T'was the night before Christmas, and all through the Shack
Not a creature was stirring, not even a Windansea Surf Club Rat.
The stockings were hung, next to Melinda and Debs wreath, with great
Care in hopes that Saint Surf Santa would soon be there.
The groms were all nestled all comfy in the sand, while visions
Of Christmas surf danc'd in their heads.
And Mama in her new Xterra wetsuit and me in my Bulky Boy
Rash guard, had just settled our brains on what board to ride
After our Christmas night's nap.
When out at Right Hooker, there arose such a clatter
I sprang from my hammock to see what was the matter.
Away from the palm fronds I flew like like a flash , tore off my leash and paddled out in a dash.
The moon on the breast of newly churned sea foam, gave the
Lustre of mid-day to all the surfboards below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a mint Woody
with five new Hank Warner Custom Shapes, two Isaac Woods Gordon & Smiths and four new Bessells.
With a little old driver so lively and quick, to get out to the lineup,
I knew from the start, it must be Surf Saint Nick.
More rapid than Sea Orcas, his Windansea team members they came.
And he whistled and shouted and call'd them by name.
"Now Star and Emma de Jourday, now Miranda, Michael, Brian and Kyra Joseph, now Indy, now Foster and Tiare, now Sir Isaac, now Le Animal', now Scott and Berkley Eggers, now Cortez and Nate Jernigan, now Mathew and Maddy Perrault, now Mike Brown, now Tudor and Tosh, Now Sean Donovan, now Brian, Illa and Hanna and Keilei McEvilly, now Isabel Fried, now Jen Smith, Mathew Powers, now Remy and Warren, now Derek, Taylor and Gordy Dunfee, now Louis and Debbie, now Jon and Helena, now Joyce Sisson, now Mathew Matsushima, Now George Taylor, now Maddie Miller, now Jo Jo and Jo, now Felipe and Erica and Sebastian, Now Sylvie, Now Dave, Arie and Cruso Frapwell, now Ben and Charlie, now Jackie and Laird, Now Andy Prado, now Robb and Michael Luscomb, now Cordon, now Kit Kantner, Now Ruyler of All, now Marnie and Bill, now Nancy McCandless now RK and PK and Chuck and Mick Davey too, now Lee and May Dunham, now Carter Chopskie, now Rex Navarro now Tom Tweed, now Warren and Christian Z, now Randy Lind and Jon Boland, now Fernando and Santiago, now Hanky, now Kellen and Mike Lovell, Adam Warren, Johnny Norris, Tristian Sulloway, now Fano Rakgjiga, now Jon Dupont, now Johnny Monster and a little Monster on the way, now Chris Slater, Johnny Jacob, now Ian Rotgans, now Scot Cherry, now Bret and Vi Howard, now Howard Chapleau, now Judd and Judd Henkes, now Nick Saks, Henry Hunt, now Warren and Leana Sharky, now Jeff and Mason Morrow, now CPro Super Soul, now Mark Feighn, now Blake and Stefano, now Tim and Robin Bessell, now Cadu and Lorenzo, now JP and Linda, now Melinda now Mike and Mike Jr. Hynson, now, now Margo Krueger, now Uncle, Harold now Chip and Charles Hasley and now in spirit, Charles Hasley Sr, Tom Ortner, Kevin Cincotta, and BA! Now everyone else, that Saint Santa forgot this night please forgive because he is old and his memory is gone!
To the top of the Shack, and the top of the Lot, now everyone needs to get their
Boards, and paddle on out!
As dry fronds before the wild Santa Anna winds, Surf Santa's Elves fly, when they meet with an obstacle, they mount to the sky.
So up to condo tops across from the lot, they flew high with the Woody filled with cool things from Mitch's, Birds Shed with Surf Santa in tow too.
And in a twinkling I heard from the top, the sounds of the Groms, I mean Santa's elves stomping a lot.
As I drew in my head and was turning around, Down the Chimney Saint Surf Santa came with a bound.
He was dressed in furry red surf trunks and a Mitch's t-shirt too, and he was tarnish'd with Ashes and soot from the flew.
A bundle of rad surf stuff was flung on his back, and he looked like an old gremmie opening his Santa backpack.
His eyes - how they twinkled, his dimples how merry, his cheeks were like red surfboard wax, his nose like red zinc oxide.
His droll little mouth was drawn up like the bow, he had on a pair of Vans Skate shoes, and the beard on his chin was as white as Uncle Harold's!
The stump of a pipe he held in his teeth tight, because he paid dearly for what he was smokin that night. The smoke, as it circled his head, looked an awful like the wreath secured fast to the Shack.
He had a broad face and little round belly that shook when he surfed like a bowl full of
The king of the Surf Elves was chubby and plump, and he made me laugh when I saw him myself.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, and he filled all the stockings with wax, shades, North Shore Fins and new leashes galore, and then all of a sudden he turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose, and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprung to his Woody, which after his very last delivery of gifts, had morphed into a brand new shiny 2021 Ford Raptor. Then he gave his team a whistle and monster trucked away like a herd of wild mustangs.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight, Merry Christmas and good surf to all, and to all, a good night.
Merry Christmas, to all of you, and I hope and I pray that all of your Christmas dreams come true!
Bill "Brasil" Fitzmaurice