Falling Into The Northeast
A Lifetime Of Ferries & Surf Lore
by Zach Weisberg

So we bluffed. We tried to make it happen, but the East Coast is just too good to cover in fourteen days. Don’t get me wrong, we’re wrapping this thing up ASAP, but it was far more important to score waves with the quintessential Jersey crew than to speed through Eastern America with reckless abandon and disregard for swell charts.

So we had to add a couple days.

Which allowed us another half day in Montauk with Tripoli, where he reflected on what Fall means for New York surfers.

“It’s hands down the best time of year,” said Patterson. “The waves get bigger in the winter, but now the swell is consistent and the weather is amazing. Look around you.”

I looked around, and a bushel of fire-leaves swarmed across our truck as a brisk breeze dusted the raindrops off the grass. It was everything fall should be on the East Coast, but with an eye on the map and a tinge of guilt for not already being in Maine, we hit the dusty trail to Rhode Island.

To get from Montauk to Rhode Island, we had to take more ferries than I’ve ever taken in my life. So today we logged our time in the water while in the car, heading directly toward East Coast icon Sid Abbruzzi’s house.

“This guy is a full-on East Coast legend,” said Peter Mendia. “You have to get in touch with him; he’ll show you what it’s all about – just have your tape recorder ready.”

Sam Hammer talked him up too, and from the moment we walked into his home, we knew we were in for something special. A museum of surf heritage decorates the floors, walls, ceilings, and punk-rock basement of Abbruzzi’s house, and his garrulous tendencies divulge story after story of East Coast surf lore. This guy was there when it all happened, and if my intuitions are correct, he was the guy making it happen.

After a welcome-to-Newport-dinner, we checked the waves with local surfer, Jay Wilson and were blown away by what we saw.

It may have been dark, but I swear a five-foot right was peeling off the rocks at a consistent pace for about 300 yards. I had to remind myself that I was in Rhode Island – not Rincon.

We returned back to the house, and before shipping off to bed Sid hollered down the stairs, “I’m going to bed – you guys go nuts, though!”

And with that, Jay, Patrick, and I headed into Sid’s punk-rock-palace in the basement and tested the wiring on his stacks.

They worked. And we can’t wait for tomorrow.

- Zach Weisberg
Online Editor

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