Brostock 2008

The first time I realized what Brostock was all about I was lying on my bench on the top deck of the Minnesota Houseboat nursing some substantial wounds from the night before.  I didn't have my contacts in so I was legally blind and wasn't qualified to judge just about anything except for this: I saw two boats in the cove, one had an obviously pro crew throwing really impressive stuff (especially given the conditions) and the other had an amateur crew.  The pro boat button-hooked a double-up and the rider connected with a real elevator and hucked a perfect toe nine (might have been switch, but like I said I was in rough shape and was not qualified at that time).  The boat went nuts and the rider continued on down the pass throwing mind-blowing tricks in knee-deep chop.  The next boat — with the am riders — then pulled the same line and served up the same meat, but the rider missed his double-up entirely.  The boat went nuts.  Did I miss something?  Did an entire boat just go nuts over a nothing-up that ended in a barely successful wake jump?  Nope.  Those am riders were just on an entirely different level than the pros, and nobody cared.  That, on the last day of the trip, was when I realized that it didn't matter who you were at Brostock as long as you were a Bro.  If you rolled up in a Maserati with a Gucci suit and drank nothing but mint juleps all day, it wouldn't matter as long as you Broed down as hard as you could and gave yourself wholly to the Lake Powell Gods. 

Now that I waxed Broetic for as much as needed to be said, here are a few other things we realized (the Minnesota Houseboat had her maiden voyage at Brostock 2008) about the engrossing spectacle that is Brostock on the one-and-only Lake Powell:

Watch the eff out for snakes. 

We happened to be walking up a small goat trail to the top of one of the impossibly smooth rock hills that rise for hundreds of feet above the Lake when we looked up to see a rattler the size of a garden hose an arm's length away.  Now, we at WBM fancy ourselves outdoorsmen who can handle just about any situation — nature or otherwise — that comes our way (if you can survive boat tests, you can survive just about anything, so they say), but instead of corralling said serpent and keeping him as a pet in the houseboat utility benches (the same one I was sleeping on) to be fed Jell-o shots and guacamole dip and kept to antagonize passers-by and impress the ladies, we thought it wise – what with the uneven ground and all – to content ourselves with some video and an abrupt descent.  Best you do the same, unless it's a level playing field, then wrangle away!

When your ankle swells up so you can't get your shoes on, you got stung by a scorpion (you may not even know you got stung until afterward). 

No worries, just take in more libations to thin the blood, and ice the affected area up a bit (not dry ice), unless you get bitten in the location of a major artery (like the armpit, upper thigh, wrist or jugular – eesh), then you should worry.

Plan* on getting up early. 

We rose at about 6:00 AM Powell Time** each day because we slept on the upper deck (wish we could say we slept on top of a live rattle snake, but you know…he had the obvious advantage).

You will have wounds. 

Call them Bro Bruises, UDIs — whatever you want, but you will get them, Powell's a thorny mistress.       

Don't leave your laptop on top of the refrigerator when your houseboat's "coming in hot" on a speedy landing with an over-zealous driver and a crew that's had a bit of Victory Punch.

Your refrigerator will end up in the middle of the kitchen and you'll be extremely lucky if your video equipment rides it out unscathed.

Fly into Vegas and road trip to Powell from there. 

This one needs no explanation. 

Don't plan on getting good riding water unless you get up really friggin' early. 

Other options: travel farther than everyone else to remote coves, ride in the rain, or tough it out and hit some meaty dubs through the chop and hope for the best.

Set your anchors before you go to bed or go riding. 

If you don't, you'll be chasing a two-ton houseboat down thorny shorelines in your underwear.

Turn off your cell phone and don't bring a charger. 

You won't need it.  The Powell Gods don't accept much more technology than a couple outboard engines, wake machines, and the occasional PA system for Public Enemy.  (Better yet, just leave your phone at home.)

Well, dear readers, that's about enough Bro knowledge as your faithful narrator can spew in one sitting without getting all misty-eyed, so we'll have to leave the rest to the video (a thousand words, after all) and your memories if you were there, or your imaginations if you're going next year.  Stay tuned to wakeboardingmag.com and mywake.tv for more coverage of Brostock, the impending Tige Pro Am in Portland (we're en route as we write) and the Arizona Pro Tour stop.  (A quick stop at Lake Powell, you say?  Doubtful, our system won't be able to handle it again for at least another year.) 

* This statement is false, there's no such thing as planning on Lake Powell.  You relax, you Bro down, you enjoy the double-up competition, you hit on ladies — you don't plan.