Surviving the Front Lines
Surviving the Front Lines
Surviving the Front Lines
The weather was foreshadowing what would be a grand battle. Rain poured down, blasted against glass and fiberglass like buckshot bouncing off steel. As I maneuvered the roaring Windkuschine down a path of flooding pavement along WestCoastTire, utter destruction of fallen debris and uprooted vegetation in the metropolis of Sooke and past small landslides in the hamlet of Shirley this became clear: I was alone with only my weapons to assist the frontside….line. Jesus was still resting in bag from an exhausting session at the last encounter at Island View beaches where in shorebreak and swell it had shown its prowess in the ongoing conflict. Evo, fin already in position, was surveying the countryside from it’s windbuffeted vantage point in the roof turret, eagerly awaiting its turn in what would be undoubtedly an onslaught of epic proportions.
When the battlefield came into view my stomach turned at the sight. Very few of the comrades’ fighting spirits had survived their languishing in a dry camp. I could only stare in awe at DownWindDave throwing hate at the incoming waves of the enemy in a what surely must be a suicidal solo effort to keep the sail flying. There were no supporting troops to be seen. In a vain attempt to outflank, two kites were under fire, surveying the carnage below, unable to support, to comfort in any way the lone warrior apart from directing very little attention of the roaring fury toward themselves. I fell in beside him once the Kuschine was pointed strategically maintaining the least vulnerable position. It was clear a 4.2 was in order but I had been there before. Bigger guns make more noise. Dave’s remaining strength was fading a bit but his delight in having support in his struggle was evident, holding the line on his own since dawn. We charged into the fray, frontside, backside, leaping, carving. Dave wasted a nasty curler and hucked a forward straight down its throat. I responded in kind with Evo slashes I did not know I was capable of. Together the battle raged around us, the waves slowly diminishing two hours into our joint effort to suppress the foe. Dave’s energies were spent and he retreated finally into his humming silver to report back at base and perform his marital duties however weakened from action. I gave Evo a break and brought Jesus on line. He bucked and continued the battering until even larger guns were brought into play but the adversary seemed defeated. Shortly thereafter Penguin and kites also took to the highway of hell home. Hot shower and intravenous budwiser rations came to my aid to recharge drained batteries. For a while I observed the clean-up crew of surfers chewing up the last of the remaining stragglers from my frontrow fishtank seating…but….could it be??? The kusschine was suddenly rocked by forces I hadn’t felt since early in the mêlée. Huge frothing waves of fury built in the outer bank, much much larger than any previous encounters, presenting insurmountable crashing walls. Having no reserves to re-tool, I forced Jesus into another round after reluctantly suffering the cold and damp discomfort of used Depends undergarments. The 5.8 and carbon rigging distorted in its confusion to be forced to endure such torture. I was joined by another warrior from the surfer faction, his 4.5 bent like a pretzel and he and I were repeatedly humbled by what was likely the opponent’s final and most gutsy effort of the clash. Sewers chewed me up and spat me out repeatedly, living up to its name. Momentarily losing Jesus in what amounted to a masthigh set on the outer bank that tumbled me into a rinse cycle only experienced once previously the Oregon conflict though not end over end like this one was cause for grave concern, soiling undergarments in a big way. Churning after it, lest I surrender my only weapon which would undoubtedly make things rather nasty, hearing the voice of Mr. Hart “a (not so rare) strategic error” ‘by Mr. Kus letting the wave close out as he decided to get half a dozen too many turns’ in my head. I recovered it only to be trounced 6 or 7 more times, holding down the mast and boom with claws that clung on for life itself. I struggled to the beach and after reassessment of gear and mind threw myself once more into what amounted to declining opponent efforts. Another thirty minutes and my 4 ½ hour rage was over, darkness was upon us as was another hot shower. Budwiser rations flowed like a sweet river of victory! I was going home!!
The weather was foreshadowing what would be a grand battle. Rain poured down, blasted against glass and fiberglass like buckshot bouncing off steel. As I maneuvered the roaring Windkuschine down a path of flooding pavement along WestCoastTire, utter destruction of fallen debris and uprooted vegetation in the metropolis of Sooke and past small landslides in the hamlet of Shirley this became clear: I was alone with only my weapons to assist the frontside….line. Jesus was still resting in bag from an exhausting session at the last encounter at Island View beaches where in shorebreak and swell it had shown its prowess in the ongoing conflict. Evo, fin already in position, was surveying the countryside from it’s windbuffeted vantage point in the roof turret, eagerly awaiting its turn in what would be undoubtedly an onslaught of epic proportions.
When the battlefield came into view my stomach turned at the sight. Very few of the comrades’ fighting spirits had survived their languishing in a dry camp. I could only stare in awe at DownWindDave throwing hate at the incoming waves of the enemy in a what surely must be a suicidal solo effort to keep the sail flying. There were no supporting troops to be seen. In a vain attempt to outflank, two kites were under fire, surveying the carnage below, unable to support, to comfort in any way the lone warrior apart from directing very little attention of the roaring fury toward themselves. I fell in beside him once the Kuschine was pointed strategically maintaining the least vulnerable position. It was clear a 4.2 was in order but I had been there before. Bigger guns make more noise. Dave’s remaining strength was fading a bit but his delight in having support in his struggle was evident, holding the line on his own since dawn. We charged into the fray, frontside, backside, leaping, carving. Dave wasted a nasty curler and hucked a forward straight down its throat. I responded in kind with Evo slashes I did not know I was capable of. Together the battle raged around us, the waves slowly diminishing two hours into our joint effort to suppress the foe. Dave’s energies were spent and he retreated finally into his humming silver to report back at base and perform his marital duties however weakened from action. I gave Evo a break and brought Jesus on line. He bucked and continued the battering until even larger guns were brought into play but the adversary seemed defeated. Shortly thereafter Penguin and kites also took to the highway of hell home. Hot shower and intravenous budwiser rations came to my aid to recharge drained batteries. For a while I observed the clean-up crew of surfers chewing up the last of the remaining stragglers from my frontrow fishtank seating…but….could it be??? The kusschine was suddenly rocked by forces I hadn’t felt since early in the mêlée. Huge frothing waves of fury built in the outer bank, much much larger than any previous encounters, presenting insurmountable crashing walls. Having no reserves to re-tool, I forced Jesus into another round after reluctantly suffering the cold and damp discomfort of used Depends undergarments. The 5.8 and carbon rigging distorted in its confusion to be forced to endure such torture. I was joined by another warrior from the surfer faction, his 4.5 bent like a pretzel and he and I were repeatedly humbled by what was likely the opponent’s final and most gutsy effort of the clash. Sewers chewed me up and spat me out repeatedly, living up to its name. Momentarily losing Jesus in what amounted to a masthigh set on the outer bank that tumbled me into a rinse cycle only experienced once previously the Oregon conflict though not end over end like this one was cause for grave concern, soiling undergarments in a big way. Churning after it, lest I surrender my only weapon which would undoubtedly make things rather nasty, hearing the voice of Mr. Hart “a (not so rare) strategic error” ‘by Mr. Kus letting the wave close out as he decided to get half a dozen too many turns’ in my head. I recovered it only to be trounced 6 or 7 more times, holding down the mast and boom with claws that clung on for life itself. I struggled to the beach and after reassessment of gear and mind threw myself once more into what amounted to declining opponent efforts. Another thirty minutes and my 4 ½ hour rage was over, darkness was upon us as was another hot shower. Budwiser rations flowed like a sweet river of victory! I was going home!!
Wish less, sail more!!
Vancouver Island Windsports
Chinook /Takuma /KA Australia (Tribal) /Aztron
You're either in or in the way....
Doing things the hard way since 1963....
Vancouver Island Windsports
Chinook /Takuma /KA Australia (Tribal) /Aztron
You're either in or in the way....
Doing things the hard way since 1963....
-
downwind dave
- Website Donor
- Posts: 1469
- Joined: Thu Apr 29, 2004 9:05 am
- Location: Cobble Hill
nice to hear it was good out there long after my "marital duties" called me away..thruthfully i was all worn out anyway.-
WindePendanT
- Posts: 183
- Joined: Wed May 05, 2004 10:31 am
- Location: Victoria BC
Battle of the Gordons
Battle of the Gordons
T’was the day of battle yet the latrines required extensive cleansing. The maiden was unimpressed with calls for urgency and the alliance in waiting upon the path of conflict. Once ashine and with odors of roses and Mr. Clean wafting through thou courtyard, I finally galloped into the mid day sun with GMCee's mighty steel steed to meet the antagonist. Several unearthly heathens in their chariotts of excrement further slowed the passage, yet upon arrival I could hear the whistling in the trees: The beast was furious. Its white talons had fellows in its grip yet bravely they were leading charge after charge. David of the Hollowboned, Sir Snarfer of Gybingisforgirls, The Randy of the Islands, Speedy of Nut, Sir JP'n Tweezer, Gentleman Sire RainX and Greybeard Olf of Arthur, all were assembled in full battle attire. The Doc of the winds absent, yet in his stead arriving Robin the Massive. A soldier nearly slain, Sir Ruskie of Loopcastle, de-throwned early in the bout by the monster of the waters, our dearly bemoaned first casualty. But the battle cry of the Whistler, a blue and golden sun in the sky, trumpeting to challenge the foe, drew all from far and wide. The sun bobbed and weaved, one moment charging, slashing at the antagonist’s tentacles, then retreating just as quickly as he had struck. I joined in relentless pursuit, flying one moment, twisting out of harms way the next, a loop of the back gone awry, a batten of my wing cracked in two by the wicked impact with the monster. Wounded but not dead, the challengers raged with the fiend. The blue and white sun of Grant of the What’s Ons forever laying the bait, the brute lunging at his heels. Moments turned into hours, hours seemed to melt into days. Swinging mighty Evo sword at claws, being thrown asunder, rebounding from the beaten brow, resting within the swine’s grasp only to emerge recharged again. Raid of Gator consum-ed to freshen the spririt and ease the heat permitted one last onslaught. Fog drew a silent blanket of doubt across the skirmish scape, the sea rising up in a final bout of fury. The fiend was nearly defeated by several rolls of the back, almost successful in their landing and final blows….. but it was not to be. Without remaining vigor the last of the warriors withdrew, shamed in their defeat once again. The ogre raged on intact, roaring in victory, the clash lost, the blue and golden sun extinguished, maimed combatants retreating, quenching wounds with the might of the brew. Alas, we shall fight another day!
T’was the day of battle yet the latrines required extensive cleansing. The maiden was unimpressed with calls for urgency and the alliance in waiting upon the path of conflict. Once ashine and with odors of roses and Mr. Clean wafting through thou courtyard, I finally galloped into the mid day sun with GMCee's mighty steel steed to meet the antagonist. Several unearthly heathens in their chariotts of excrement further slowed the passage, yet upon arrival I could hear the whistling in the trees: The beast was furious. Its white talons had fellows in its grip yet bravely they were leading charge after charge. David of the Hollowboned, Sir Snarfer of Gybingisforgirls, The Randy of the Islands, Speedy of Nut, Sir JP'n Tweezer, Gentleman Sire RainX and Greybeard Olf of Arthur, all were assembled in full battle attire. The Doc of the winds absent, yet in his stead arriving Robin the Massive. A soldier nearly slain, Sir Ruskie of Loopcastle, de-throwned early in the bout by the monster of the waters, our dearly bemoaned first casualty. But the battle cry of the Whistler, a blue and golden sun in the sky, trumpeting to challenge the foe, drew all from far and wide. The sun bobbed and weaved, one moment charging, slashing at the antagonist’s tentacles, then retreating just as quickly as he had struck. I joined in relentless pursuit, flying one moment, twisting out of harms way the next, a loop of the back gone awry, a batten of my wing cracked in two by the wicked impact with the monster. Wounded but not dead, the challengers raged with the fiend. The blue and white sun of Grant of the What’s Ons forever laying the bait, the brute lunging at his heels. Moments turned into hours, hours seemed to melt into days. Swinging mighty Evo sword at claws, being thrown asunder, rebounding from the beaten brow, resting within the swine’s grasp only to emerge recharged again. Raid of Gator consum-ed to freshen the spririt and ease the heat permitted one last onslaught. Fog drew a silent blanket of doubt across the skirmish scape, the sea rising up in a final bout of fury. The fiend was nearly defeated by several rolls of the back, almost successful in their landing and final blows….. but it was not to be. Without remaining vigor the last of the warriors withdrew, shamed in their defeat once again. The ogre raged on intact, roaring in victory, the clash lost, the blue and golden sun extinguished, maimed combatants retreating, quenching wounds with the might of the brew. Alas, we shall fight another day!
Last edited by KUS on Mon Jul 14, 2008 4:53 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Wish less, sail more!!
Vancouver Island Windsports
Chinook /Takuma /KA Australia (Tribal) /Aztron
You're either in or in the way....
Doing things the hard way since 1963....
Vancouver Island Windsports
Chinook /Takuma /KA Australia (Tribal) /Aztron
You're either in or in the way....
Doing things the hard way since 1963....
-
thankgodiatepastafobreaky
- Posts: 512
- Joined: Tue Jul 13, 2004 5:55 pm
- Location: Gordon's
- Been thanked: 2 times
- Contact:
.
Jmon, I get the sincere sense of negative attitude toward me lately, anything I should know about 
I thought I bought the last round 
I thought I bought the last round Wish less, sail more!!
Vancouver Island Windsports
Chinook /Takuma /KA Australia (Tribal) /Aztron
You're either in or in the way....
Doing things the hard way since 1963....
Vancouver Island Windsports
Chinook /Takuma /KA Australia (Tribal) /Aztron
You're either in or in the way....
Doing things the hard way since 1963....
