Session Log | Semi-Secret Location, Malibu

My sister Haley; the middle of my three younger sisters, was living with her husband and tiny daughter in Oxnard, or ‘the Nard’ in local parlance.  My brother-in-law was stationed at a Naval base in the area and it had become something of a custom during their time in California for me to make the trip up from Los Angeles and meet them for lunch on Sunday afternoons.  I worked at a bar Saturday nights, closing shift; on a typical night I’d lock the bar door after a 9 hour shift at 3 am, then make the short walk across the street to my apartment.  A crosswalk had even been installed to ensure my safety in the wee hours for my brief commute.  After a long night of making drinks and talking or, more often yelling, I was wired.  It would be 4 or 5 before I could nod off then, like clockwork, I’d be up at 9.

This left me just enough time to stuff my moldy wetsuit in an ancient Navy surplus store bag (missing one strap), fill my water bottle, and grab my trusty 6’5” single fin shaped by a dude with a garage bay over on Micheltorena.  I’d load up the ‘89 Toyota Van-wagon, say a little prayer over the vehicle, then make for County Line, but not before stopping by my local for coffee.  I’d make a careful selection from my vast store of CDs (usually a bop jazz album, usually Misterioso), and head west on the 10.  Emerging onto the PCH from the hectic freeway and turning north along the water was one of the highlights of my week.  Had I been tired, I suddenly felt rested.  If I was sad, I instantly became upbeat; especially if the winds were light and there were signs of energy in the water.

One day in particular stands out; sometime in early Summer of 2017.  It was one of those magical Southern California days when the air is clear and warm and completely still.  The ocean on these days is so glassy it almost looks like an oil slick.  There was a little swell running; a combo swell so the beach breaks were working especially well.  The only drawback on these days are the crowds.  Topanga and Malibu were completely overrun as usual, but I began to worry when passing Leo Carillo and the standard crowd of 20 had swelled to 50; all huddled in the same tiny takeoff zone near the rock.  ‘County is going to be a zoo,’ I thought.  After confirming my suspicions, I steered the van toward a semi-secret beach we’d been surfing over the years.  Probably not so much a secret as it is difficult to access. I parked and walked out to the overlook to find two guys splitting chest high, shapely peaks.  One of them was getting in early on his mid-length, gaining quite a bit of momentum off the rolling takeoff and driving down the line going left, then laying into a full rail cut back.  After witnessing a couple such turns I raced back to the van to gather my effects.

Despite the lack of sleep and taxing work the previous night, I felt robust and eager to hunt a few peaks.  It was often so on Sundays after the late shifts; as if the heightened state from the shift carried over into the next day.  By Sunday evening though I was completely toast, just tried to make sure I was home by then.

I carefully made my way down the goat trail; my ancient Sperrys not providing much footing on the precipitous path.  ‘Probably would be better off barefoot,’ I muttered to myself.  A little cleft in the rocks provided a changing nook; not that there was any need for privacy on the empty beach.  The blazing sun felt invigorating on my bare skin so used to flannels and wetsuits.  I watched a couple more waves from the sand and realized the surf was in fact better than I’d seen it in a while.  It seemed as if some sand had filled in over the reef and added a little suspense to the outside section.  One of the two guys, himself on a diminutive mini-Simmons type shape, took off on a steep one, stuck a late drop and crouched into a little cover up.  I skipped the stretching and made a run for the water.

It was such a great day that, I decided, even if I didn’t catch one wave it would still be a success just to be out there what with all the sunshine and shimmering Pacific.  A wave eventually presented itself and, given I had gone to all the trouble to put on my wetsuit and descend the hill, I turned and made a go of it.  Lumpy as it seemed it gave my 6’5” a surprisingly forceful push and I found myself up and riding before it ledged over the reef.  Swinging off the bottom, my 8 ½ inch Liddle flex fin sprung me back up into the pocket and I sailed down the line at full trim, putting the board on a rail at the shoulder and cutting back to the foam ball.  Here the action stalled for a moment as I rode atop the foam awaiting the inside section to stand up.  Sure enough, it did and I happened to be in a most fortunate place right in the pocket.  I didn’t have to do anything but crouch a bit and feel the water wrap around me.  Leaning back a bit to insert myself in the most interesting part of the wave, I noticed directly in my line of travel two kids wading out into the water.  They shrieked with joy at the sight of a skinny bearded man looking so focused on such a small wave.  I milked the inside for every last drop of energy until it imploded on the shallow sands sending my person and the single fin upon dry land.

I gathered my stick and headed back out for more.

I gave the other guys priority; they were there first after all, usually letting them have their pick of the set waves before taking one of the leftovers.  On one wave mid session I found myself trimming down the line in the general direction of the shortboarder, who was paddling back out.  I came into the shoulder full speed and put all my weight (150 lbs) into a cutback wrapping all the way back into the whitewater.  Something about the design of that single fin; probably the subtle continuous rocker, facilitated this maneuver and made it easier than anything I’d ever ridden.  It was as if the board naturally wanted to do that turn and I just happened to be on top of it.  Reaching the lineup again the guy on the short stick, apparently a custom 5’8” by Manny Mandala, indicated my board and remarked, ‘the older I get the more I think about getting something with a bit more foam.’

‘Not a bad idea, I’m glad I’ve got this thing for when I’m feeling a little tired.’

‘Or hungover.’

‘Or hungover,’ I agreed, ‘and tired.’ 

I was about to say something when he took a wave.

Paddling back out he commented, ‘sorry to cut you off…that’s how it works in surfing though right? Your friend can be like ‘I just found out my dad has cancer,’ then a wave comes and you’re like ‘ah that sucks, hold on man!’

A very true sentiment at which we both laughed.

‘Where do you guys live?’

‘We’re both in Venice.  You?

‘Sivlerlake.’

‘Oh I love Silverlake, we were just at a show at El Cid and got drinks at El Condor after.’

‘No shit!  I work at Condor.’

‘No shit!  That place is great.’

We exchanged notes on our respective neighborhoods; in some ways they could be interchangeable.  One is close to the beach, the other has hills and some fine music venues, but we agreed both have great restaurants, bars, cafes, record stores.  Both, for example, had a Mollusk surf shop - very telling for those familiar with that niche of the surf culture.  Before I knew it we were spending more time chatting about our favorite drinking establishments than actually catching waves, hatching plans to meet up at one spot or another.  It was the complete antithesis of the usual LA County weekend surf.  Fun waves with only two guys out who turned out to be fairly agreeable.

After a couple hours I realized I was going to be later than usual for the weekly lunch date with my sister.  Bidding the guys farewell I found one last wedge.  By this time familiar with the reef I stalled a bit after dropping in delaying my bottom turn.  Letting the flex fin really load up and spring my grey 6’5” back up to the lip where I snapped what felt like a powerful top turn but must have looked most unimpressive to the casual observer.  

I changed in the sun then carefully rolled an overstuffed splif, burning it very slowly so as to soak up every last possible warming ray before scrambling back up the goat trail to my old jalopy.  The drive north along the PCH that sunny afternoon was pure joy.  I had no need of the radio; just the sound of the rushing wind and the sight of the Pacific blue stretching out to eternity.  Eventually though I rustled around for an old CD, the Byrds I think it was, and drove into Ventura a thoroughly happy, sunburnt man.

Tenons | To Hand Cut or Machine

I love working with hand tools. The quiet, lack of pulverized sawdust, their simple beauty; what’s not to love! But I also must produce furniture to pay the bills and when there’s a deadline I have to make it (or at least come close). So when it comes to things like cutting tapers and thicknessing stock, I opt for the machines. I’m not saying these tasks can’t be completed with hand tools-I’ve done it-I’m just saying that, for me at least, it’s much quicker to put table legs on the taper jig and run them through the table saw than to bust out the hatchet and fore plane. But when it comes to cutting tenons (and even mortises) for one or two pieces, I find I save no time by machining.

You don’t need a whole lot of tools to cut accurate tenons. A sharp chisel, marking gage and some sort of back saw (with a steel spine on the back of the blade) with get you through. One other item that is very helpful, but not absolutely necessary, is a router plane. I begin by establishing the depth of my tenon. In today’s case, I was cutting 1” deep tenons. Once you’ve got that number, you simply set your trusty gage to the desired depth and, referencing the fence against the end grain of the leg, mark all 4 sides of the stock. This provides the line at which the tenon shoulders will be cut. Once all four sides are marked, I usually go over them again scoring the line deeper, then create a ‘knife wall’ by paring into the line with my chisel from the waste side. This sets up a groove for your saw to run in when cutting the shoulders.

Time to mark the tenon thickness. It’s best to aim for a standard dimension; a size that you have a chisel or drill bit in for ease of cutting matching mortises. These legs need beefy tenons, so I opted for 3/4”. Now is a good time to have a mortise gage (2 pins are on the beam to match thickness), but I don’t. So, I simply determine how much to measure in from each side to arrive at 3/4” and mark along the long grain, across the end grain, and back down the long grain to my knife wall. Do this on both sides. Then, follow the same procedure to establish the tenon length. At this point, it should look like the photo below.

tenon completely laid out

Now it’s time to make some cuts. I start by cutting the cheeks along the length. In my case, I’m using a Japanese pull saw, so I start at the far corner, establish a groove, then work the saw until it’s cutting all the way across the end grain to the waste side of the line. Keep everything to the waste side of the line. Once a groove along the end grain is cut, I begin cutting down along my gage line to the near side without letting the saw leave the far side of the groove. Once I’ve cut down to my shoulder line, I’ll have formed something of a triangular cut running from the shoulder line to the far corner. I finish the cut through to the other side.

1st portion of the ‘triangular’ cut

Once the cheeks along the length of the tenon are cut, I cut them across its thickness using the same technique as above, keeping a sharp eye on my shoulder line making sure I don’t go past. Once this is finished it should look like the photo below.

tenon cheeks cut

Now all I have to do is cut the shoulders which is easy enough what with the knife wall I created ahead of time. The knife wall ensures that my shoulders have crisp edges as the saw has a track to run in and the fibers at the surface have already been scored and broken. I make cuts on all fours sides, levering out the waste as I go. Within 5 minutes I’ve established clean, square shoulders.

Now is the stage where having a router plane really pays off. The tool has no equal when truing up tenons because you can reference the fence to the surface of the stock (hopefully flat and true) and take cuts to a set depth pairing right down to your layout lines. Then while fitting the tenon to the mortice, if it’s too thick, simply take a pass or two with the router plane.

Sadly, many woodworkers are without this beautiful tool (although you can find a good one for $50 at a swap meet). You have two other options for fine tuning tenons; pairing away waste with a chisel (effective but inaccurate), or you can make your own router plane, which I have done. There are several ways to go about it, but the simplest I’ve come across is Paul Sellers ‘poor mans router plane’ of which he’s got a tutorial on YouTube. It’s ingenious. Essentially one drills a hole 1/16” smaller than their chisel of choice into a piece of stock roughly 1”T x 3”W x 12”L. The hole passes through the stock at a 30 degree angle, then the chisel is driven through it, biting into the undersized hole. If all goes well the chisel blade should come out the bottom with its 30 degree bevel running parallel to the bottom of the stock. Depth of cut can be adjusted by driving the chisel further into the stock or backing it out.

Session Log | 5/5/19

I had been out of the water for 6 weeks due to some health issues.  That may not sound like very long to someone who doesn’t surf and is free of the addictive behavior it inspires in certain individuals.  But for said individuals for whom surfing is more than a mere pastime, 6 weeks without getting in the water is an eternity.

I was waiting for the right day; fun sized waves and light winds, hopefully some sunshine.  I knew I wasn’t 100 percent yet, but no telling when I would be-maybe another 6 weeks! Sunday looked good; a 2-4 foot steeply angled south swell was due to light up the points and reefs of Malibu.  

My buddy Don was house sitting in Calabasas and said he would catch a Lyft down to the PCH; I would pick him up at Malibu Bluffs State Park at 9:45.  The drive west on the 10 was not promising-clouds and fog. But once I got to the PCH it was all glorious sunshine. I drove in awe as if making my way up that fabled thoroughfare for the first time.  I showed up at 9:45 and texted Don. At ten til I called him. ‘I’m 8 minutes out, sorry!’ He said. No worries. I spent a few minutes stretching in the parking lot as cyclists and hikers pulled in and sorted their gear.  I did some yoga. Got bored, checked my phone. A message from Don; ‘sorry I’m actually 15 minutes out not 8, stupid Google maps!’ Yes, Google maps, so stupid.

Wait, I thought, 15 minutes from when?  Now? After 30 minutes or so of doing yoga, stretching, and checking Instagram, Don pulled up with his girlfriend Lauren; quite possibly the coolest, nicest girlfriend of a buddy I’ve ever known.  ‘Sorry! Sorry, sorry,’ Don kept saying. ‘It’s cool man’ I said, ‘gave me time to stretch.’ We caught up for a few minutes then hit the road for the final stretch to #redacted#. The winds seemed reluctant to come up; which was good considering it was already 10:30.  

Arriving at #redacted# the waves looked a little closed out; the tide was full and most of the peaks were shut down-dumping shore break.  We patiently watched for a few minutes and were rewarded with a beautiful set that hit the point at the bluff, reeling for 50 yards or so as some lucky rider expertly piloted his short board through the various speed pockets.  3 or 4 waves followed in similar fashion. We had yet to hear from Nick and Kenny (who were coming to meet us), but we fired off a transmission that simply read ‘#redacted# looks fun!’ And began to wax boards and change into wetsuits.  

The brothers (Nick and Kenny are brothers) joined us shortly and we all marched down to the bluff.  I was eager to get in the water of course having been out so long on a forced sabbatical, but also because I had purchased a new wetsuit; which apparently was quite effective as I was burning up there on the shore.  Not to mention I was due to meet my sister at church in a couple hours. My previous wetsuit (which served honorably for 4 years), had become quite worn out and during its last season in service I ended each session due to excessive shivering.  It was May, but the water was still a cool 58 degrees, so I was shocked when I plunged in with my new Nine Plus Japanese neoprene wetsuit and didn’t feel a thing. No piercing cold rush that makes you momentarily dizzy. I paddled out to the lineup, sat up, and felt as warm as I do in the cafe as I write.

Now to catch and attempt to ride a wave.  I had no idea how this would go but was optimistic.  Five minutes after reaching the lineup a 3 foot wedge popped up before me; I spun around, took a couple strokes, and quickly realized it was a bit of a late takeoff as the wave wedged and quickly pitched on the shallow reef.  I didn’t have the reaction time or the strength to compensate, and wound up riding the swell, shamefully, on my belly.

I paddled back out thoroughly deflated, checking out of the corner of my eye to see if the guys had noticed my colossal fumble of a perfectly good right.  They seemed oblivious as usual. One of my favorite things about surfing is that it’s full of second chances. You bungle one wave and are momentarily defeated, but after a few minutes you completely forget about it and take the wave of the day.  Or just an average wave that makes your day, whatever. I never remember the bad waves, but the great ones I will never forget.

Don caught a set wave and laid down a couple high speed, stylish turns on his 5’4” quad.  I decided to be a little more careful in my wave selection for the remainder of the session. Letting a couple go that I wasn’t so sure about, I finally found wide open, well shaped corner.  This time I was in good position and the wave allowed an extra split second to get to my feet. I took a conservative approach; drawing a line high on the wave, gaining speed, before making a bottom turn and sending myself back to the lip.  The wave sectioned ahead of me and I kicked out with butterflies in my stomach.

I passed Kenny on the way back out.  He was sitting wide of the pack on his own peak.  We gave each other a nod. I’d had some of my best sessions in the last year at a spot around the corner with him.  I contemplated those as I made my way back to the boiling takeoff zone.

Nick and I got to catch up for the first time in months.  He recently put in his notice at the job he’s held for over a decade; his painting career having taken off in the last year, and with solo show and art residency in the coming months he figured it was time to take the plunge.  I couldn’t be more thrilled for the guy having watched him ply his trade for so long, doing the occasional show and patiently waiting for his time.

Of course I couldn’t resist interrupting him a couple times during our conversation to take some of the wedging rights that consistently rolled through.  With each wave I got a little more confidence-making more turns, staying closer to the pocket. I was stoked just to be out there, and especially stoked not to be freezing.

I had to cut my session short to get to church, but was satisfied (and pretty beat) after an hour chasing peaks and avoiding rocks.  I caught a racing insider and washed in on the warm sand.

I was 30 minutes late for church, but it was worth it.  And anyway I blamed it on Don.

Nicholson Bench | Planing Top/Fitting Vise

Building a bench is a demanding, laborious task. The parts are heavy and, once it’s together, the result is a behemoth, at least in my case. Then you have to plane it flat and install a heavy steel vise or two. To tell the truth I knocked my bench together and then privately celebrated by letting it sit unused and in the way in the middle of the assembly area of my shop. It actually started to become an issue once I had an order of larger pieces to build. A friend dropped by and we relocated it to its intended space along one wall.

But it still wasn’t done. In its present state the bench was just a massive table, and so it would remain until I gathered the resolve to stay late one evening and plane the top, install the vise and drill holes for the bench dogs. I also decided to paint the base. Three species of wood had gone into building the bench and there was too much going on visually. I figured by painting the base in a navy blue the stark contrast of the color would unify the alder aprons and fir top. It worked, I think. Well anyway I had some paint that had been laying around so no money was lost.

Flattening the top was pretty straightforward; the fir was easy under my old Stanley no. 6 plane. In a couple of hours I had it flat enough for my taste. I’ve never been one for flattening tops to within a thousandth of an inch, nor have I understood the inclination. Installing the vintage Record vise, which should have been straightforward, proved otherwise. I was able to disassemble it easily enough, then drilled holes in the apron that would allegedly correspond with the lead screw and stabilizing bars. In theory, all that was left was to slide the front of the vise into the back that was mounted under the bench top.

flattening the top-a chore best done when not tired

Not the effortless task I had imagined. I tried it every which way and the damn thing-which was heavy-would not slide in. I finally realized the holes were a hair too small. A ridiculous situation considering there was no benefit to having closely sized holes, they would never be seen. I chiseled away the offending wood and eventually slid the vise home.

the vintage Record vise, made in England

Finally all that was left was drilling holes in the 3 1/4” thick top for the bench dogs and holdfasts (devices that hold a work piece steady while planing, chopping, etc.). Once I located my 3/4” auger bit the job was a cinch. Within an hour I’d laid out and bored 28 holes all the way through.

So now, 5 years after purchasing lumber for the base, I have completed a proper workbench that will last the rest of my career and lifetime. Hopefully I’ll pass it to the kids, once I have some that is. Although there are a few changes I’d make to the design; I’ll probably start another in the coming year to be complete in 2024.

Nicholson Bench | Fitting The Aprons

Many of the design concepts for this bench were borrowed from Paul Sellers’ English bench as laid out in his video series (which is free and I highly recommend). One of the most brilliant details was his idea to create tapered housing dados in the aprons where the legs of the base are fitted. The taper allows a wedge to be driven adjacent to the leg which keeps the assembly solid, even as the legs move a bit with seasonal moisture changes. If the legs shrink, the wedges simply drop down a bit further into the housing.

Paul’s video on the dado cutting portion of the job is 25 minutes long, in real life the task took much longer. Unfortunately for me I had exceptionally wide legs-which would mean exceptionally wide recesses in my equally broad aprons. In short, I had my work cut out for me.

a well fitted wedge in its housing

I could set up a router; make a jig and cut each one with surgical accuracy. But the inspiration for the design having come from a prominent hand tool woodworker the router didn’t seem in keeping with the spirit of the design. Instead I laid out and cut the recesses by hand, just as Paul did, except mine took quite a bit longer than 25 minutes. They came out clean and of even depth all the same, and I finally got to make use of the vintage Stanley router plane I’d picked up at a hand tool swap meet.

I then cut the matching recesses in the legs, glued up the leg assemblies, and made the wedges. Lifting the aprons into place and fitting them to the legs; driving the wedges home and feeling the strength of the assembly was as satisfying a task as any.

Couldn’t find anyone to swing by the shop and help lift the bench tops into place (which must weigh as much as I do), so in a combined feet of strength and engineering I managed them into position solo. My back is a little sore but the bench is nearly done.

the (very heavy) bench tops and aprons in place and laminated together

Nicholson Bench Build

Five years ago I bought a pile of 12/4 ash with the intention of building a new workbench in the French Roubo style. The lumber was just for the base, because it was all I could afford at the time. Having no machines yet I had the yard mill it to dimension (2 3/4” x 5”) and then picked it up in my 1980 Mercedes wagon (red). Just back in Los Angeles after several years in NY, I was eager to get my own furniture practice up and running; I had a garage, some saw benches, a lot of hand tools and several books dedicated to making furniture by hand. I studied the books by night and worked on the bench by day. The first thing you learn in such books is that, if you’re going to build furniture by hand, you’re going to need a good workbench. By the time I ran out of money and had to take a full time woodworking position, I’d trimmed everything to length and cut all the joinery for the base.

My business grew; but making orders and building custom pieces took every spare moment and before I knew it the pieces for my base had become supports for various items around the shop. I finally got a break this month and decided to pick up where I’d left off. The only problem was that my tastes had changed; I didn’t want a French Roubo bench anymore. I’d fallen for the English Nicholson with it’s wide aprons and lighter engineering. After much thought and a few drawings I decided I could still incorporate the original base into the design.

The base was more or less ready for assembly, but I still had to find lumber for the top and aprons. This is easy enough if money is no issue; you simply run to the hardwood lumber yard and pick up a load of beech or maple. But even for the cheapest species of hardwood I was looking at almost $500 to finish the bench. I’d read a few blog posts by noteworthy woodworker/designers, however, about building a Nicholson bench with humble framing lumber from the Borg. To the Borg I went.

I knew Home Depot and Co were off limits…any large, busy yard would have nothing but soaking wet lumber fresh from the mill. No, I would have to find an out of the way, forgotten yard where no one ever goes and the timbers have been sitting around drying for years. I knew just the place; Eagle Rock Lumber and Hardware. I made the short drive from Silver Lake and sure enough, as I stood alone in the vast lumber yard I came upon a stack of almost clear douglas fir 4x4s, bone dry. I couldn’t believe it; not only was the lumber at an agreeable moisture content, but it was actually quality stuff-tight grained and relatively knot free. Overcome by excitement I blurted to a very bored looking staff member ‘you guys have some really good stuff here!’ He didn’t share my excitement.

I purchased 9 4x4s and 4 2x8s each 8 feet in length. It was heavy work getting all that dense heartwood up to the shop, but it had been a long time since I’d handled framing lumber and it felt good to stack it all and begin milling the 4x’s for tops and 2x’s for aprons. The tops are laminated. They are in two 13” sections (maneuvering a 26” wide by 3 1/4” thick slab alone is not an option for me), and the aprons have been milled and laminated as well.

roughing out the dado

I began cutting the dados in the aprons that will fit over the 5” wide legs of the base. I did them completely by hand because making a router jig to make 4 cuts didn’t seem worth the effort. Plus after all the milling it’s nice to chisel and shave with the homemade router plane. It’s amazing how well the plane works and it took about 15 minutes to make. I got the idea from the British woodworker/writer Paul Sellers whose teachings on hand tool woodworking are priceless.

‘Poor Man’s Router’ a la Paul Sellers

The first dado took over an hour, which was disheartening. But I quickly adapted and was able to cut the other three in less than 2 hours. I borrowed one other idea from Sir Sellers; my dados are wider than the legs and tapered on one side to allow for a wedge. As I work at the bench any wracking in the base will simply draw the wedge down further into its housing, locking the bench together ever tighter. Now all that’s left is to cut the recesses on the legs themselves and assemble the thing. Stay tuned for updates.

cleaned up and ready to house the leg for assembly

Displacement Hull Satori

Recently a buddy of mine relatively new to surfing, who was looking for another board, sent me a link to a Craigslist ad for a 7'0" displacement hull shaped by a man named Bojorquez who made boards in Malibu in the '70s.  I had a vague notion of what exactly a displacement hull was and what sort of waves it was intended for, but the sled was so attractive and the price so good that I told him to jump on it.  He picked it up; turned out the girl selling it lived down the street, and I came over for a beer and a small celebration of the new purchase.

I could tell from my limited shaping experience and years riding various boards, that this stick was different from anything I'd ever seen; but the differences were subtle.  The one thing I knew about hulls is that the bottom contour was not flat or concave like the traditional modern shape.  It is shaped like a boat hull; convex forming either a V or a 'belly' down the length of the board.  My knowledge of the design pretty much ended there.  I had, I would soon learn, very misplaced notions of what this translated to in terms of how the board would perform.  It looked cool, that much was for sure.  Very foiled, thin rails gave the old shape a 'bladey' feel; giving the impression that despite its length and width it would act very nimbly in the surf.

Greg Liddle's iconic 'Death Machine,' a well refined hull design

I was excited for my buddy, but I was also naturally very stoked myself to trade boards with him and give the thing a go.  Just looking at it I could picture myself making smooth, artful turns in the pocket and cutbacks on the shoulder.  Months went by; the waves were flat, my friend had to work or was out of town on camping trips.  He put a crack in the rail and had to take it to a shade tree ding repair service run by an eccentric Brazilian man.  His service was cheap and good but required extreme patience.  Finally, this weekend we picked up the sled from the Brazilian (putzing around his shop as he applied the final touches), and headed to a South Bay reef break for some fun, chest high combo swell. 

I was riding my 6'5" single fin and having a fun day.  Lots of easy takeoffs into long, top to bottom walls that allowed for three or four turns.  After an hour I was starting to feel pretty good about myself.  Not in a cocky way, just in a 'thank the Lord I still have it' sort of way.  About that time my buddy, we'll call him Esteban, asked me if I wanted to trade.  Brimming with confidence I immediately agreed, convinced I was about to put on a display of first class displacement hull finesse.  

the inspiration for this post: Bojorquez 'Malibu Special' displacement hull

The highly foiled rails felt good as I sat astride the red tinted wave slider.  A set came, I let the first couple smaller waves pass then took a beautiful shoulder high left.  The board paddled well with its low, flat rocker and I got into the wave early.  'This is it!'  I thought, 'this is where I make those soulful arcing turns I've seen in videos of guys like Jimmy Gamboa on displacement hulls.'  The line I took was basically the same as I had with my 6'5", angling down the line to beat the steep upcoming section.  However, instead of taking off, allowing me to pump and gain speed, the red hull seemed to have its own plan in mind.  It sort of pearled, lost speed and drifted out the back of the wave.  I watched in terror as the shapely left peeled away unridden.  My buddy saw the whole thing.  This was a setback to be sure, not to mention a ding to my confidence, but I paddled back to the lineup with determination.  I would master the hull by sessions end.

The next three or four waves unfolded in almost the exact same inelegant maneuver.  I teetered between returning the board before the session was completely ruined, or pressing on until I made one good wave.  At this point, though, I was freezing and tired and decided to cut my losses.  This sort of thing happens all the time in surfing (and life in general); you paddle in completely defeated, feeling you've come up against a ceiling in your abilities.  But, as always, on the drive home, and later that evening the discouragement turned into an insatiable hunger to summit the mountain so to speak.

Joel Tudor knows how to keep a hull in the pocket

Getting on towards evening I did something I'd never done before; googled how to ride a certain type of shape.  I would have signed up for a class if I could at that moment.  Luckily, surfers being rather obsessive types, there was a wealth of information on the subject of displacement hulls and how to ride them.  I learned about how the bottom contour, rail design, and foam distribution work together to create a highly refined machine.  But one that requires a very specific technique and style of wave.  The shaper of this particular board, Bojorquez, lived in Malibu and primarily rode the cobblestone right hand points of the area.  Waves like Topanga, Malibu, Point Dume and occasionally Rincon.  He designed this shape to excel in small to medium, top-to-bottom pointbreaks.  The hull shape in the bottom makes the tail of the board sink into the wave the faster it goes, as opposed to a more standard modern shape that gets up on a plane and will go as fast as the wave will allow.  This means unless you're in the most critical section of the wave; the pocket, going straight down the line is not an option-the board will pearl as it had on my first attempt.  Instead the pilot must keep it on a rail; racing to the bottom of the wave, committing to full rail bottom turns to gather power and speed while angling for the pocket.  The rails are foiled so thinly to act as auxiliary fins, slicing into the wave and holding a line.

hull adherent Alex Kopps, putting it on a rail at full speed, Rincon

To be honest, this is an oversimplified take on the art of riding a displacement hull written by a novice.  I suppose the lesson here is sometimes trying something new, not being afraid to look like a kook, is just what's needed to rekindle a passion.  Even though I made a complete fool of myself that day I experienced a feeling that I hadn't in a long time; a hunger to learn and get back out in the water to try and reach the seemingly unattainable.  I experienced it as a kid in Florida learning to hit the lip, in high school when first going on trips to surf heavier waves in Central America, and finally in Hawaii while I lived there after college where my peers pushed me to surf in the most critical conditions of my life.  Get out and experiment, free yourself up from 'looking good,' it'll keep you stoked.

Ilmari Tapiovaara | The Peoples' Designer

When people think of Finnish furniture design, the first name that comes to mind is probably Alvar Aalto.  If not, then Artek, Aalto's company he eventually founded and, with his talented wife, grew to international recognition.  Most likely though, Ilmari Tapiovaara is not a name that would jump to the front of you're average design enthusiasts consciousness.  Which is a shame, because Tapiovaara, though with an admittedly much harder name to pronounce, was arguably every bit the designer Aalto was, though he devoted much of his efforts to ensuring the common worker could have access to good design, not just the wealthy man.

the 'Mademoiselle Chair'

This was, in part, due to the fact that Ilmari got his start during lean times in Finland; WWII and its aftermath.  His countrymen had little means with which to furnish their homes, and he refused to believe that good design had to be expensive.  In this he wildly succeeded; beginning with his stackable 'Domus' chair.  A stylish, affordable chair made from bent laminated parts, it was sold throughout Europe and even shipped to the States by the millions through the '50s and '60s.  It is rumored they can still be found just kicking around general stores in out of the way towns in Texas and the Midwest.

Ilmari demonstrating the stackable 'Domus Chair'

One could say Tapiovaara's career hit a high mark when he was asked to lead a UN Development program helping developing countries to design products to be manufactured there.  He was thus sent to the tropical island of Mauritius, resulting in the photo below.

Ilmari in Mauritius

Ilmari may have spent his career and its aftermath in the shadow of Finland's most beloved designer, but Alvar Aalto was still his hero and a source of inspiration to him.  In fact, one could say he embodied Aalto's philosophy of 'democratic design' more than Alvar himself.  Doing more to put good design in the average household than any other designer in his time.  In any event, there are too many great designers from Finland to have just one as a household name...

Production

One of the toughest things for a small furniture designer/maker to master is production and all it entails; efficiency, pricing...uh, well that about covers it really.  I suppose what it comes down to is figuring out how to make the same piece over and over quickly enough for it to make economic sense (so you don’t have a $3,000 dining chair on your hands), while maintaining quality and-this is very important-some sense of enjoyment in the work.  No one wants to be an automaton making the same cut on the table saw 100 times a day or any such nonsense.

roughing out a spindle on the table saw

For me this has always meant employing hand tools wherever I can.  They’re quiet for one thing-I can hear my music-but they also impart a connection to the work that’s hard to replicate with a machine.  Like riding a bicycle versus driving a car.  Then there’s quality; it’s difficult-some would say impossible-to produce work of a level that well tuned hand planes, spokeshaves and scrapers can achieve with an orbital sander.  It’s an altogether different product that I’m not really convinced the average consumer notices, but I’d rather plane and scrape any day than stand around with a noisy sander.  Then there’s the freedom hand tools give their user; one could either set up a bunch of router jigs and shape a chair seat with exacting means, or they could sculpt one with an adze and travisher.

fine tuning with the smoothing plane

The key though is to find the balance between the two.  Some guys seem to be capable of making work quickly and efficiently with hand tools alone; I’m not one of them.  Others are content to run machines all day long and take great joy in bringing the production time of a piece down by nano increments-which would drive me crazy, although I’d probably make better money.  But I truly believe-even in the age of the CNC mill and the 3D printer and the Konig coffee maker (well, I guess we’ve had those for a while, but still very impressive) that there is room for the hand made good.  I mean truly hand made; as in taking a piece from the milling equipment and shaping it with one’s own hands before assembly, by hand.  

A good designer-maker strikes that balance.  They know just how much of the process to run through on the machines before heading over to the workbench to fine tune-not spend all day removing a bit of wood that could have been done in 5 minutes on the bandsaw.  Instead making use of the bandsaw, then sharpening the spokeshave and taking those final shavings that make the workpiece shimmer.  I think this is very important, this preservation of the human touch in the manufacturing process.  It’s easy to write off such thoughts as over romantic, but someone has to carry the torch-to keep making usable items that people interact with in daily life-by hand.  

I've been thinking a lot about all this lately while making an order of one of my chairs.  The subtleties that can save an hour here or there and the adjustments made in technique that make the process much more enjoyable.  I had 30 spindles to shape for the chairs backs-which would be a bore on the lathe and take for ever with just knives and shaves.  So I settled on a combination of table saw work and hand tools.  I cut the round tenon with a special setup on the table saw, then turned the square spindle into an octagon by setting the blade at 45 degrees and taking all the corners off.  All this didn't take much more than an hour.  Then I carried the sticks over to the bench and went about finessing them into their final shape with the planes and shaves.  It's all a lot of fun, much more than it sounds anyway.

I'll post updates on the chairs in the coming days.

cutting the taper with drawknife and spokeshave

the finished spindle

Nicholson Workbench

The time has come to build a new workbench for the shop.  This of course means the time came to build a new bench a couple years ago, but now the situation is dire so there’s no choice but to go ahead and build the thing.  The bench I have now-which has served honorably-was one of those made to order jobs that arrives in a flat packed box and within fifteen minutes of assembly you’ve got yourself a very mediocre workbench.

old English bench; simple but with the wide apron mortised into legs

The idea at the time was that I’d get started with the mail order bench while my business grew and savings piled up, then when I finally had some spare time I’d purchase the lumber and vises and knock one out.  In the meantime I amassed volumes of literature on all manner of workbenches; the French Roubo, the English Nicholson, Moravian benches, Japanese benches (which aren’t really benches at all but sawhorses spanned by a heavy plank), ancient Roman ones.  I scoured blogs, Pinterest boards, woodworking magazines.  I did enough research to build 1000 benches!  Practically an expert.  Though here I am eight years later still toiling away at the mail order job that’s a couple inches too short.

new English bench, old vise

The thing does have sentimental value; I’ve built countless pieces on it, shipped it to New York when I moved there, drove it back out in my ‘89 Toyota Van Wagon when I returned to CA.  It’s a wonder the thing’s still around.  However I won’t miss it.  The top’s too thin and has warped beyond what I care to plane flat.  The vises rack and their jaws twist out of parallel with the top.  I’m not going to chop it up for firewood though, it’ll stick around and serve some more menial purpose in the shop; an enduring monument to procrastination.

One of the reasons it’s taken me so long to get around to building a bench is that, once you decide what you’re going to make, you’re making that design and not any of the countless other amazing benches you’ve seen or read about.  The same dilemma that accompanies any decision I suppose; a classic case of FOMO.  But alas, I think I've finally settled on a design that I’m content to make in lieu of all the others.  For years I assumed I would make a massive French Roubo bench based on the 18th century writings and drawings of Andre Roubo.  A well built variety of this type is a beautiful thing, especially when made from white oak.  

French Roubo bench

Then one day I came across an English ‘Nicholson’ bench on a blog.  It was beautiful; a simple, but brilliant design that relies more on engineering principles for its strength than sheer mass.  Wide aprons span the front and notch into the legs making the bench solid as the Rock of Gibraltar.  And the best part, it requires almost half the lumber of the French Roubo, hence half the cost.  The one that had initially caught my eye was simply made from construction grade pine-much cheaper than oak-and it looked great.  A couple of vintage Record 52 ½ quick release vises ordered from England, and all that’s left is to make a run to the lumber yard for some beech wood.  

Then to build the thing of course, which I’ll detail in coming posts-hopefully soon.

cheers-

Constantin Brancusi | Wild Minimalism

Constantin Brancusi is a man whose name evokes visions of bright, well lighted ateliers and early 20th century Paris in it's creative prime.  Though he spent decades in the City of Light, Brancusi transported himself there from his home in rural Romania, mostly on foot.  He studied woodworking and sculpture before leaving his native country, first in a smaller village, later going on to Bucharest.  His studies brought theory and evolved his skill for shaping in wood and stone, but Brancusi had shown an inherent aptitude for carving wood farm tool implements from a very young age.  

Though he left the bucolic hills of Romania while still quite young, they would stay with him through the decades in Paris.  It can be seen in his work; even his choice of material.  Brancusi carved his pieces from wood and stone; primitive materials that have been worked by hand since time memorial.  Even the fact that he chose to carve; as opposed to making molds and casting in bronze as many of his contemporaries were at the time, would have made him something of an antiquarian.  But antiquarian he was not.  Brancusi was one of the first in sculpture to abandon direct representation in favor of abstraction.  He looked to the primary forms of ancient civilizations-namely those of the Mediterranean and his native land-for inspiration.  From there he allowed the natural materials to have their say; letting the direction of grain in a bolt of wood and the way it ran under his tools speak to the final forms of his work.

Brancusi's studio

Constantin Brancusi is known as the father of modern sculpture-rightfully so-though he himself looked deep into the past.  He sought inspiration in primitive art; reaching back to man's roots to move forward.  The results were soulful, simple forms that somehow speak volumes.  Minimalism that quietly stirs the soul.  Brancusi stripped sculpture of its pretense and laid it bare giving us a body of work as relevant today as it was a century ago.  As he himself used to say, 'simplicity is complexity resolved.'

'Create like a god, command like a king, work like a slave.'  

Constantin Brancusi

JB Blunk | artist, craftsman, Californian

'I began making wood sculpture in 1962. I knew how to use a chainsaw and it was one of those things – one day you just start.'

JB Blunk, sculptor

For woodworkers in California, the generally accepted official state hero is Sam Maloof.  Though Sam was an undeniably talented maker and designer, his forms were extravagant, some might even say a little over the top.  There was, however, at the same time a man who lived on a small plot of land in a nature preserve near Inverness, California that was making wooden furniture that was elegant yet almost primitive in form, though in a way that could only be described as supremely natural, as if it had simply grown there in the northern redwood forest.  

entrance to Blunks Inverness home

The man was JB Blunk and he'd initially studied ceramics at UCLA, graduating in 1949.  His mentor, Laura Anderson, had a strong Japanese influence which made a deep impression on Blunk.  Almost immediately after graduating he was drafted into the Army and sent to Korea.  After two years of service he managed to get himself discharged and, already in the general vicinity, decided to go to Japan.  While there, he visited a mingei (folk craft) shop, and was rewarded with a chance encounter with the prominent sculptor Isamu Noguchi.  Hearing of his common interests, Noguchi introduced JB to the famed potter Rosanjin Kitaoji, who took him on as an apprentice for several months.  He stayed on eighteen months after his apprenticeship working for another ceramist before returning to the US.  After a few years working as a potter, Blunk acquired his small plot near Inverness in Northern California and began building the home that would eventually come to be regarded as a masterpiece and is now preserved and run by his daughter as a cultural destination with an artist in residence program.

Woodworking, like other crafts, came naturally to Blunk.  He arrived up north, and simply started building his home-largely from salvaged material -and working in the area as a carpenter.  At one point, he took a job building a roof for the surrealist painter Onslow Ford, which would prove to be a turning point in his career.  Wanting to make a gift for Ford after the job, he settled on making a chair.  Having thus only worked in wood on a large scale, he now saw the appeal of making small, sculptural pieces, and was soon earning a living designing and making furniture for local clients.

JB Blunk's legacy is alive and well through his daughter, his hand made home, and the work he left behind.  He's a beacon of light for designer-woodworkers, especially those, like him, who are intoxicated by the mountains, trees, and emerald sea of California.

doorway, front entrance; the influence from his time in Japan is evident

house as sculpture, interior view

Blunk's whitewashed workshop

A Chair, Some Tools, A Lifestyle

I've always disliked the idea of a 'hobby.'  The whole notion seemed to amount to mediocrity.  As if someone were saying, 'yes I could probably devote myself to this pursuit and really master it, but instead I'm just going do it on the weekends and be tremendously average.'  I think this is why I really like the Japanese philosophy on such matters; you don't have many pursuits, just one-or maybe two I don't know-fully devoting time and energy until mastering the craft.  None of this weekend warrior nonsense.  If you want to be a banker, then by all means be the best damn banker in the world and read up on the matter every night after work and go to little banker hangouts and discuss world banking issues and micro finance or whatever the hell those guys talk about.

If you're moved to do something that provides a humble income, but the idea of which moves you to your core, then you have to do whatever it takes to pursue that end.  Read books, take classes, set up a studio and get to work!  Quit your other job (if you have one) and go all in; it's the only way.  Easy for me to say, being single.  But I really believe whatever the circumstances, if there is a path out there that tugs at your heart strings, you have to follow it, things will fall into place.  In the end you'll be better for it, not just chasing a paycheck every week.

I've always lived by this, and I've always struggled financially.  But everyday I wake up and I can't wait to get into the shop and create, six days a week, sitting in the cafe on the seventh thinking of excuses to swing by the studio.  It's come in steps along the way; little things I've seen that are like visions leading me to the next leg of the journey.  Another craftsman I've met who does things a little differently, a book I've read on traditional Japanese woodworking, or even just a photo of a certain piece.

next step on the path; wood shop utopia

The latter occurred quite recently, it was-sadly enough-on a pinterest board as I was looking for inspiration for a new body of work.  Somewhere, buried in the field of tangential Shaker inspired pieces was a chair; a striking piece.  It was somehow modern and primitive at the same time.  Incredibly simple in form, yet sophisticated, like an old general who's lost all his possessions and only has his dignity and a well kept uniform.  

The more I dug, the more interesting the piece became.  It was a Welsh Stick Chair and was mostly made by peasant cabinetmakers in the 18th century who wanted a simple piece of seating for their homes or to sell at market.  It saw a revival in the late 20th century, however, thanks to one John Brown; a woodworker/writer hailing from Wales himself.  Brown lost his job a wooden boatbuilder as the advent of fiberglass quelled his industry and, out of work, walking around in a small Welsh town he spotted one such chair.  'It was like a vision,' Brown later recalled, 'I had never seen anything that made so instant an impression on me.'  He would go on to set up a small shop making Stick Chairs of his on design, only with hand tools, and pen the 'Anarchist Woodworker' column in Britain's Good Woodworking publication.  Eventually Brown went on to write 'Welsh Stick Chairs,' the seminal book on the subject that overzealous woodworkers such as myself pay a premium to get a tattered used copy of the cult favorite that was printed only twice in the '90s.

John Brown living his vision

In any event, reading John Brown's story, musing on the Welsh woodworking community of the 18th century, I'm taken with the notion of a small shop in a coastal town.  Old wood floors, clapboard walls and exposed rafters.  A sturdy bench under one window, the walls covered with cabinets containing all manner of chairmaking impedimenta, a wood burning stove, the fragrant shavings of hand planes strewn about, and a dining sets worth of chair parts neatly stored about.  I've only made one Stick Chair so far, but I've already made a plane for shaping seats and spent all my spare cash on spokeshaves and curved scrapers.  I've been taken by a vision and I'll probably go broke chasing it, but I'll be happy doing so.

my take on the timeless design

Session Log | 20 July 2017

8 July 2017 | Saturday

Woke at 7 am, heat wave; sunny, calm, still cool.  Texted Nick to see if he wanted to make a surf run, responded quickly, ‘in!’  Thirty minutes of packing, light stretching, coffee.  The van is already an oven at this early hour; could probably dry fruit or dehydrate some cashews in there.  It’s engine being housed directly beneath the driver’s seat makes for a toasty ride, added to that the fact that the passenger window is stuck in the up position makes a trip to the beach from my Silverlake apartment seem like a voyage across the Sahara.

I don’t even have to honk, the van announces its presence with a clanging symphony.  Nick’s ready on arrival; a small miracle.  Load up and in short order we’re South Bay bound-a flawless pick up.  This is important because the ‘devil winds’ (sea breezes) come up quick on the hot summer days-woe to him who lingers over coffee.  Almost on the freeway, Nick pipes up-

‘Kenny just woke up, wants in…’

Perfect!  Kenny; Nick’s younger brother who’s out late every Friday night carousing, talking to girls, and holding us up the following morning, never fails!  But we can’t leave Kenny behind.

‘We could just leave him behind,’ Nick offers.

‘We can’t leave Kenny behind.’

Detour to Kenny’s place in Angelino Heights.  Beautiful turn of the century cottage tucked away on an impossibly charming street.  Kenny loads up quickly and we’re off again, racing the wind.

The El Porto lot is closed; the peaks all look too crowded anyway, a tumultuous sea of flailing advertising agents and yoga enthusiasts.  We gladly pass.  I drive straight for Manhattan Beach pier.  Parking is scarce but we find a spot overlooking the deep blue Pacific.  Hustle down to the beach in baggies; it’s a long, hot walk through a dense crowd of holidaymakers and by time we reach the south side of the pier I feel too tired to surf.  Kenny and Nick carry on a running conversation but I’m not paying attention; too busy stretching, observing the conditions.  Winds are still very light, waves mostly waist high though occasional shoulder high swells roll through scattering the handful of takers.  In contrast to Porto, there are only a dozen or so surfers out, a mere fraction of the mayhem a mile north.

The south side looks pretty fun; wedging peaks unfurl on the bar a stone’s throw from the pilings.  A second peak further south offers a little more breathing room should one happen to want to go left.  We paddle out at the latter.  Immediately the cool, clear water recharges every cell of my person.  I feel like a new man; roaming up and down the lineup, hunting for corners.  It’s nearly full tide but the outside bar is still working, connecting all the way inside.  A chest high, bowling left materializes before me; take a few strokes shoreward and drop in.  It’s an easy, slow takeoff with all the water over the bar, a few yards down the line though the wave stands up tall and I’m forced to abandon my casual approach and make some forward progress.  Moving up on the sled I take a few concise turns to gain speed and soon my 6’5” is gliding down the line towards the shoulder inside.  I reach the corner with a fair bit of speed, and lay into a cutback allowing the board’s curves to dictate my line; which ends up being tight and fast and when I come all the way around my back leg naturally drops knock knee style into the front in response to the quick change of direction.  The turn feels so damn good I feel like tearing my wetsuit off and doing a war dance right there in the shallows.  In my state of exuberance I sort of fumble in the whitewater and lose my board to shore.

For an hour and a half or so we trade incredibly fun peaks under clear skies with light winds and light crowd.  Every wave ends in dry sand if you lack the discipline to kick out in time; which isn’t so bad.  Nick and Kenny get their share of peaky takeoffs and are grinning from ear to ear with goosebumps all over their bare chests (I opted for a shortie).  

My last wave was not one I rode.  I had just paddled for a medium size right and missed, and spinning back around was confronted by a massive wave (probably from the next south swell that was apparently arriving that day).  The water between it and myself-what little there was-was sucking like a vortex up into the oncoming wall.  I pushed with all the force I could summon from my 140 lbs to sink the 6’5”, 3” thick egg, but I would have been just as well to abandon the thing and dive.  The wave-which looked like something from Puerto Escondido-dispensed with my sled in short order, ripping it from my desperate grasp and sending the rail directly into my left thigh.  The resulting sensation was one I only remembered from high school football, when some idiot would ‘spear’ your leg with the top of his helmet.  In any case I more or less floated to shore; propelling myself butterfly style with my arms as the breakers did the rest.  I collected my board, nauseous from the pain, and enthusiastically exchanged high fives with the guys; euphoric from the wave sliding.

Kenny told me several days later as I was still recovering that, as him and his brother watched my glacial progress shoreward; having no idea of my injury, Nick had confidently declared as the older brother and thus expert in all matters,

‘Yea, it’s really hard to get in when you lose your board.’

summer studio

Summer time, at least here at West of Noble headquarters, spells a shift in focus.  And by 'shift in focus' I mean a downright abandonment of business as usual, nose to the grindstone woodworking.  That, of course, is how things actually get done; long hours in the studio cutting and planing and scraping.  But Summer in Los Angeles is too damn hot, the nearby Pacific too cool and inviting.  South swells start lighting up all the points and reefs around Malibu, arrival times at the shop get later and later as morning surf sessions grow longer.

Design week having come and gone, less thought is devoted to prototype development as attention turns to strictly creative endeavors; wood cut prints, chambered wood surfboards, sculpture.  Forms and objects dreamt up durning busier seasons are finally given life.  

Late sunsets are accompanied by late evenings in the shop plying away at a wood block or balsa fish with all the windows flung open and breezes finally cooling off the concrete building.

There are of course still commissions-the rent has to be paid-but these are dispensed with hastily and as soon as is possible it's back to the workbench by the windows, cold Mexican beer nearby.