There was a time we skated inside.
Washington winters and nothing was dry - not even the sky.
Up and down we skated around.
All sorts of sound made the neighbors frown.
Best room in town.
"The Pit had a nostalgic smell to it. They lived there for but a year, but the character and memories that the air in there held made for a surprisingly comfortable setting that even strangers couldn’t ignore. One could smell it in the air…this was a good place.
There were strange vessels filled with fluffy ash and various accoutrements. The kind of things that could have only been acquired by those so enthralled in the pursuance and dispersement of the happiness provided by a supplement to, soon to become an accomplice of, surfing. A man could spin around and around, getting lost in the patterns and dream scenes on the walls, without seeing a unit of foam and resin. But it was there. It was always there. Harbored within two men that quickly came to understand that even in the wettest of environments, waves are not always found. Within a mile of salt water, cargo ships, whales, and octopi, waves are not always found. Not in here. Not in the Sound.
So they sat. They thought. Puff. Drink. Skate. Create. Stumbling and learning and through an endless imagination, a creation is unveiled that made wide the eyes of those in the know. A ramp was created and thus sparked the endless creation of human movement. A dance floor was born. And in the Sound, where waves were not always found. These men created. And skated." - Nick Cowgill, Pit Resident (circa 2005-2006)