Anyway, down to beer business. I added a few new Kiwi beers to the list while hanging ’round New Plymouth. Unfortunately, I still haven’t made it to Mike’s Organic Brewery. (I’m determined to go next year.) I did have amazing eggs florentine at Lahar in Okato, though, so it’s all good. When I arrived back in Wellington, the beer situation got really interesting. My friend Tully (of #TullysWellington Instagram fame) sent me to beer heaven, also known as Malthouse on Courtenay Place. I walked in, grabbed a stool, and said, “I would like a New Zealand beer that I’ve never had before.” Then this happened:

The guy behind the bar, Van, was ah-mazingly knowledgable and keen to serve up all kinds of wonderful beers of which I’d never heard. My favorite was definitely Yeastie Boys Pot Kettle Black. The Yeastie Boys’ name didn’t hurt their case, but their beer was pretty much the best beer I’ve had in… well, a long time. This is what they say about Pot Kettle Black:

“Pot Kettle Black is our multi-award winning ‘Black IPA’ (that some call a ‘Hoppy Porter’). The different names convey the fact that this beer is a contradiction of styles: fresh and hoppy, yet dark and rich. Most importantly it is mindbendingly delicious and a complete original.”

Check the freshly alphabetized KIWI BEER LIST here.

“I put Roxy’s top of the line women’s cold water suit under scrutiny in one of the coldest places I could imagine surfing: Maine. In the middle of January, which is scientifically proven to be the coldest of all months in the Northeast. The 5/4/3 Cypher emerged as a first-rate defender of damsels in atmospheric distress.” Click the photo for the full review on ESPN XGames Surfing.

(Note the opposing swells.)

Oh, you’re very welcome, Mr. Sexdate. Thank you. And may I just say what a lovely and unusual first name you have.

$12 Beer.

I’m in Margaret River, WA at the moment, where you can’t stumble over without landing in some fantastic winery or brewery’s car park, so I’m finding lots of great local beers. And also spending too much money in the name of beer snobbery. Please, make my “efforts” worthwhile and go check the latest.

“Hey, you look familiar,” I said. “Do we have a class together?”

Through the haze of his intoxication, he had some difficulty recognizing that he didn’t recognize me. “Yeahhh,” he slurred. “Yeah. Friday mornings?” “That’s the one!” I lied. Who took Friday morning classes?

“What’s your name?” He inquired.

Faced with endless “cool” identities from which to choose, I believe I told him my name was Carol. Oof. No offense to the Carols of the world, but seriously? That’s my clandestine, sexy alter ego?

I can’t remember his name, but I remember that when I attempted to slip away discreetly, he began yelling, “CAROL!” and trying other equally subtle methods of catching my attention. FYI: Too drunk to stand does not equate to goldfish brain. We fled the scene soon after.

Aside from the obvious lesson, which is that lying is bad, I think the point of this story is that mental state can have an enormous impact on whether the world makes sense. Or doesn’t. And we’ve all found ourselves saying, sincerely,

“I swear we’ve met before.”

“Were you traveling through Uzbekistan last autumn?”

“Do you, by any chance, have a cousin in LA?”

And the Quiky Pro Gold Coast is probably where we said it.

–

While I’m pretty sure I can recall most events that happened during the fourteen (or so) days I spent in Coolangatta, I definitely can’t guarantee that I know the correct order in which those events occurred. The currents during the Quiksilver Pro tend to pull you toward 3 a.m. homecomings and 6 a.m. comp calls, so, essentially, it’s a grand ballet of work and play in which fourteen days end up feeling like three reaaaaaallllly, really long ones. (Yes, there was work.) My 336 crazy hours looked something like this:

I reunited with my sisters, surfed the Superbank, got sunburned, borrowed Kelly Slater’s identity, went on a half-blind date, gorged myself at Fresh Garden Cafe and Smoothie Bar and Raw Energy, and, obviously, got back to my Aussie beer adventure. What more can you ask for?

The best kind of cornered. With Dot, Freddy, and B Bins.

The Crab’s Claw Inn. An institution. -al establishment. I’ve been familiar with the Claw for years, but I only began to properly cherish it this past summer, while working next door at Shaded Vision. (An institution.)

On Friday, the Claw re-opened its door to the public for the first time since Superslut -storm Sandy. When I arrived at 10 p.m., the place was packed with jubilant patrons, doling out hugs and high fives by the hundreds, downing Winter Ales and Yuenglings, and, mostly, smiling. So much smiling.

Houses have been flattened, gutted, renovated, rebuilt. The Heights opened its streets to… everyone. Park residents were allowed to go home. Cheese balls were served. But this? This felt like a real milestone. It felt like the mail man and the boutique owner and the bar owner and your mom’s friend and the pro surfer and the restorer were able, maybe, to feel almost normal again. Maybe. They saw each other with drinks in their hands again, in a place to which they all pledged allegiance, a long time ago, without ever saying a word.

You see, the Claw is like our Central Perk. It’s where we go after work and spend our hard-earned dollars on deliciously unpretentious fare prepared and delivered by people with heart. Where plans are made and friends are met. Where we replenish ourselves after hours in the sea. And remind ourselves that we’ll be in the sea in just hours. We go to eat dinner. Or to skip dinner. We sing and dance, talk story, talk shit, aggrandize waves and fish and babes. Everybody probably doesn’t know your name, but I’d bet that everybody knows your face. It’s where we go when we don’t want to go home, or when we can’t go home. It is a sort of home.

I know how this sounds. It’s not that we’re a bunch of alcoholic bar flies. Because the Claw isn’t really just a bar. It’s an institution. And it’s back.

Anddd I realize this is kind of annoying, but I’ve also added a very small-batch beer that you’re unlikely to come across… I feel it deserves a spot on the list: The Maple Brown Sugar Cranberry Xmas Ale was created by my friend Josh Hahn. Josh is probably not related to those Hahn brewers in Oz, but he has equal (if not greater) brewmaster skills. Thanks, Josh!

If you click on that link up there, you can see the entire list. As always, discourse is encouraged.