The Peconic Puffin Windsurfing Blog

A Man After My Own Heart. Steve Marks R.I.P.

Steve died last week. 

I met Steve on the day I first attempted windsurfing.   I was uphauling an old Original Windsurfer, pulling the uni out of the board and jabbing it into my shins again and again, but I had a great time anyway.    When I was finished, walking out of the water with bleeding legs and a big grin, this guy walked up to me and said “A man after my own heart.  I’m Steve.”

We started sailing together in 1992 as members of a share house on the Little Peconic.   By the end of that year we declared the house to the “The Puffin House”, and The Peconic Puffin newsletter began as a weekly in 1993 for eleven years.   Steve is the only person, including me, to have a copy of every issue.

He became my windsurfing mentor…in a group of well meaning waterstart-blast-crash speed crazies he was interested in jibing (the story is told in The Legend of Frank and Lauralee…Frank who we lost earlier this year.)  By 1994 he was my best friend, and things stayed that way for three decades.   We sailed from sharehouses together, then when he bought his own place on the water for his young family he rented a room to me and my girlfriend (now wife of 24 years), and after a dozen years of that my wife and I bought a place close to them.

By and by I learned to jibe (thank you Dasher) and Steve and I began pursuing any and all manner of freestyle and refined technique with Andy Brandt and ABK.   We were disciples for whom nothing was too crazy, particularly in light wind.  We weren’t particularly good at it, but we had the best times.

Over the years the personal geography changed, and we went from seeing each other weekly to a couple times per year, with covid really throwing a damper on things.   But we got to sail together for the first time in ages about six weeks ago…the blog post I did doesn’t really capture its importance, but of course I thought we had many more sessions in our future.  We’re past due for a trip to Hatteras, what would have been our 15^th Pamlico Pilgrimage.    That will never happen now.  Nor will we catch another Mets game.   Nor will I watch him give away his darling daughters should the days come when they get married.

There will be no more days together.  We had a lot of good ones.

(The top photo is circa 1996.  We are in the middle of nowhere on the Delmarva Peninsula, getting gasoline on the way to the Outer Banks.  Note Steve's puffin t shirt.   The bottom pic is from 1994.)

West Meadow Sunset

Monday afternoon West Meadow went off.   Jeff Usher took this shot of George Pav getting his final run after a great 4.7 session.

Ludicrous Speed

Usually when a big gust blasts through the surface of the water gets rougher.   Not this time.

We’d been on the water at South Jamesport for a couple hours (Pav, the Wolf, Rob, Artie, the Rat….that’s what he said to call him, Ken, Joe and others) in what for most of us was 5.3ish conditions.  Some lulls, some solid gusts…good.   Artie and I were sailing together outbound when suddenly conditions were full 4.7, while the water stayed flat. We found ourselves sailing sick fast.  “Ludicrous speed” Artie would say later.   I was fully focused on not catching a rail, as I was ****ing FLYING withg just the fin and a little board in the water.  Behind me I could hear Artie howling.   The blast finally backed down, and there were jibes and a return to the beach for me.  Yowza.

It was a beautiful day overall, the big warm southerly and not bad ramps for SJ keeping everyone entertained.  Several noted this might be the last warm session of the year…time to break out the 4/3’s and drysuits to keep us shredding for the next six months.  Count me in!

(Top:  Ken throws some spray.  Bottom:  George Pav freestylin'.   Photos by The Art of Windsurfing.)

Return to East Landing (kinda)

Monday was a holiday (formerly Chris Columbus Day, now Indigenous People Day).  As opposed to the mass turnout we'd had two days earlier, t'was just me, Chimply Lord Scotworth (the Earl of Kielt) and Kurt.   I rigged 5.4 and my 109 cheater board, and planed all over the place while the other guys rigged.  Scott launched, and the wind promptly died.  Oh vell.  Kurt somehow managed to get planing on his 89 liter board and a 4.8.  FOUR EIGHT!   That's efficient.

But the wind soon died and we called it a day.  Scott regretted the drive (longer for him) but I was glad to get some more.  C'est la sesh.

East Landing Chronical

"The Chronicler writes history," Bruce said to me.   That's crazy talk given that I write the blog.   But so be it!

Saturday at East Landing we had quite the turnout.   People I knew (Scott Rob the Wolf Artie Jan Bruce Pav Me) and people I didn't know, many of whom were speaking French.   I would say it was the biggest French speaking turnout at a session in several years quelle magnifique!   I rigged a 5.4, and everyone else rigged their version of same, whilst the wind went up and down, up and down.   

"We caught the best of it" Jan said to me, and she was right...one nicely powered stretch of about 45 minutes when all was lull-less and good.  Folks chose to swap out boards rather than re-rig.  This worked for me...I started out on my 109 but spent most of the sesh on Ye Olde 93.

This is my history of Saturday.