classic thing about surfers as they grow up,' John McCarthy said one day. 'The adult surfer says, "Oh yeah, I got the wave and rode it all the way to the beach!" But when you talk to a five year old who has just surfed, he or she will say, "Oh, the wave picked me up and brought me the whole way to the beach.

Steve Carver-the guy with the faux-surfer hair-and Amanda's best friend, Nicole,are chosen.Rashmi and I groan in a rare moment of camaraderie.Steve pumps a fist in the air.What a meathead. The selecting begins,and Amanda is chosen first. Of course. And then Steve's best friend.Of course. Rashmi elbows me. "bet you five euros I'm picked last." "I'll take that bet.Because it's totally me." Amanda turns in her seat toward me and lowers her voice. "That's a safe bet, Skunk Girl. Who'd want you on their team?" My jaw unhinges stupidly. "St. Clair!" Steve's voice startles me. It figures that St. Clair would be picked early. Everyone looks at him, but he's staring down Amanda. "Me," he says, in answer to her question. "I want Anna on my team,and you'd be lucky to have her." She flushes and quickly turns back around,but not before shooting me another dagger.What have I ever done to her? More names are called. More names that are NOT mine. St. Clair goes to get my attention,but I pretend I don't notice. I can't bear to look at him.I'm too humiliated. Soon the selection is down to me, Rashmi,and a skinny dude who, for whatever reason,is called Cheeseburger. Cheeseburger is always wearing this expresion of surprise, like someone's just called his name, and he can't figure out where the voice is coming from. "Rashmi," Nicole says without hestitation. My heart sinks.Now it's between me and someone named Cheeseburger. I focus my attention down on my desk, at the picture of me that Josh drew earlier today in history. I'm dressed like a medieval peasant (we're studying the Black Plague), and I have a fierce scowl and a dead rat dangling from one hand. Amanda whispers into Steve's ear. I feel her smirking at me,and my face burns. Steve clears his throat. "Cheeseburger.

What are you doing?” “Coming to pick you up in a little bit,” he said. I loved it when he took charge. It made my heart skip a beat, made me feel flushed and excited and thrilled. After four years with J, I was sick and tired of the surfer mentality. Laid-back, I’d discovered, was no longer something I wanted in a man. And when it came to his affection for me, Marlboro Man was anything but that. “I’ll be there at five.” Yes, sir. Anything you say, sir. I’ll be ready. With bells on.

Christy dug her hand deeper into her shoulder bag. Scanning the papers she finally located there, she found no phone numbers or addresses listed. All the plans had been made in such haste. All she knew was that someone was supposed to meet her here. She was here, and he or she wasn't. Never in her life had she felt so completely alone. Stranded with nowhere to turn. A prayer came quickly to her lips. "Father God, I'm at Your mercy here. I know You're in control. Please show me what to do." Suddenly she heard a voice calling to her. "Kilikina!" Christy's heart stopped. Only one person in the entire world had ever called her by her Hawaiian name. She spun around. "Kilikina," called out the tall, blond surfer who was running toward her. Christy looked up into the screaming silver-blue eyes that could only belong to one person. "Todd?" she whispered, convinced she was hallucinating. "Kilikina," Todd wrapped his arms around her so tightly that for an instant she couldn't breathe. He held her a long time. Crying. She could feel his warm tears on her neck. She knew this had to be real. But how could it be? "Todd?" she whispered again. "How? I mean, what...? I don't..." Todd pulled away, and for the first time she noticed the big gouquet of white carnations in his hand. They were now a bit squashed. "For you," he said, his eyes clearing and his rich voice sounding calm and steady. Then, seeing her shocked expression, he asked, "You really didn't know I was here, did you?" Christy shook her head, unable to find any words. "Didn't Dr. Benson tell you?" She shook her head again. "You mean you came all this way by yourself, and you didn't even know I was here?" Now it was Todd's turn to look surprised. "No, I thought you were in Papua New Guinea or something. I had no idea you were here!" "They needed me here more," Todd said with a chin-up gesture toward the beach. "It's the perfect place for me." With a wide smile spreading above his square jaw, he said, "Ever since I received the fax yesterday saying they were sending you, I've been out of my mind with joy! Kilikina, you can't imagine how I've been feeling." Christy had never heard him talk like this before. Todd took the bouquet from her and placed it on top of her luggage. Then, grasping both her quivering hands in his and looking into her eyes, he said, "Don't you see? There is no way you or I could ever have planned this. It's from God." The shocked tears finally caught up to Christy's eyes, and she blinked to keep Todd in focus. "It is," she agreed. "God brought us back together, didn't He?" A giggle of joy and delight danced from her lips. "Do you remember what I said when you gave me back your bracelet?" Todd asked. "I said that if God ever brought us back together, I would put that bracelet back on your wrist, and that time, it would stay on forever." Christy nodded. She had replayed the memory of that day a thousand times in her mind. It had seemed impossible that God would bring them back together. Christy's heart pounded as she realized that God, in His weird way, had done the impossible. Todd reached into his pocket and pulled out the "Forever" ID bracelet. He tenderly held Christy's wrist, and circling it with the gold chain, he secured the clasp. Above their heads a fresh ocean wind blew through the palm trees. It almost sounded as if the trees were applauding. Christy looked up from her wrist and met Todd's expectant gaze. Deep inside, Christy knew that with the blessing of the Lord, Todd had just stepped into the garden of her heart. In the holiness of that moment, his silver-blue eyes embraced hers and he whispered, "I promise, Kilikina. Forever." "Forever," Christy whispered back. Then gently, reverently, Todd and Christy sealed their forever promise with a kiss.

Dawn cackles as she guides me through the all-glass porch. Thinner, paler Reina shuffles about behind Dawn, watching as I slip my boots off. Although she tries to hide her hands, her fingers flicker nervously. I place my boots neatly on the floor of the porch beside the other pairs in the shadows under the coats. Music drifts through to us from a distant room – it’s the Beach Boys’ California Dreamin’. Dawn looks at me and I smile – they’ve put the record on for me. Dawn nods along happily. ‘Hear you’re a surfer boy!’ she says and she mimics riding a wave.

Here’s the thing, people: We have some serious problems. The lights are off. And it seems like that’s affecting the water flow in part of town. So, no baths or showers, okay? But the situation is that we think Caine is short of food, which means he’s not going to be able to hold out very long at the power plant.” “How long?” someone yelled. Sam shook his head. “I don’t know.” “Why can’t you get him to leave?” “Because I can’t, that’s why,” Sam snapped, letting some of his anger show. “Because I’m not Superman, all right? Look, he’s inside the plant. The walls are thick. He has guns, he has Jack, he has Drake, and he has his own powers. I can’t get him out of there without getting some of our people killed. Anybody want to volunteer for that?" Silence. “Yeah, I thought so. I can’t get you people to show up and pick melons, let alone throw down with Drake.” “That’s your job,” Zil said. “Oh, I see,” Sam said. The resentment he’d held in now came boiling to the surface. “It’s my job to pick the fruit, and collect the trash, and ration the food, and catch Hunter, and stop Caine, and settle every stupid little fight, and make sure kids get a visit from the Tooth Fairy. What’s your job, Zil? Oh, right: you spray hateful graffiti. Thanks for taking care of that, I don’t know how we’d ever manage without you.” “Sam…,” Astrid said, just loud enough for him to hear. A warning. Too late. He was going to say what needed saying. “And the rest of you. How many of you have done a single, lousy thing in the last two weeks aside from sitting around playing Xbox or watching movies? “Let me explain something to you people. I’m not your parents. I’m a fifteen-year-old kid. I’m a kid, just like all of you. I don’t happen to have any magic ability to make food suddenly appear. I can’t just snap my fingers and make all your problems go away. I’m just a kid.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Sam knew he had crossed the line. He had said the fateful words so many had used as an excuse before him. How many hundreds of times had he heard, “I’m just a kid.” But now he seemed unable to stop the words from tumbling out. “Look, I have an eighth-grade education. Just because I have powers doesn’t mean I’m Dumbledore or George Washington or Martin Luther King. Until all this happened I was just a B student. All I wanted to do was surf. I wanted to grow up to be Dru Adler or Kelly Slater, just, you know, a really good surfer.” The crowd was dead quiet now. Of course they were quiet, some still-functioning part of his mind thought bitterly, it’s entertaining watching someone melt down in public. “I’m doing the best I can,” Sam said. “I lost people today…I…I screwed up. I should have figured out Caine might go after the power plant.” Silence. “I’m doing the best I can.” No one said a word. Sam refused to meet Astrid’s eyes. If he saw pity there, he would fall apart completely. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.

What are you doing?” “Coming to pick you up in a little bit,” he said. I loved it when he took charge. It made my heart skip a beat, made me feel flushed and excited and thrilled. After four years with J, I was sick and tired of the surfer mentality. Laid-back, I’d discovered, was no longer something I wanted in a man. And when it came to his affection for me, Marlboro Man was anything but that. “I’ll be there at five.” Yes, sir. Anything you say, sir. I’ll be ready. With bells on. I started getting ready at three. I showered, shaved, powdered, perfumed, brushed, curled, and primped for two whole hours--throwing on a light pink shirt and my favorite jeans--all in an effort to appear as if I’d simply thrown myself together at the last minute. It worked. “Man,” Marlboro Man said when I opened the door. “You look great.” I couldn’t focus very long on his compliment, though--I was way too distracted by the way he looked. God, he was gorgeous. At a time of year when most people are still milky white, his long days of working cattle had afforded him a beautiful, golden, late-spring tan. And his typical denim button-down shirts had been replaced by a more fitted dark gray polo, the kind of shirt that perfectly emphasizes biceps born not from working out in a gym, but from tough, gritty, hands-on labor. And his prematurely gray hair, very short, was just the icing on the cake. I could eat this man with a spoon. “You do, too,” I replied, trying to will away my spiking hormones. He opened the door to his white diesel pickup, and I climbed right in. I didn’t even ask him where we were going; I didn’t even care. But when we turned west on the highway and headed out of town, I knew exactly where he was taking me: to his ranch…to his turf…to his home on the range. Though I didn’t expect or require a ride from him, I secretly loved that he drove over an hour to fetch me. It was a throwback to a different time, a burst of chivalry and courtship in this very modern world. As we drove we talked and talked--about our friends, about our families, about movies and books and horses and cattle.

In an internal panic, I picked up the phone and hurriedly pushed redial. I had to catch Rhonda the Realtor, had to tell her wait, hold off, don’t let it go, I’m not sure, hang on, give me another day…or two…or three. But when the numbers finished dialing, I heard no ringing; instead, in a perfect moment of irony, coincidence, and serendipity, I heard Marlboro Man’s voice on the other end. “Hello?” he asked. “Oh,” I replied. “Hello?” “Hey, you,” he replied. So much for calling Rhonda the Realtor. Three seconds into the phone call, Marlboro Man’s voice had already taken hold. His voice. It weakened my knees, destroyed my focus, ruined my resolve. When I heard his voice, I could think of nothing but wanting to see him again, to be in his presence, to drink him in, to melt like butter in his impossibly strong arms. When I heard his voice, Chicago became nothing but a distant memory. “What’re you up to?” he continued. I could hear cattle in the background. “Oh, just getting a few things done,” I said. “Just tying up a few loose ends.” “You’re not moving to Chicago today, are you?” he said with a chuckle. He was only halfway joking. I laughed, rolling over in my bed and fiddling with the eyelet ruffle on my comforter. “Nope, not today,” I answered. “What are you doing?” “Coming to pick you up in a little bit,” he said. I loved it when he took charge. It made my heart skip a beat, made me feel flushed and excited and thrilled. After four years with J, I was sick and tired of the surfer mentality. Laid-back, I’d discovered, was no longer something I wanted in a man. And when it came to his affection for me, Marlboro Man was anything but that. “I’ll be there at five.” Yes, sir. Anything you say, sir. I’ll be ready. With bells on.

Then he took my arm, in a much softer grip than the one he’d used on our first date when he’d kept me from biting the dust. “No, c’mon,” he said, pulling me closer to him and securing his arms around my waist. I died a thousand deaths as he whispered softly, “What’s wrong?” What could I possibly say? Oh, nothing, it’s just that I’ve been slowly breaking up with my boyfriend from California and I uninvited him to my brother’s wedding last week and I thought everything was fine and then he called last night after I got home from cooking you that Linguine and Clam Sauce you loved so much and he said he was flying here today and I told him not to because there really wasn’t anything else we could possibly talk about and I thought he understood and while I was driving out here just now he called me and it just so happens he’s at the airport right now but I decided not to go because I didn’t want to have a big emotional drama (you mean like the one you’re playing out in Marlboro Man’s kitchen right now?) and I’m finding myself vacillating between sadness over the end of our four-year relationship, regret over not going to see him in person, and confusion over how to feel about my upcoming move to Chicago. And where that will leave you and me, you big hunk of burning love. “I ran over my dog today!” I blubbered and collapsed into another heap of impossible-to-corral tears. Marlboro Man was embracing me tightly now, knowing full well that his arms were the only offering he had for me at that moment. My face was buried in his neck and I continued to laugh, belting out an occasional “I’m sorry” between my sobs, hoping in vain that the laughter would eventually prevail. I wanted to continue, to tell him about J, to give him the complete story behind my unexpected outburst. But “I ran over my dog” was all I could muster. It was the easiest thing to explain. Marlboro Man could understand that, wrap his brain around it. But the uninvited surfer newly-ex-boyfriend dangling at the airport? It was a little more information than I had the strength to share that night. He continued holding me in his kitchen until my chest stopped heaving and the wellspring of snot began to dry. I opened my eyes and found I was in a different country altogether, The Land of His Embrace. It was a peaceful, restful, safe place. Marlboro Man gave me one last comforting hug before our bodies finally separated, and he casually leaned against the counter. “Hey, if it makes you feel any better,” he said, “I’ve run over so many damn dogs out here, I can’t even begin to count them.” It was a much-needed--if unlikely--moment of perspective for me.

Intuition is the result of nonconscious pattern recognition,” Dane tells me. However, his research shows that, while logging hours of practice helps us see patterns subconsciously, we can often do just as well by deliberately looking for them. In many fields, such pattern hunting and deliberate analysis can yield results just as in the basketball example—high accuracy on the first try. And that’s where, like the dues-paying presidents or overly patient programmers, what we take for granted often gets in the way of our own success. Deliberate pattern spotting can compensate for experience. But we often don’t even give it a shot. This explains how so many inexperienced companies and entrepreneurs beat the norm and build businesses that disrupt established players. Through deliberate analysis, the little guy can spot waves better than the big company that relies on experience and instinct once it’s at the top. And a wave can take an amateur farther faster than an expert can swim. It also explains why the world’s best surfers arrive at the beach hours before a competition and stare at the ocean. After years of practice, a surfer can “feel” the ocean, and intuitively find waves. But the best surfers, the ones who win championships, are tireless students of the sea. O’Connell says, “One of the main things that you do when you learn to compete is learn how to pick out conditions. Know that the tide is getting higher. Counting waves, how many waves come into a particular area that fit your eye that you want to ride.

A very tall bearded guy was standing in a doorway, smoking a cigarette. “Hey”, he said. “Hi,” I said. “Excuse me, do you rehearse here?” “Yeah,” he said, extending his hand and saying, almost formally, “Gibby Haynes. I’m in the Butthole Surfers.” I shook his hand. “Moby,” I said. “I just moved upstairs.” “Are you an artist?” “No, a musician.” “Oh, cool. Welcome to the building.” “Do you know who else has spaces here?” I asked. “Well, there’s us and Iggy and Sonic Youth and Helmet and Sean Lennon and the Beastie Boys and some other people,” he said as someone behind him started making a wall of feedback.

She shrugged. “The old Jimmy would never have ‘moved on’ so quickly. It sounds like you’ve matured.” “I’ve always been mature,” I said, stomping my foot on the ground. “Anyone who says I wasn’t mature is I mean poopy head.

must, in order to preserve your cover, don’t hit very hard. And be sure to say the code word, “booger,” so that whoever you are fighting will know you are any ally.

moving right, jumping and rolling and my left index finger for moving to the left. I can't say one way is better than the other as my son and I are quite evenly matched at the game. You may want to give the two finger method a try to see if it works well for you or not. Earn 2 Keys by Watching a Video You should know there is an easy way to earn two coins for free on a daily basis by just watching a short video clip/advertisement. To see this option, go to Shop > Earn Coins from

The Catholic philosophy is that not only does shit happen, but it’s all your fault because you’re such an awful sinner.” “The protestant faith I grew up with is like the surfer dude of religions,” Claire said. “We’re all ‘hey man, just be cool, and like, don’t hurt anybody; but if you do, just say ‘my bad, bro’ and it’s all good.

Words didn’t come. I couldn’t formulate a thought. I was too startled. These three figures lying in the sand in front of me weren’t surfers at all. They weren’t even people. From their facial features and upper torsos, they looked kind of like women, but all three of them had silver-colored skin. They were bald, with strange ridges marking their skulls. None of them seemed to have ears, only holes in the sides of their heads. No nose was visible, not even a bone or nostrils filled that space between their eyes and mouths. Although their mouths seemed to be moving, they were actually breathing through what looked like gills in their necks. And if that wasn’t weird enough, instead of legs, their upper torsos stretched out into long, scale-covered, silver fishtails. If I had to say what these things stranded in front of me, splattered with oil, appeared to be, I’d say mermaids. And no, they didn’t look like they’d start singing songs or granting me wishes. They looked a little bit scary—but fragile too. Most of all, they looked like they were going to die, and no handsome prince was there to kiss them and keep them from turning into sea foam.

I’ll have another.” He pushed the bowl toward her. “You’ll eat pretzels. They’re good for soaking up alcohol.” “What about ‘the customer’s always right’?” she huffed and crossed her arms. Was she being ridiculous? Maybe, but who was he to make decisions for her? She’d had enough overbearing men to last her a lifetime. From now on, she called the shots. And if she wanted more drinks, then by God, she’d get them. Maddie looked past him, her vision skipping around the bar. A blond, surfer-looking guy sat in a corner booth with papers scattered over the table’s surface, perusing them with obvious interest. She pointed to him. “Maybe I need to tell your boss you’re refusing to serve me.” A deep, amused rumble. “You can’t get higher than me, Princess. I own the place.” Deflated, her shoulders slumped. “Oh. Well, never mind.” He pushed the bowl again until it was right under her nose. “Eat some pretzels and drink some water while you tell me what kind of trouble you’re in.” With her spine snapping ruler-straight, she asked, “What makes you think I’m in trouble?” He gave her a slow, meaningful once-over. “Do I look stupid to you?” No, he didn’t. All the more reason to stay away. If she could walk, she’d leave, but for now she was at his mercy. Between the buzz in her head and her swollen, aching feet, she might never move from this stool again and be forced to deal with his bossiness forever. “I had car trouble. I broke down on Highway 60 a couple of miles back.” His lips curved down and his golden eyes flashed. “You walked?” “What was I supposed to do?” “It’s the twenty-first century. Where’s your cell?” He scowled as though she’d done something wrong. How could she know she’d need one? She held up her tiny purse. “It didn’t fit.” His gaze flicked over her. “What’s with the dress?” Not wanting to say it out loud, she toyed with a piece of the fabric and said, “What, this old thing?” “Cute.” His jaw hardened into a stubborn line. “So?” Denial was pointless. The dress fell from her fingers. “I ran out on my wedding.

I’ve been dying to meet you ever since my brother, Sam, told me about your ordeal last night.” Completely confused, Maddie darted a questioning glance over at Mitch. Casual as could be, he hooked one ankle over the other, drawing her attention to his bare feet. “Sam’s my bartender. He was sitting in the corner booth last night.” Maddie nodded, remembering the good-looking blond surfer type who had been watching them. Gracie grinned from ear to ear, her full mouth a pale, glossy pink. “Well, my brother said Mitch pounced on you like a prisoner granted his first conjugal visit. So I had to see what all the fuss was about.” Maddie had no idea what to say, but she was pretty sure the heat infusing her face made her look guilty, which was ridiculous. She willed her cheeks to cool. She had nothing to be ashamed of. Last night had been perfectly innocent. Sure, she’d had a few impure thoughts, but geez, everyone had those. “Would you shut the hell up?” Mitch’s words held no heat, just good-natured exasperation. He shook his head at Maddie. “Don’t mind her, Princess. She has no control over her mouth.” “Look at him, all protective.” Gracie gave Mitch a slow once-over. “That’s new.” That earned her a menacing look from Mitch. “You can go home now.” Gracie laughed, a full-bodied, throaty sound. “Not on your life.” “I’ve thrown you out before,” Mitch said, putting his own coffee mug down on the counter as if preparing to do just that. “I’ll do it again.” Maddie

She had since grown used to some of the insular codes and cryptic slang of surfers, even the grunts and roars and horrible snarls, but she still didn’t understand why, after spending hours studying the waves from shore, we often announced our intention to paddle out by saying things like, “Let’s get it over with.” She could see the reluctance—clammy wetsuit, icy water, rough, lousy surf. She just couldn’t see the grim compunction. Once,

The band changed its name for every show—at various times they were called: Ashtray Babyheads, Nine Inch Worm Makes Own Food, Vodka Family Winstons, and the Inalienable Right to Eat Fred Astaire’s Asshole—until one fateful night. “We had a song called ‘Butthole Surfers,’ ” says Leary, “and the guy who was introducing us that night forgot what we were called and so he just called us the Butthole Surfers.” Since that was their first paying show, they decided to let the name stick. At the time—and for years afterward—one could barely utter the band’s name in public, and their name was often abbreviated in advertisements as “B.H. Surfers.

The King rubbed his chin with his scrawny little hand and said, “I agree. It’s quiet ... too quiet.” I laughed. “I’ve always wanted to have a reason to say that.” The King’s arm shot out and covered my mouth to silence me. “Well, you have a reason now. Is your life complete? Do you want to die?

Will Jimmy propose to Emma? I can’t say. Do you want that to happen?

Don’t laugh though.” “What do you mean?” said Emma. Biff didn’t say anything. He reached into his inventory and pulled out his bed and tossed it on the floor. I’m sorry, but I had to laugh. Emma laughed too. The bed had a blanket with a chicken face on it. His pillow case had the picture of a bunny rabbit on it. “Stop laughing! My mom got me the blanket and the pillowcase when I was little. Hurrr, I just never got around to replacing them.” I was still laughing and said, “No worries, Bro. Looks comfortable.” Emma, who had stopped laughing, yawned. It was contagious. Biff and I both yawned. “Okay, guys, I’m going to sleep. Good night,” said Emma. Biff and I both wished her good night and we each got into our beds and went to sleep. * * * I suppose it will come as no surprise to you that I was visited in my dreams that evening. One of the visitors I had almost expected. But the other…. The visitor I was more or less expecting to show up was, of course, the Rainbow Creeper. It appeared without any attempt to conceal itself in a mysterious form or behind a cloud of dream smoke. You know, the typical weird dream-type stuff. It spoke with the strange lilting voice that had been created when Claire had been joined to it. “Jimmy. I understand that you have rescued Emma from the witch.” “Yes, RC, I did. If Claire still has any independent memory, I hope she’s relieved.” There was a pause for a moment and then the Creeper said, “Yes, she is.” There was another brief pause and then the Rainbow Creeper changed the subject. “Have you had any luck locating Entity 303’s piece in Baby Zeke’s dimension?” I shook my head. “No, but this dimension’s Ender King, Herobrine, and Notch are working on ways to find it. We are going to establish a search party tomorrow using volunteers. It may take a while, but we will leave no stone unturned.” “Excellent,” said the Rainbow Creeper. “I’m sure Entity 303 will not be able to escape your reconnaissance.” “How are things going in my native dimension?” “They are still searching as well. No news.” The Rainbow Creeper was beginning to fade from my dream when I remembered. “Creeper? Wait a minute. Something else happened.” The Creeper’s form solidified again and it looked at me, its expressionless

People say to be like water and change with the times, but I prefer to be like a rock,” I said, puffing out my chest. “Unchanging. Unmoving.” “Hard-headed, you mean,” said Emma. “A man-baby, you mean,” said Lexa.

Guy was crazy tall, lean, and scruffy. With just his sandals and a richly colored pair of baggies on, he left little to the imagination. Needless to say,

Value your privilege. Love, honor, and respect these gifts you've been given. They can go as quickly as they came. Make sure they remain special.

The Ender King shook his head. “Herobrine, we were discussing our favorite colors of wool dye. Obviously what they have to say is more important.

She seemed sad and wise beyond her years. All the giddy experimentation with sex, recreational drugs, and revolutionary politics that was still approaching its zenith in countercultural America was ancient, unhappy history to her. Actually, her mother was still in the midst of it—her main boyfriend at the time was a Black Panther on the run from the law—but Caryn, at sixteen, was over it. She was living in West Los Angeles with her mother and little sister, in modest circumstances, going to a public high school. She collected ceramic pigs and loved Laura Nyro, the rapturous singer-songwriter. She was deeply interested in literature and art, but couldn’t be bothered with bullshit like school exams. Unlike me, she wasn’t hedging her bets, wasn’t keeping up her grades to keep her college options open. She was the smartest person I knew—worldly, funny, unspeakably beautiful. She didn’t seem to have any plans. So I picked her up and took her with me, very much on my headstrong terms. I overheard, early on, a remark by one of her old Free School friends. They still considered themselves the hippest, most wised-up kids in L.A., and the question was what had become of their foxy, foulmouthed comrade Caryn Davidson. She had run off, it was reported, “with some surfer.” To them, this was a fate so unlikely and inane, there was nothing else to say. Caryn did have one motive that was her own for agreeing to come to Maui. Her father was reportedly there. Sam had been an aerospace engineer before LSD came into his life. He had left his job and family and, with no explanation beyond his own spiritual search, stopped calling or writing. But the word on the coconut wireless was that he was dividing his time between a Zen Buddhist monastery on the north coast of Maui and a state mental hospital nearby. I was not above mentioning the possibility that Caryn might find him if we moved to the island.

Jimmy Slade exhibits a form of arrogance that I have not seen in many people. He believes that he is low-key and chill, as he might describe himself in his unlearned vernacular, but in reality he is constantly seeking attention and verification from outside sources regarding his abilities to fight and be viewed as ‘dominant,’ as he would say.” I crumpled the paper and threw it onto the floor. “That is not remotely true.

I’m not sure why people use that metaphor about springs when they are happy or excited. It seems a bit peculiar to me. Most springs are weight-bearing springs. They are not explosive activity springs. So, I’m just not quite sure where the metaphor comes from. Maybe it relates to rabbits hopping and people thinking they looked like a spring when they hopped? I don’t know. All that I know is that the saying applied to me this morning.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m learning to not want to be someone else, to just be who i am, as is, with nothing else added on. I’ve learned that I’m not the things I do, or don’t do; I’m not surfing or Buddhism or writing. And yet all those things are. And I am. And we have naturally run into each other like colliding atoms creating molecules as we sail on into the foggy mystery.

(Okay, guys, I have to stop here and talk about that expression “jump out of my skin.” Honestly, who comes up with these idioms? How could anyone jump out of their skin? If you jumped out of your skin and managed to stay alive you would be a skeleton or maybe a skeleton with some internal organs exposed to the air? It doesn’t make any sense. Basically, if someone actually had jumped out of his skin and survived, I am sure he would be known around the world.  It would be the most significant historical event in the history of jumping.  Everyone would know about it. Instead, it’s just some expression that people say when they mean to say they are really scared. Anyway, back to my diary.)

Hi! Has this ever happened to you? You’ve just finished the latest Dave the Villager book, and all you want to do is talk about it. Will Dave recover from the latest cliffhanger? Will Robo-Steve ever come back for good? Will we really have to wait until Book 50 to see the enderdragon??? So you go and see your friends at school, but all they want to talk about is Surfer Villager. “The Surfer Villager books are great,” they tell you. “You should check them out!” “Don’t talk to me about Surfer Villager!” you yell at them. “The Dave the Villager books are the only books I’ve ever read, and they’re the only books I ever will read! Dave Villager is the greatest author of all time!” “Wait,” they say, “isn’t Dave Villager the character, not the author?” “No, you morons,” you scream, “Dave Villager is the author, and Dave the Villager is the character!” “That’s very confusing,” they reply. “No it’s not!” you bellow, spraying them with spittle. “Is the author’s surname really Villager?” they ask. “Come to think of it, is his first name really Dave?” “Is Dr Block really a doctor?!” you roar. “I DON’T THINK SO!!!” “He might be,” they say. “SHUT UP!!!” you exclaim. And then you run home crying. When you get home, your Aunt Mavis gives you a big hug. “What’s the matter, dear?” Aunt Mavis asks. “Those idiots at school don’t know anything about Dave the Villager,” you sob, wiping the tears from your eyes. “All I want to do is find someone I can discuss my favorite books with. I want to discuss the mythology of the Old People, and whether it’s remained consistent throughout all 28 books! I want to debate whether or not Dave could have prevented the destruction of the mirror universe in Book 20! I want someone to read my Boggo fanfiction!” “Oh, I don’t know about any of that,” says Aunt Mavis. “I haven’t read any unofficial Minecraft fiction in years. I used to read Diary of an Angry Alex, but when the books stopped I was devastated. I vowed never to read any Minecraft books ever again. And that’s a promise I will keep until the day I die. Now I only read Roblox novels.

I felt my heart swell with pride. I pointed at Rupert. “Write that down for your book.” Then, I turned to the Ender King. “Thank you, Your Highness. Or should I say … Father?” The Ender King scowled at me. “Don’t push it.

I said, I guess I’ll just let Entity 303 turn me into his puppet.” The Ender King sat down in his throne and nodded his head sadly. “Maybe that’s what it is. Didn’t you say you had some visions of Entity 303 even before these dreams?” “Yeah, but Clayton’s Evoker basically told me that he had put those visions in my head just to scare me.

Oh, I forgot to tell you, Laird says he has to go to a funeral for one of his best friends in the real human world. Therefore, he will not be able to play Minecraft on what he calls “Saturday” which is the date for the next surf contest. Therefore, we will have to find a substitute.” I slapped my head. This was disastrous. Who the heck could we get to replace Laird, a professional surfer?

How do you say scone? Weird question. Anyway, I say, Sk-oh-n.

In order to get Otis and Bob up to speed about what had happened in my dimension, we traveled on foot for the first fifteen minutes of our journey toward the swamp.  Baby Zeke told them all about how he was pulled into another dimension during the blending and what we all had to do – and sacrifice – in order to stop the blending, save the Rainbow Creeper, and put a stop to Entity 303’s evil plan. “Yeah, that blending nonsense was crazy,” said Otis. “I thought you and Harold were dead for sure. I mean, one minute Bob and I are riding next to you and Harold, and the next minute you are missing and there is a giant pool of lava right in front of me. And, I was engulfed in a strange flash of yellow light!” “Yeah, I’m just glad I appeared near Jimmy and could contribute to the struggle against Entity 303 and the preservation of the Rainbow Creeper.” “This Rainbow Creeper thing sounds bizarre,” said Bob. “Is it really the shape of a creeper with a bunch of colors on its skin?” “It sure is,” said Baby Zeke. Otis looked at me and asked, “And your friend Claire was joined with the Rainbow Creeper when she grabbed the creation stone?” I took a deep breath and sighed. “Yes, she was.” I paused and wiped a tear from my eye. “But, at least she’s alive … hurrr ... in some manner. That’s why we need to save my friend Emma. I can’t lose another friend.” Otis thumped his chest. “A good friend is hard to find. I vow on my life that we will save your friend Emma. Saving people is what I do, even if I have to kill a thousand others to achieve it.” Weird flex, but ... okay. I guess the needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many in Otis’ worldview. I must say, Baby Zeke had really captured Otis

The next thirty minutes were the longest thirty minutes of my life. Well, I mean, that’s obviously not true. Time is a standardized unit of measurement. So thirty minutes is thirty minutes is thirty minutes, no? I guess what I mean to say is that my perception of those thirty minutes felt as though they lasted for several hours.

How many of us would sign up to visit a resort or vacation destination whose only advertising was “It’s beautiful, just perfect,” but provides us with no details? You have no idea what the resort looks like or what it offers. The ads may say it’s perfect—but perfect for whom? It may indeed be perfect—for hikers—but what if you’re not a hiker? Or it may be perfect for hunters or surfers, but what if you’re neither? What if it’s designed for senior citizens and you’re twenty-something, or for kids and you’re eighty?

North Shore is about this guy who's a graphic design student in Arizona and can only surf in a wave tank, but he's good enough to win a trip to Hawaii to surf the North Shore. When he gets there everybody makes fun of the kid from Arizona, like, why are you here? The kid asks this surfer, “What kind of board is that?” and the guy says, “A longboard. You'll never be able to ride one because you don't understand the history of surfing.” The kid from Arizona looks at it and says, “Well, that logo could use some work.” That was Dave's favorite line in the movie.

As one might say about sex, even bad bodysurfing is good bodysurfing.

Pro surfer. Sometimes you only need to hear someone say it out loud. Sometimes you only need to say it to yourself to make a dream come true.

And, as I stood there with my arms crossed being laughed at, I had to admit that the situation was silly … ridiculous, even. What sort of weirdo says ‘meh’ over and over again? But, it was the perfect word to describe how I was feeling at that moment: Meh.

You have to give yourself up completely to the ocean. Once you do that, you’ll become just an extension of it, and instead of fighting it, you’ll be part of it. Some of the top surfers even say they can predict where the ocean will go, how it will move, just by feeling.

Sammy started surfing big waves with Eddie and hanging out at the graveyard on occasion. “Over time I became friendly with the family and eventually ended up spending a lot of time with them,” Lee says. “I admired that family for their cohesiveness. And I got to know the father really well, and he became a personal friend of mine. He was easy to talk to, and he had a lot of aloha. The father was a really charismatic man. He wasn’t educated in the book sense but he was a charismatic individual, and he appealed to people from all walks of life, people from this country and other countries as well. You either loved the guy or you hated him. He was very blunt but very generous. His generosity knew no bounds if he liked you.” Pops welcomed Sammy into his family like a son because he was like an older brother to Eddie and the boys, taking them to the beach and looking out for them. Pops was also grateful to Sammy for introducing his sons to famous surfers like Fred Van Dyke and Peter Cole, who had taught Sammy (and his fellow surfers) at Punahou School. Like John Kelly, these men were champion big-wave riders and gods in Eddie’s eyes. For Sammy’s 25th birthday, Pops threw a party for him and invited