From: Luigi Semenzato (luigi@paris.CS.Berkeley.EDU)
 Subject: The Big Basin Horse and Windsurf Camp 
 Newsgroups: rec.windsurfing, rec.equestrian
 Date: 1994-10-22 20:43:22 PST 


THE BIG BASIN HORSE AND WINDSURF CAMP           Luigi Semenzato, 1994

My former girlfriend and I decided we should do something together.
`We could go camping' she proposed.

`Well... yes... we could... but the wind season is almost over and...'

`Oh, wait, I have to train my horses for the Pebble Beach show.'

`Right, exactly.'  Then I remembered something.  Across the highway
from the Waddell parking lot there is a gate, and a road that goes up
a valley.  A short drive on that road leads to a horse campground,
complete with stalls and plenty of space for trailers.  Now picture
this: a horse camp within walking distance of a prime wavesailing
location.  I told Martha; she was thrilled.  She made reservations,
and saturday morning early we packed two horses, two boards, seat
harness, head harness, buttpads, footstraps, uphauls, aroundhauls,
mouthhauls, food, and hay.  It took a while, but everything fit.  No
fear of mixing up items either.  Anything in leather or cloth or rope
was hers; anything in carbon fiber or neoprene or other high-tech
material was mine.  (I packed the spreader bar separately---I noticed
certain similarities and I didn't want it to end up in the horse's
mouth).  If there is confusion about an item, just smell it.

We left for the rugged California coast in one of the largest known
surfmobiles, a four-door, six-wheel pickup truck with a seven liter
engine and a horse trailer attachment.  The wind was still light at
Waddell when we arrived, so we made the following perfectly balanced
plan: in the morning I would ride one horse and Martha would ride the
other; in the afternoon I would sail and Martha would ride both
horses.  If you think windsurfers are obsessed, wait until you get one
of those horse freaks as your former girlfriend.

My horse skills are almost at par with my windsurfing skills.  I can
jibe and even tack a horse with complete confidence, assuming he
cooperates.  (This assumption is necessary to make any statement
whatsoever about a horse).  I'm not all that confortable with planing
on a horse yet; a light plane is okay (a little choppy, really), a
full plane is still tricky.  Unfortunately my horse was quite
overpowered, and I had to sheet in all the time to slow him down.
Yes, you got it right: to slow down you sheet in.  I could explain,
but it's complicated.  Eventually the conditions improved and the ride
got steadier.

The road followed the bottom of the valley, along Waddell Creek.  The
important landmarks were clearly marked.  `Tram Gulch?  What kind of
name is that?' I asked.

`Perhaps the loggers built a tram here.'

`Loggers?'

`You didn't read the historical information?  There was this guy,
Waddell, who owned a logging operation here.  He was killed by a
bear.'

`Oh, really.'

`It was one of the early victories for the environmentalists.'

`Indeed.'

When it was time to jibe, my horse didn't cooperate.  He likes to
explore and wanted to keep going.  This horse has a taste for freedom.
He started his career as a race horse.  He took early retirement, and
was sent to a pasture in Arizona, from which he escaped.  He joined a
pack of wild horses and was recaptured a year later.  As a show name
for him, Martha picked `Grazing Arizona.'  I don't have a show name
for my board yet.  Skeeter Eater?  Nah.

My board was patiently waiting at the campsite when we finally
returned.  I dismounted and collapsed, crippled by cramps.  I have
horse skills, but not horse muscles.  The thought of hitting salt
water helped me recover quickly.  I wolfed lunch down and drove the
giant surfmobile to the beach.  Wind!  Waves!  Sailors!  The ocean was
mine; the vast, roadless, dustless, horseless ocean.

I rigged a five-five.  A bit too large, but that was fine.  The waves
were small, and I had fun jibing on the inside, on silk-smooth water,
with the added thrill of not knowing if I would hit sand with the fin
and do the dreaded shallow-water faceplant; or if I would be
unexpectedly munged by a breaker as I concentrated on the sail flip.
I took frequent rests and walked up and down the beach, looking for
internet friends.  I had announced to the mailing list I would be
there, and a couple of people had replied.  Of course I didn't know
what they looked like, so I had to use the standard strategy: find a
candidate, greet him, ask casual questions, introduce myself.  My name
is uncommon and people recognize it easily.

But nobody took notice, and I felt a bit lonely.  At six the wind
began to drop.  People left, and the beach emptied.  A lone sailor
stood on wet sand, facing the setting sun.  I greeted him, standard
procedure.  I watched his eyes when I said `My name is Luigi.'  Behind
the eyes I saw his pattern matcher kick in and the search succeed.
The result emerged into his consciousness and the motor neurons
contracted his cheeks into a smile.  `Luigi!  I am Geoff!  Good to
meet you!'

`Are you the Geoff from foo dot bar dot com?'

`Yes!'

`What a coincidence!'  We discussed wind and electronics and I invited
him over to our campsite for dinner.

I drove back to the camp.  Martha was still out riding.  I wanted to
get out of the wetsuit but I decided to start the water for pasta
first.  The water faucet was a few sites away, and I walked to it and
back enjoying the curious stares from people and horses alike.  `What
a completely alien creature!' they must have been thinking.  I
couldn't find any matches so I borrowed some from our neighbors, in
exchange for a close-up look to my outfit, complete with vivid
descriptions of the coldness of the water and the roughness of the
waves and the bravery of the sailors, and mine in particular.

Martha arrived, and Geoff too, and we had a chatty dinner.  In
retrospect, it was an excellent idea to invite Geoff, because we had
forgotten our silverware, and he provided some.  In his well-equipped
surfmobile Geoff even had a gas stove, which we also borrowed because
ours was puny in comparison and it's unclear that it would have ever
brought the water to a boil.  I don't think Geoff was impressed by our
camping skills.

After dinner we sat in front of a big campfire and exchanged epic
windsurf and horse adventures.  Then Geoff left.  We returned to our
site.  The sky was heavily decorated.  Martha and I studied the Milky
Way and the clouds of dust on the galaxy plane.  Martha said: `This is
great.  Let's do it again in two weeks.'

`It's the end of the season.  There won't be any wind in two weeks.'

`Oh!'  She spoke no more, but her eyes, shining in the light from the
stars and the faraway fire, silently asked the unanswerable question:
why did he pick such an unreliable sport?
