COWAWAYCOOL ~ Local column 3-14-07
By Corky Carroll

Cowabunga! A couple of weeks ago I wrote a column about a milk truck that passed me on the 405 one day.  It had a big cow surfing on a wave and the word “Cowabunga” coming out of its mouth.  On further extensive journalistic research I found out that the Company with the cowtrucks has a website and also is having a contest to name the Cowabunga Cow.  My wife, the muy bontia Karlita, suggested that the cow should be named Corky.  As I ride cowcolored surfboards and udder the word Cowabunga all the time I had to agree.  So in the column I asked you, my wonder readers, to go to the website www.cowabungadude.com/ and vote for me to be named for the cow.  Corky the Cowabunga Cow.  It's a no brainer.  So far I have received a ton of mail from people who voted for me, but on the website there is no change.  I am not in the top ten vote getters yet.  So, any of you out there who have not voted yet, or any of you who have way too much time on your hands and nothing better to do, how about casting a vote for your favorite writer in the world, or me…. Whichever makes more sense, for Corky the Cow.

Writing about cows brought in some udderly, um, unusual emails. There are definitely kindred cow spirits in Orange County. My surfboard, spotted or not, pales in comparison to some of what I've found.

When I said that "Corky the cow has a nice 'ring' to it," I was not quite prepared to learn that one homeowner in the city of Orange has an 8 by 13 foot mural wall featuring a life-sized lady cow, a really BIG life-sized lady cow (as evidenced by the fact that she has adorned one of her udders with a gold hoop udder ring),  blowing pink udder-shaped bubbles into the air. They float across the wall and the ceiling to another wall where two baby cows are playfully popping them. A mother or sister or neighbor-lady cow, also life-sized, is walking out of the kitchen door, having just passed the cow refrigerator. I swear, I am not making this up.

If this part of the story is not weird enough, it gets stranger yet. I believe that I now have proof positive that there is a link between high intelligence and cow people. I've always known that I was a smart guy; after all, my third grade teacher Miss Pasture -- Miss Pasture? Pasture? Is there something eerie happening here? -- told my parents that I possessed superior abilities (so what if I wasn't living up to them?) And how does all of this fit in? Well, guess who owns the cow house? None other than the current Chairman of American Mensa. You know, Mensa, those high IQ folks who can leap high buildings with a single mathematical equation? Stop speeding bullets with their glabrous metacarpus? Yeah, those people. (www.us.mensa.org) And, yes, they are fully aware of what the word means in Spanish, so in Mexico the organization is called Mesa.

Here's how I figure it. If the head honcho of 55,000 geniuses has a house full of cows, it must say more than a simple MOO. It must speak to the genetic link between black and white spots and mental acuity.

I'm am recovering in Mexico from the recent family trip to Disneyland as I write this, but I've already told the muy bonita Karlita that we have to get quickly back to Orange County. Why?  Because this fabulous cow house has a FOR SALE sign in front of it. I figure that a 2774 square foot 5 BR/3 BA cow home would be a terrific place to mount that 1,000 pound concrete cow that I just might steal the next time I chug too much tequila. The 20,000 gallon trough in the back yard will be a great watering hole for my herd when they are not grazing the front lawn. It's located at 824 S. Greengrove Street in the city of Orange. If you want to see the wall art up close and personal, just walk up to the door, knock, and then say the magic words: "Corky the cow sent me."  Or, if you really want to get Mensa-ish, "My visit was effectuated by Corky the behemoth bovine." 

I'm bullish on cowhouses.

POUNDERS ~ The Wave 3-14-07
By Corky Carroll

The other day I was sitting here on my porch casually chit chatting with my pals Blue Dog and the Iguana and this guy shows up and starts telling us how he just had an epic session surfing at a spot called “Pounders.”  I had to laugh inside because I know that spot well.  It is not that well known though.  Not really what you would call a classic “secret spot,” but not really known out of the local area where it is.  And for that very reason I am not going to mention exactly it's localation.  Yes, I did just make up that word.  Localation.  It's kind of the not know location of a locals spot.  I like it.  What happened is that I misspelled location.  I made it “localtion.”  As I looked at it the metamorphous came to me.  Well, localation would be a good word.  So it be.  Consider it a new word.  Ahhhh, it's good to be king.  

Anyway, back to the story.  Pounders.  Pounders is a gnarly surfing spot that only breaks now and then and only on a certain direction of swell and only when it is really big.  But when it does it really pounds.  Hence the name. 
It is actually a shore break that doubles up over itself and just lets down hard in very shallow water over a hard flat sandbar.  Most of the time it is just a closed out shapeless nothing.  But when the direction is just in the exact right window it will form these wedge-like A-frame peaks that bend and just zipper up the beach like freight trains.   Almost like 'Pipeline” in Hawaii except with a sand bottom and not as perfect shape.  That is the one thing hard about surfing Pounders.  It can totally trick you.  You think you are taking off on a makeable wave and then it just sucks out and literally “pounds” you into the ground like a nail.  But sometimes it holds up and when you get one of those it is the real deal.  What we would call a “screaming barrel.”  That is because when you make on of those babies you come out screaming.  But then, come to think of it, sometimes you come out screaming when you don't make it too.  Just a different kind of scream.  One is exhilaration and the other is horrible terrifying pain.  But one way or another you are probably going to scream.   Actually, coming to think of it even more, they should really rename this place “Screaming Pounders.”  

So this brings me to my last experience surfing at that spot.
It was not that long ago and it was a huge, mackingly huge at that, day.  Wow, another good word.  “Mackingly.”  You get soooo much more for your money with this column folks.  Anyway, it was really, really, really big.  Almost too big for Pounders.  

I walked down the beach with my 7'6” fat wide cow-twin fin.  About as wrong a board for that place as you could want.  But what the heck.  There was one guy out and I waited for about 30 minutes for him to catch a wave.  When he didn't I got tired of waiting and paddled out.  When I got out there he told me he had only caught one wave all day and had made it.  But he was scared and wanted to make sure he caught just the right one to go in on.   Nonetheless I was stoked that this was going to be an epic day and I was going to have it all to myself.

  
The big mistake I made was deciding that this huge monster wave that came through was going to be the first of many “screaming barrels” for me.   It looked perfect as I got in position to take off.  And maybe it would have been if only I had waxed the rails of my board just a little bit better.  I stroked into this thing perfectly and penetrated the face as I went to stand up and make the drop.  But just as I did my right hand slipped off the rail and I did a chin plant right into my deck.  Right at that second I got launched into space by the lip and sucked violently over the falls like a salmon headed downstream at Niagara Falls.  No barrel for me baby.  Ka-WHAMMM.  I did the rag doll for about twenty seconds and left my body impression on the bottom. 
When I got to the beach I was seeing stars and none of them were Jennifer Love Hewitt or Angela Jolie.  They were Saturn and Jupiter and Mars.  And what I was doing was closer to a whimper than a scream.

That was my last experience at Pounders, and possibly could be my last experience ever at Pounders.  I am not really down for being “pounded” anymore at this point in my life.