This Is What Surfing Should Look Like

I've chosen a particularly happy image for today's posting, to help wash away the bad taste that was left in my mouth yesterday. It's exceedingly rare, almost unheard of, that I would tell someone to "f___ off" over the phone, but that's exactly what I did yesterday.

It felt good. It felt bad. It had to be done.

I've spent a few years as a casual associate of a company called the Fundy Group. The Fundy Group has developed a program called 'The Seamless Brand' and they help companies to make and keep a promise to their customers. I won't go into the details here, but take my word that they do excellent work. They also have a brilliant blog which is enlightening on so many fronts. It's not just for marketing and advertising gurus, it's for anyone who has ever bought or sold anything in their lives. The blog serves up resonant riffs on business with a bent on branding. The Seamless Brand blog is part of my ongoing education. Check it out.

Through my association with the Fundy Group I've taken more than just a passing interest in branding and customer service. I'm quite passionate about it. I'm not as active as the Fundy Group's president, Gair Maxwell, far from it. Gair is a fireball of energy, enthusiasm and ideas. I'm more of an armchair activist. When motivated properly, or improperly, I can get rather animated, hence my comment over the phone yesterday.

It all goes back to my purchase of a surfboard on June 12 from a store called the South Shore Surf Shop in Lunenburg. It's a small surf shop in an inconvenient location, but sometimes that's how I prefer to shop. I'd drive an extra twenty miles to avoid shopping at Walmart because I value the kind of customer service and expertise that I typically find from small businesses.

With a huge grin of satisfaction, I bought my first surfboard and drove forty-five minutes back to Halifax, where I was staying. The next morning I headed to the ocean to catch some waves with some fellow boardheads. In the parking lot at Lawrencetown, Nova Scotia's best known surf beach, I attempted to install the fins on my surfboard. I got the first of three on with no problem. It quickly became apparent that the other two screws that came with the board were not the proper ones so, disheartened, I left Lawrencetown and headed back to New Brunswick with not so much as one salt bleached strand of hair.

I was disappointed that the board came with the wrong parts but I understand that stuff like this happens occasionally. No one wants to be Schleprocked, but we all are from time to time. Wowzee, wowzee, woo woo.

Upon my return home, I went to the South Shore Surf Shop's web site and clicked on 'contact'. I filled out the e-mail boxes and pressed send. Then I waited, and waited, and waited. After two weeks without a reply, or the missing screws appearing in my mailbox as I had requested, I phoned the company. I spoke not to the owner, Walter, but to a new employee. I gave him detailed instructions as to what had happened, and what needed to be done. I gave all of my contact information. He was sympathetic. Then I waited, and waited, and waited.

Nothing. Nothing!

Finally, on July 16, I phoned the company again. This time I spoke to Walter. In the politest voice that I could muster, I told him about my e-mail, my phone call, and my lack of fin screws. He told me to go to a hardware store and buy them myself.

Huh?

I explained that I felt that I should receive the factory fin screws so there was no chance of any mis-threading errors or screw ups. He kept insisting that he didn't have the proper screws in stock, and that he gave me what the surfboard manufacturer, NSP, gave him. He said that he'd have to order the screws for me. Again he told me to go to a hardware store and buy them myself. He seemed inconvenienced by my problem, never offered any apology, and didn't appear to give a rat's ass about me as a customer. That's when I decided to cut my losses, and I told him to "f___ off."

That was the end of my call. He called back and left a message on my answering machine, berating me me for not just going to a hardware store to buy them. In his parting jab, he derogatorily called me "Einstein" which, oddly enough, I appreciated because Walter is clearly not one.

I'll never shop at the South Shore Surf Shop in Lunenburg again. I'll tell my friends never to shop there. I'll tell the world never to shop there. I care about customer service, not just mine, but yours too. Surfing should put the biggest smile on your face that's imaginable. It's one of the most liberating experiences that you'll ever experience.

You. A board. A wave.

Every surf shop owes its customers a happy day on the waves.

I could end this blog on a sour note, but I'm not. A highly thoughtful friend of mine provided me with a link to the customer service department at NSP, so I sent them an e-mail last evening at
about 10:15 p.m. At 10:31 p.m. I received an apologetic e-mail from NSP's Customer Service Manager in Australia. He asked for my contact information and also alerted his North American dealer of my situation. I sent the information as requested. At 12:14 a.m., the North American Customer Service Manager sent me an e-mail saying that the missing fin screw would be sent by express post immediately.

Wow!

It's amazing to witness the worst possible service followed up by the best possible service. I'll definitely purchase another NSP surfboard in the future, but there's a zero percent chance that it'll be purchased from the South Shore Surf Shop. I learned from my days with the Fundy Group that your company is only as good as the front line person greeting your customers. Even if your company's CEO is a wizard, it means nothing if the guy at ground level is a dolt.

Fortunately, for me, there's another NSP dealer in Nova Scotia. They're called Kannon Beach. I should have bought the board there in the first place. It turned out that they sell the exact same board that I bought, and for a bit less than I paid.

Oh well, it's all water under the board now. I've been screwed before, and I'll be screwed again. No doubt these fiascoes will make their way into my future blog postings.

The surfing picture at the beginning of this blog post was taken in les Iles de la Madeleine. Please take one last look at my surfing friend as that's the true essence of surfing. Look at the joy on her face. Isn't that what we're all searching for in our assorted hobbies, pursuits, sports, jobs and lives?

Tidying Up Unfinished Business

I've been to three graduation ceremonies this spring/summer, and I've enjoyed everything about them except the uncomfortable seating, the life threatening length of the alphabetized parade to procure parchment, and the spooky costumes. Everything seems to remind me of my early days as a student at Hogwart's.

Our next graduate is from the Village of Muggleswick...Ian Varty (cheers).

Our next graduate is little Jimmy Voldemort from Minto (boos).

Last evening, at Saint Thomas University, two good friends received honorary doctorates. In June, my son graduated from Oromocto High School, and in May a spirited amigo received her doctorate in psychology from UNB. I love to hang out with talented people...contrast is good in one's life. I'm sure they feel the same way.

I have a funny history with graduation ceremonies, and perhaps it serves as foreshadowing into my life as a leisurologist. It would appear that I'm reluctant to graduate and get on with my life as a working drone. I didn't bother going to my own high school graduation because I felt like a number. There was something ridiculous like seven hundred and fifty seven graduates in my high school class, and with a last name starting with the letter 'V', I figured the kids before me would have already gone off and taken all the good jobs, so why bother?

Good jobs...now that's a funny concept!

I took a two year technician's diploma program at the Nova Scotia Agricultural College (NSAC) in Truro. If you want to be a stickler for details, NSAC is located in Bible Hill, inappropriately named given what I saw. The parties there were of biblical proportions, though clearly lacking in Christian content, morality and utterly devoid of any kind of worship beyond the mighty Lord Moosehead. I stayed at NSAC for the full two year term, though I dropped three classes and never officially graduated.

It wasn't like I was going to starve to death because I didn't get my diploma...I went to NSAC to learn how to grow food, which I did. From 1984 until 1987, I operated one of the world's most unheralded agricultural operations, just slightly lesser known than my sharecropping cohorts, the McCains. During my time as a farmer, I also managed to start a degree at UNB, find a wife and fire my mother. It's a long story, but in a nutshell, mom was short selling my greenhouse tomatoes to her friends. Oh how my sporran wept.

Despite beginning my business degree (BBA) at UNB in 1985, I didn't actually graduate until the year 2000. I managed to graduate from the University of Toronto with an arts degree (BA). It's a convoluted story involving murder plots, espionage and a thumb sucking, third year classmate. Please, don't ask.

I seem to specialize in unfinished business but I'd like to take a moment to tidy up a couple of loose ends now.

First of all, from my badminton posting of the other day, my father purchased the so-called 'feather' shuttlecocks just last month, meaning that the Cooper corporation are a bunch of deceitful scumbags. Shame on you Cooper for selling plastic badminton birdies labelled feather and depicted feathers on the packaging. A lifetime fatwa has now been brought upon your business...everybody, feel free to join in.

My second piece of unfinished business involves tailgaters. In the past two weeks I've used the 'methanol shower' defence twice. In both cases I caused the gator the clean their own windshield, but in no way did it deter their bumper nibbling. Despite its ineffectiveness, there was some comic satisfaction in watching the jackasses clean their windshields.

It would be much simpler if I could just whip out my magic wand and make evil tailgaters disappear forever or, at least, ship them off to a holding tank in Minto. I'd like to do the same to the wicked Cooper company. After all, birds of a feather stick together.

Yacht To Know Better

C'est un grand lac!

I can imagine Samuel de Champlain's men venturing up the St.John River in 1604, looking for the legendary Monsieur Horton's and instead discovering the largest lake in New Brunswick. They christened the river 'Saint Jean', as it was discovered on the feast day of John (Jean) the Baptist, June 24. I don't actually know if Champlain's men made it as far as Grand Lake, perhaps not, but I do know that they had a habit of naming places after first impressions.

Champlain named Mount Desert Island, in Maine, 'Isle des Monts Deserts' which, when translated, comes out as island of the bare mountains. Aptly named as the bare granite hills of Acadia National Park are a defining feature.

I'm not sure if Champlain discovered Dildo, Newfoundland. I sure hope not. On an all male ship, it's a subject I'd rather not touch.

Christopher Columbus set the stage much earlier by arbitrarily naming places. St.Bart's, in the Caribbean, was named in honour of his brother Barthélemy.

Thanks bro...now let's invite the French, declare the beaches topless and bring some civility to this savage island.

Virgin Gorda, in the British Virgin Islands, is Spanish for 'fat virgin' because the island reminded Columbus of a fat virgin lying down. You have to understand that these sailors were out to sea for long periods of time, and there weren't a lot of women around, if any.

Captain Bligh had an all male crew that had just enjoyed some quality time with the local honeys of Tahiti. It's rumoured that many of the crew preferred the Tahitian lifestyle over the endless slogging with Captain Willie Bligh. Leaving the ladies behind was tough enough, but when Bligh substituted 10% cereal cream for their contractual 18% coffee cream in their morning cup of Tim's, well, the crew just lost it. These mutineers may have been the world's first leisurologists, giving up their day jobs (sailing) for the hedonistic pleasures of the South Pacific.

It wasn't customary to carry ladies on these early exploratory voyages. Men and women don't always 'get along' when placed together on a sailing vessel. Don't be fooled by your own experiences on a cruise ship, or from watching Love Boat reruns...that's not sailing. A cruise ship or large passenger carrying ferry is no more sailing than a Shriner in a go-cart is Nascar, though there have been a few exceptions when the Love Boat got rocked.

Many a marriage has been lost at sea.

In the tranquil image that I've included today, you'll see a number of sailboats that have rafted together. Undoubtedly the happy families have sailed up to Grand Lake from Saint John, as they do every summer. Men, women, kids, dogs and perhaps even a parrot or two make the sixty mile long, upriver journey. Their little armada always seems to favour the protected cove at Fanjoy's Point. I could hear them laughing and splashing yesterday as I prepared to go windsurfing.

They'll stay there, anchored for a day or two, cohabiting in a space roughly equivalent to that of a small garage. They'll tie their boat up a neighbouring boat, and so on. It's called rafting. It's a good way to get to know your true friends.

I'd bet that every couple on those sailboats has a happy marriage. They couldn't sail together if they didn't. Sailing as a couple tests your tolerance. I'd recommend that every couple sail together for a week before they march down the aisle.

I didn't do this myself, but I did carry out a little test before I got to know my current wife. My first date with Wendy involved taking her sailing. I took her out on a Laser, a boat small enough to be considered something a real yacht might fart out. At one point during our little adventure, I dry dumped the boat. That meant that I tipped the boat over. Wendy fell into the lake. I stayed high and dry, like Captain Bligh. There was no mutiny, only laughter and smiles, so I married her.

Finding The Bad In Badminton...Maybe

If you're skeptical about what I'm writing this morning, then stand in line sister. I'm so unsure about my subject matter that I'm having doubts about even starting to type. The problem is that I'm using second hand information, and that doesn't make for good journalism, if we can call my blog that.

If what I've been told is true, then it won't affect the world in the same way that global warming or peak oil will, but it's symbolic of a society that's spiralling toward moral collapse.

I was at my parents' home yesterday, when the subject of badminton was brought up. It turns out that my son's 85 year old grandfather and almost 82 year old grandmother have taken to playing badminton in their backyard, though without the encumbrance of a net. I'm glad to see my parents doing this as it bodes well for my future. I can't imagine my grandparents ever being so spirited...it's amazing how every generation gets just a little more zany. If the effects of peak oil come to its rotting fruition in my lifetime, and it surely will, then my generation may be the last of the zanies. It's a tough call to make.

My father showed me the package of shuttlecocks, or badminton birdies, that he had purchased. Clearly stated on the outside of the package was that these fine feathered fliers were, indeed, made of feather. What came out of the package was textbook 'Made in China' plastic. I was appalled that they'd have the nerve to label them feather when there wasn't a goose, duck, chicken, albino budgie, or snowy egret plume in sight. Not even a bottled blond quill from a hello crow.

I should phone my father right now to ask when he bought the shuttlecocks, but it's currently 5:55 a.m. and he's probably out for his morning 10km run. Okay, dad doesn't run...he's almost certainly in bed, dreaming about badminton or Maria Sharipova, perhaps both.

'You're right, Simon, Maria seems to grunt more now that she's given up tennis balls for the lighter shuttlecocks'.

"Yes, it takes a lot more energy to make that birdie fly across the net.'

There is part of me that wonders if the original feathered badminton birds had the life plucked out of them a long time ago, with the container being refilled by cheaper plastic ones and long since forgotten. It's possible as it's been a while since the badminton equipment saw daylight. I need to find out if dad just bought the badminton birds, or if they've been around for a while. There will be no boycotts until I clarify this prickly point.

What worries me is that I can absolutely believe that that a company would say 'feathers' when in fact there were none. Take a look at the ingredients in your bottle of so-called mango cocktail. There's a pretty good chance that the first ingredient is grape or apple juice, with mango puree appearing further down the list, after fructose this or glucose that. It's clear that I've become jaded toward advertising...you can't always believe everything that you read.

Apply this to my blog today, and you will be wise. Be patient.

I'll follow up the blog posting with the truth about Cooper badminton birds. We need to know. I tried to find information about the Cooper company on-line but they, like plastic shuttlecocks, seem to fly under the radar's net. I did buy a Cooper ping pong table last year, and it turned into a warped piece of garbage, so I'll confess to being predisposed toward a fatwa on Cooper.

What happened to quality goods and truth in advertising? It's got me pretty mad, almost to the point of screaming. What to do? What to do?

Anyone for tennis?

The Hello Crow

Every day crows fly back and forth across the front of my property. Crows are reputed to be more intelligent than many shopkeepers, so I've been studying their behaviour closely. I'm pretty sure that they know the landscape intimately, so when something appears to be out of place, say a dead fish washes up on the beach, they immediately notice a change in the pattern or fabric of the landscape.

The crows eyeball the situation, and profit from their observations. They seem to know how to live in this place. They're adaptive, resting on Monday for Tuesday's big event...garbage day! Clever opportunists, these crows. I admire them as entrepreneurs. For a number of years we had a crow that we nicknamed 'the hello crow'. It had the craziest call, a very froggy, deep-throated 'hul-lo'. It was more genial than many shopkeepers.

I happened to be in the Rothesay/Quispamsis neighbourhoods of Saint John last evening. Though there on business related to leisurology, I took the opportunity to forage for nuts and berries, hoping to find something new to supplement my hundred mile diet. There are two market stores in Quispamsis which compete for the dollars of the affluent Kennebecasis Valley denizens: Cochran's Country Market and the new and much larger Brookside Country Market.

I went to the Brookside market first, thinking that bigger might be better. Once inside, I discovered an impressive looking bakery, an ice cream parlour, a deli ,and a fruit and vegetable display. Being sentimental, I checked out the ice cream and baked goods first, and then got down to business. The tired looking staff seemed to be sitting around for the most part, watching me silently as though their pygmy tribe had never seen a tall, white man before. The weight of eyes can be incredible, and the burden makes shopping a chore.

I shuffled along to the produce section which most appeals to me these days, desperately looking for some food that was local...zippo. Great care was taken to arrange the produce into perfectly cascading rows, executed with marching military precision. Almost everything was imported, and those items that came from Canada were not identified as to their origin. For someone on the hundred mile diet, the thought of an Ontario tomato was akin to bedding down with Martha Stewart in low thread count linens...not a good thing. I left the store empty handed and unengaged.

I pulled into Cochran's, a store that I had been to before but didn't know well. I was immediately greeted by a friendly sales girl who said, amazing, hello. There was a smile, and then she engaged me in conversation. I told her about my hundred mile quest to which she, too, had been paying attention. She showed me all of the local New Brunswick produce which was already clearly and proudly labelled as such. I was given a tour of the Swiss chard, beet greens, carrots, potatoes, cold frame zucchinis, sugar snap peas, green peas, snow peas, greenhouse tomatoes and strawberries. I was so impressed by her friendly nature and Cochran's obvious commitment to providing fresh and local foods, that my Washademoak Valley money practically leaped out of my Scottish wallet.

This study in contrasts had me thinking about another little store in my neighbourhood. Connell's General Store, in Long Creek, deserves a lot of praise. Though I'm perfectly capable of pumping my own gas, they still do it for me at Connell's. It's a nice break from the norm. You're always greeted with a friendly hello and they do their best to get to know you. I feel like a friend when I go there.

When you enter the store you're immediately thrown back into the past. It feels warm and embracing. This is an old-time general store that doesn't try to deliver the Superstore effect, thankfully. The owners don't dress in matching outfits, with brightly coloured t-shirts that promote their in-store banking services. There are no sterile spotlights highlighting the splendid spuddiness of the new potatoes. They sit in a basket as they might have a hundred years ago. Some local peas and strawberries keep the papery yellow tubers company, all of them coming from a nearby farm. There are fresh pies in the fridge and some tasty looking home-baking on the shelves. The counter is well worn and loved, and you're not likely to leave it without some pleasant conversation.

There are days when I completely lose my faith in the retail experience, then I'm reinvigorated by a trip to Cochran's or Connell's. It's so nice to be greeted by a simple and genuine 'hello'. Customer service should be taken seriously...it's not for the birds, but if it were, I'd be hoping for the hello crow instead of a belligerent budgie.

More Cheesy Insight

When I was little, I was told that the moon was made of cheese. It was believable for three reasons:

1) it looked like cheddar cheese when it loomed low on the horizon, then more Swiss-like as it escalated up into the night sky,

2) my older brother told me that it was, and since he was in school, he must have known,

3) if it was made of tofu, no one would visit.

I was almost six years old when Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin stepped onto the moon's surface. It was July 21, 1969. Neil and Buzz must have gone crazy with all that cheese, washing it down with copious amounts of Tang. I remember watching the lunar landing on our television set at home. Both mom and I were quite emotional, but not for the obvious reason. You see, the NASA landing pre-empted Another World, our daily soap opera, and we were not amused.

I'll bet dollars to donuts (pennies to Beavertails) that you didn't give much thought to the image that I posted this morning. Is it a sunrise or a sunset? Take another look and then take a guess. Go ahead punk, are ya feelin' lucky?

Well, guess what...you're wrong.

I took that image at 10:45 p.m., at the edge of my lake, in the dark. The only light source was the moon. Those are moon rays which were enhanced by zooming the lens during a long exposure. To most people, Moonrays are silly little light sets that herd them from their sidewalk to their home, assuming their GPS doesn't do it for them. They're also particularly useful for guiding drunks to your doorstep. On the upside, it keeps them out of the flower beds. There's nothing worse than getting up in the morning, only to find a drunk college student asleep on your prized dahlias.

Shoo, frat boy, shoo!

If the moon is indeed made of cheese, at least I know where the cheese comes from...the moon. The same can't be said for Sussex cheese. A big part of my hundred mile diet is cheese and butter. I've been a loyal customer to the Sussex brands of cheese and butter. Last Friday I found out that the so-called Sussex brands are made in Ontario. Once again, there goes the hundred mile diet. I have since boycotted the Sussex brands.

The Sussex brands, owned by the G.E.Barbour company of Sussex, also make the über popular King Cole tea. I'm not naive enough to think that royalty, say King Frank Cole, makes the tea, so why should Sussex cheese contain Sussex milk?




I suppose that the ginger in Sussex Ginger Ale isn't grown in Apohaqui either. Sigh. I could figure that out on my own, but it never occurred to me that Sussex cheese wouldn't be made from local sources.

So you're trying to tell me that my Buffalo wings aren't made of buffalo meat? And they don't come from upstate New York? Get out!

I pity people doing the hundred mile diet in Buffalo, New York.

Sussex has always been a dairy town, though some of the lustre has been lost in recent years. When they put in a WalMart, it felt like the town had been kicked in the curds, yet Sussex has a lot of old-time charm left in her. There are still plenty of dairy cows dotting the pastures that shoulder the town.

I'm lucky that there's a well run company called Armadale Farms, on the outskirts of Sussex, who are doing a brilliant job of making local cheese (Gouda, Swiss, Edam, feta, quark), butter and yogourt. These Dutch-Canadians are my new best friends and I'll continue to buy their products long after the hundred mile diet officially ends on July 31. As for Sussex brand cheese, I won't be buying it until the cows come home.

My Ivy League Education

Prednisone? Never heard of it before...thanks Doc.

And so I left the good doctor's clinic with a small vile of the steroid-based wunderdrug. Perhaps now I'd find some relief from my overwhelming desire to go ape-shit with a garden rake on my skin. To say that I was 'itchy' would be an understatement. I was itchy, and scratchy, and close to going insane.

All of this, the result of a brief encounter with poison ivy.

I simply wanted to tidy up some bushes that were threatening to obscure my path down to the lake. With electric hedge trimmers in hand, I tackled the job with a vengeance. Slashing, spinning, swiping, crawling on my belly...I was a horticultural Rambo.

So what were you wearing, Ian? Fatigues and a wife beater? Ah yes, and a headband?

Actually I was wearing deck shoes, shorts and a t-shirt.

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You're not exactly the poster boy for the Workplace Health and Safety Commission, are you?

Shut up!

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My little voice, as appearing in italics, is quite unkind to me, but that's the way of the devilish subconscious. Do you remember the Great Gazoo, the little green alien who may have contributed to the cancellation of The Flinstones? He had a huge head and a tiny body, somewhat of a freak if you ask me. He was always calling Fred and Barney "dum-dums" in the most condescending 'I'm smarter than you' manner. My little voice sounds a lot like the Great Gazoo's, but it's appearance is in stark contrast to that of Gazoo's. For example, my little voice doesn't wear a helmet, which would indicate he's not safety oriented...the dum-dum.

It's not much of a stretch to think of me as a horticultural Rambo. I'm using a steroid puffer to ease a little bout of asthma. My anti-itch prescription is also a steroid. I don't even bother going to the gym anymore. All of this medication has me worried, though not that I might be harmed by the side effects. I'm worried that Dick Pound (his real name, and not a scale tipping personal measure), formerly of the IOC and World Anti-Doping Agency, will come by and test me for doping. My Olympic dreams will be in tatters if I test positively. Right now I'm making Ben Johnson look like he's Amish. Me? I'm totally on the juice!

Despite being such a fine physical specimen (thanks steroids!), I'm still pretty self-conscious because I've got rashes all over my body, but mostly on my (immense) upper torso. Click here for a reminder of what I looked like before I started the 'roids. The great catch 22 with poison ivy is that scratching feels great, but that's what spreads the rash. Let's say that I scratch my arm then inadvertently rub my eye...you guessed it, a rash could show up around my eye two days later. Imagine what I have to do when I go to the bathroom, suffice to say that we'll have to burn the oven mitts when I'm done.

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I've got a rash on my chin and I don't dare shave in case it spreads. I don't think Rambo ever had a beard, so I'm not too thrilled that I might have to grow one. Maybe I'm taking this whole Rambo thing too far. After all, I was wielding a pumpkin and noir coloured, electric Black and Decker hedge trimmer with a 'radius of terror' of just fifty feet. Rambo had an M2 Browning machine gun.

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Has comparing me to Rambo got you scratching your head? If only I were so lucky.