I took this photo from the internet; “Surf World” or something. Five rippers from the wave-starved Olympic Peninsula headed down there almost two weeks ago and are due back in the next couple of days. Yes, I asked for some sort of report. No, and I’m not trying to put any guilt on anyone… I’m sure there are excuses/reasons/explanations (band width, remoteness, lack of desire, too much wave action), I have not heard anything other than a second hand report from Adam Wipeout that Cougar Keith may have gotten the ride of the trip to that point (text message- I didn’t try, figuring cost of phone usage from the Central America, stuff like that), but, yeah, I TOTALLY WANT TO GET THE REPORT!
MEANWHILE, between getting filmed at a secret(ish) Strait of Juan de Fuca spot (Stephen R. Davis, also, with a surprise cameo, after whatever waves there may have been went to shit, by Jason Queen [not a nickname]) for some future artsy docu-thingy about me (despite my weak protestations by a woman who works for the Gates Foundation (more on this at a later date, but camera angles were demanded that diminished the chances of site identification, and yes, I would love to see a slow motion drone shot of me tucking my chunky body into a stretched-out wave); between this and getting a second surgery on my left eye after the first one for a detached retina failed. 10%, evidently, do; so, so lucky to be in the top percentile for something; oh, and the gash from my fall several months back is officially ‘almost’ well, though I was advised not to surf because of imagined (by the wound care nurse originally from Cuba, who thought maggots could have been an option) seal shit in the water.
“Oh, that,” I said, not having told her we saw several seals on the day of the filming, which, of course, I had not told her about.
MEANWHILE MEANWHILE, I still have my art retrospective at the COLAB in downtown Port Townsend. It will be there for one more ART WALK, the first Saturday in June, and I’m working on some more door panels. I have three bi-fold doors in progress, so six paintings. At this point I’m only willing to call three of them ‘almost’ done, so it’s kind of like three A sides, three B sides.
Not good enough. But they will be.
As I said, almost. Triple meanwhile, while I’m out of the waters for a while, five rabid rippers are set to return to a lineup near you. AS ALWAYS, if you can’t be nice, be real.
WORD ON THE STRAIT has it that BIG DAVE RING is giving up surfing. This would be a loss to whatever surfing community we believe we have.
All right, I immediately have to backtrack. I do divulge my sources; almost always. Adam Wipeout ran into Dave at Carl’s Building Supply. Or Henery’s Hardware- not important. Big Dave quitting surfing is. Important.
Big Dave is a secretive sort of person. I’m not. I’m not actually sure his last name is Ring. I may have heard his last name once, but not from him. I asked him for his phone number. Once. He said he’d give me one number each time I asked. “So, let me guess; three?”
Dave doesn’t talk much in the lineup. I do. He doesn’t often hang out on the beach, swapping stories. He is patient in the water, and is actually known for staying out for more hours than anyone. He picks out the best waves, sideslips in full control, and rather than barrel dodging sections, he drives through them. I have never seen him not in the best part of a wave, power in the pocket.
The only reason we sort of became friends (I say yes, you can ask him) is that we have some shared history. When I moved to Pacific Beach, San Diego, California in 1971, I was twenty. Dave was five or six years younger, a self-described “Pier Rat” hanging at Crystal Pier with Joe Roper and the rest of the local Gremmies. I can’t say I have a mental picture of fifteen year old Dave, but knew Joe Roper’s name because he was the best surfer in the bunch, and the most vicious. I can’t mention Joe Roper without retelling how he purposefully slammed his board into a guy in the shorebreak because (and I asked) the guy was from Clairemont. Perhaps it is not ironic that Joe’s repair facility is in… is it in Clairemont?
It wasn’t like I was in any group myself, but I was, for those couple of years, a local, for whatever that was or is worth. Still, I probably felt more connected to the pier rats than the other surfers who jockeyed for position in the crowded weekend and after work conditions. This was where I developed my Ghetto Mentality, a sort of excuse I have yet to totally disavow.
Big Dave, a few years ago, taking a rare break
Another connection I have with Dave is that we are sometimes mistaken for each other. It’s the mustache, perhaps. “People have said they really liked that thing I wrote on my blog,” Dave told me. “I just say ‘thanks.'” An argument continues as to which one of us is the Walrus, and which the Beast.
I have run into Big Dave over the years. He rescued my board in the rip once. If I paddled out and he was in the lineup he would say, “Oh, someone left the gate open.” Part way through a session, he would say, “The wave counters on the beach say you’ve caught enough.” I recently ran into him when he was with the Jefferson County road crew, setting up to close off another road. He said he’d gone to the doctor with a diagnosis of arthritis in his legs. “The doctor said it would mean a change in my… lifestyle.” “He meant… surfing?” “Maybe.” “No, man. No.”
There is some similarity in our arcs as we head past middle age. Dave has been riding a twelve foot SUP as a regular board for years. No paddle. It has been a while now that he, paddling back out, commented that I get to my feet like an old man. He was right. Still, over the past couple of years, he went from taking off, dropping in, and standing after the first section. Then, as with me, staying on his knees. He still rides a wave as well as anyone.
HERE IS WHERE surfers seem to decide to give it up: Surfing is a competitive activity, with inarguable amounts of ego unevenly divided among the worthy and everyone else. The crowd factor, a delight for the novice, so excited to be there, wears on others. It is tough to compete those on the safe side of the first section, paddling blindly, dropping in. I don’t get too many drop-in bitches (someone else’s term for male or female surfers- I only use it for dudes), but I have witnessed Big Dave, high and tight in the pocket, and someone just… drops… in.
I cannot help but remember when leashes came into use. I put off getting one, but couldn’t help but notice how the kids Dave was running with would take off in front of me, and when the wave got critical, they… just… bailed.
BIG DAVE… PLEASE, DON’T BAIL!
I might need someone to rescue my board from the rip again. OH, and I can’t imagine some almost out of control pre-dawn situation without seeing a big guy with a big board over his shoulder, coming down the trail and onto the beach, beating me out to the lineup. “Someone leave the gate open again?”
EVIDENTLY. As always, thanks for reading, and, if you can’t be nice, be real.
KELLY- Yes, I watched the super heat at Snapper Rocks on YouTube… several times. Five (former, with explanation, if necessary) World Champions: Occy, Parkinson, Gilmore, Fanning, Slater, all of whom have a background at the spot, and, if the World Surf league commentators are to be believed, a residence in the vicinity. The consensus was that Stephanie won, and I agree, with Kelly coming in, perhaps, second.
THEN, live, last night, live on the big screen in my living room, I watched Kelly in a four person heat in the round of 64. Two surfers advanced. Kelly wasn’t one of them.
THROUGH OR NOT, here is what is true about R. Kelly Slater: All the radical moves he developed and perfected have become, with training and coaching, part of any competitive surfer’s repertoire, and are, de facto, required, must-see slices and swoops and cutbacks at any age or level. Full-wrap-tail-slide-to-whitewater-bank-to-bottom-turn? Yeah. Ten yard foam climb with speed and control. Yes.
Power down-carve in powerful waves, back arm in the wall? Credit John John Florence, but check out everyone else’s version. Air in the pocket, with speed? Felipe. The radical, nine-point-plus moves become, eventually, sixes. Five, maybe. Bust those fins.
It is, perhaps, too obvious to state that we all learn from others; copying, adopting, adapting. True in music, in whatever trade or art or business you are involved in. Still, though Kelly, no doubt, picked up moves from others, he moved heat strategy and the use of strategic moves… farther. He is the most copied, the most emulated. If he was awesome when he started, he is no less so now.
Other tour veterans have been forced to adapt. Sally Fitzgibbons, going for air reverses, still has to fight on in the Challenger Series. As good as Stephanie Gilmore has always been, if you compare her surfing now to when she started winning world titles… well, her performances are so much more… progressive.
Progressive. Now.
Griffin Colapinto, I have argued, and will, is the perfect example of someone who identified, studied, practiced Kelly’s moves until he had them down. Automatic. And, currently, he is ranked Number One on the men’s side.
NUMBER ONE on the women’s side is, currently, with a style characterized as “intuitive,” as “different,” is Caitlin Simmers. Here’s how I explain it. SHE’S FROM OCEANSIDE.
I was cruising through Walmart on Thursday, hoping they had some of the good bird food. Incapable, for the most part, of shopping on my own, I had Trish on the bluetooth. Capable of multi-tasking, she had coverage on the fire at the end of the Oceanside Pier live streaming on Facebook, some guy talking about the response, firefighters and fireboats going against the toxic smoke from the creosote-saturated pilings, while I’m trying to decide between the cheap or the super cheap throwaway razors.
TRISH and I have a long history, separate and together, of experiences on and around the structure. SO MANY that, though I started writing (in Microsoft Word) about them, I realized, many words in and still not up to the nineteen sixties, that I will have to spend some more time on the subject.
QUICKLY, the waves are challenging. They seem to be bigger and break harder than other spots. One must adapt. The two-plus years I spent working at Buddy’s Sign Service, First and Tremont, two blocks south and one block (plus railroad tracks) east allowed me to surf some frustrating, some truly memorable waves. I can easily remember dropping, backside, into overhead walls that stretched toward the pier. And… anyway… later on that. And go Caity!
SURF TRIP NEWS- Reggie Smart is back from Maui. Stephen R. Davis is headed back from San Francisco. Five surfers from the Port Townsend area are headed to Panama. HOPEFULLY I will have some photos and stories. EVERY SESSION IS, if you do it right, A STORY.
MEANWHILE, I’m busy on several fronts. Surfing is one of them. LATER. And, with all due respect, Later, SLATER.
Let me see if I can tell this quickly. It isn’t as if I haven’t told the story to pretty much everyone I’ve spoken to for longer than the “Yes, I found what I wanted (corn dogs); thank you” at the QFC.
I roll up to an unnamed beach. It’s early, but not pre-dawn early. Waves, but small. But waves. There’s one guy in the water on a giant longboard, and he’s getting out. He comes up the beach toward his (of course) white sprinter van. The woman sitting on a beach chair in front of the van reading a book, that, judging by the gold-edged pages might be a Bible, or not, jumps up to help him up to the van, then helps him pull his wetsuit off his shoulders. Nice.
He’s a BIG guy, possibly bigger than me, so I am sorely (subtle Bible reference) tempted to yell, “Hey, get back out there! I don’t want to be the fattest guy in the water.” I don’t.
I’m trying to get into my own wetsuit (not the front zip with the patches, particularly the one on the, um, butthole-adjacent area), which, top this point, I have not donned without some assistance. I see this guy headed over to the sani-can. “Hey… a little help if you would. Old guys… you know. Now, on the velcro… Thanks. You going out?” “When the tide gets a little higher.” “Supposed to get windy.” “Yeah.”
By the time I grab my board there’s one surfer out on the lefts and two guys heading over to the rights, one of whom is doing warmup moves. The other one waves at me. “Oh, it’s Sean.” I wave back.
I paddle up to the one guy at the lefts, nod, and, polietly, say, “I’m going to back-paddle you.” He doesn’t respond. I move over about twenty yards, turn, and catch a wave. The guy is down the line and paddling for it. I don’t, like, yell. Maybe I say, “Hey” or “Whoa.” he backs off. I ride on. Paddling back, I say, “Maybe I was rude.” “That’s obvious; taking the first set wave.” I didn’t ask, “That was a set wave?” Instead I explained that, because of injury and eye surgery, I hadn’t surfed in two months.
Since we were the only ones out and there weren’t more set ‘bombs’ on the way, the guy said, “Oh. I read your blog; I thought you were all over that.” “The eye, yes; the wound… ongoing.”
So, then he’s talking about how difficult it is to predict waves on the Strait. “It’s like… magic,” he says. “Sometimes this spot breaks, sometimes another spot.” “It is magic. Sometimes everywhere is breaking, sometimes no where. Any waves are a… gift.” Bear in mind, I’m still sitting deeper than my new friend is, and, perhaps, I actually have some legitimate claim on priority. I would have caught his name if he had stayed out longer.
Meanwhile, the guy who helped me with the wetsuit, and another guy, both wearing boonie hats, with straps, and a woman, with a wetsuit hood, paddle out and are sitting in what would be the inside section of a wave if a wave actually lined up. Several do, and I’m kind of weaving between the three a couple of times, waving nicely as I do.
Another dude, average size, maybe kind of tall, out on a super long board, takes off in front of me, twice. the first time I didn’t make the first section, so… okay. The second time, I did, and I ride behind him for quite a while before he kind of looks around. “Might as well keep going,” I said. He didn’t respond.
My goal was to make sure I could still surf, and to surf. So, mission accomplished, I get out of the water, and, after drinking some coffee, head over to where Sean is parked. He’s pretty much dressed and chatting with someone who may or may not be Bricky. I do ask, politely, if I can hang out with some local hipsters for a minute. Sean says, “For a guy who’s so smooth in the water, you kind of looked like a sea monster when you got to land.” “Yeah. All I was thinking was, ‘shit, when did the beach get so steep? Where did all these rocks come from?'”
Because I had stayed up late and gotten up early, my plan was to take a nap, in my wetsuit, maybe surf again. Meanwhile other surfers entered the water, and a series of squalls brought in side chop and brief periods of heavy rain.
Because I’m trying to diet (because I was actually put on scales and my blood pressure recorded), I have been avoiding ice cream and Little Debbies, and going for high fibre foods. Because of this, there was a necessity to… anyway, I would need more help with the wetsuit if I was to go for a second session.
This time I elicited help from a woman who had just come in. “Yeah, the velcro, it’s… yeah thanks. You get some good… waves?” At this time, the wind was, I swear, offshore. “Yeah. Great! It was supposed to get windy.” “Well, it probably will. Gifts, huh?”
My goal was to get ten waves. There are four or five guys out and the wind switches back to sideshore. I blow my first takeoff, my board popping up close. “Peripheral vision,” I said. I go for a second wave. Two guys, one doing that windmill, head down, ‘I’m a kook’ paddle, take off in front of me. I ride past both of them, in the soup, the kook doing that ‘Oh my God, arms straight out, hope I don’t pearl’ thing. I keep going until the wave cleans up.
On the way back out, I notice Brett is out. I haven’t seen him in a while, so we’re chatting. Somewhere in there I mention that it was way cleaner earlier. One of the two drop-in dudes turns around and asks, “Oh, so you were out… earlier?” I asked, politely, if he was inferring (or implying, whichever is correct) that I had, perhaps, gotten my share of the waves. “You almost ran over us,” he said. “You dropped in on me, man.” “No, I was already paddling.”
That explanation has never worked for me. I have tried. I wanted to tell the dude he should go back and read the rule book. I didn’t. Meanwhile, the water starting to show whitecaps, Brett says, “I will burn you, Erwin.” I respond that I haven’t forgotten that he gave me the biggest burn of my career. He may have said, “You’re welcome.” If not, I’m sure he meant to.
I got a couple more rides (eight total, not ten), several of which went near the two guys in the boonie hats and the woman, all of whom were, one, still out, and all of whom had moved closer to the real lineup, and, I’d witnessed, were catching and riding waves. “Keep this up and you’ll be ripping,” I said before I got to shore, sea-monstering my way to my car.
NEXT TIME- Stephen R. Davis goes to the card show in San Francisco.
JOEL and RACHEL CARBEN are the proprietors of the COLAB in downtown Port Townsend. Colab as in Collaborative Work Space. Joel is one of the members (if there is such a thing) of the rabid-if-desperate and frequently-disappointed Olympic Peninsula/Strait of Juan de Fuca surf community. There is an ART WALK each month in PT (I’ve never gone on one), so, partially in the interest of promoting the COLAB enterprise (more people hanging out with laptops and connections), why not have me and two other artists show our stuff? I mean, after all, Joel does actually own the cedar art piece/surfboard shown below. Long story. I was supposed to spray paint “Locals Only” on it or something, but…
ARTISTS, huh?
As usual, I didn’t do everything right. I had a whole room to display my stuff. I didn’t put prices on things, didn’t put business cards out. And, I didn’t hang out in the room, charming the folks who came in. BUT, I now realize, the main thing I did wrong is that I didn’t take some photos of STEPHEN R. DAVIS, KEITH DARROCK, and, yeah, me, cruising around to the various galleries.
If I had you could see LIBRARIAN KEITH, as rabid a surf fanatic as I have ever run into (or been burned by), but a solid citizen, mingling with the tourists and the artists, and in the company of two, perhaps… no, I don’t know how to describe Steve and I except we’re probably not as out-there as we believe ourselves to be. I mean, I’m as CITIZEN as the next person, but Steve? ARTISTS, huh?
And we’re checking out everyone else’s art, chatting with artists, partaking in the free snacks (no wine for me, not that I’m bragging. A nice expresso would have been… appreciated).
AND IT kind of worked out. EXAMPLE- We’re at the fanciest gallery in PT (prices fancier, also- wine from bottles with, probably, recognizable names for wine aficionados- no, not Ernest & Julio), and Steve is kind of (I thought) kissing up to this artist with the tiniest possible ponytail (so high concept/fashion), and I see this kid sitting on a bench with a sweatshirt with a logo from CHRIS BAUER SURFBOARDS. “Hey, where’d you get that sweatshirt, kid?” “He’s my dad. Chris Bauer.” “Oh.” When one of the board members (because fancy galleries have boards and directors) comes over and says I’m getting a bit rowdy, I acknowledge this and ask her if he knows KEITH.
THEY chat and I go outside. Again, as with my leaving first at other venues, I sort of think, as I acknowledged, that, if I still smoked, I’d be having one at this point. OUTSIDE the gallery.
I am not a marketer. Particularly not of my stuff.
HERE’S WHERE STEPHEN R. DAVIS got it right. I was critiquing and moving, asking quick, real questions of the folks showing and explaining and (you have to guess) trying to sell their works, questions such as: “How much are the dues? How much floor time do you have to put in? Do you sell enough to make it worth it? Meanwhile, Steve, a bundle of his cards in his hand, was showing his stuff, handing out samples as business cards, making, you know, inroads into the PT art scene.
NOW WE’RE on to the post event CRITIQUE, as in, what did I do wrong? What can I do NOW? I probably should have hung around in the space at the COLAB, charminig the folks who stumbled in, maybe selling
EVEN WITH THE BARAT, would you buy art from this double-chinned fat guy in the sweatshirt for the OLYMPIC MUSIC FESTIVAL (though several people thought OMF stood for Old M F-er)?
Here’s a shot of Keith, Joel, me (hiding the double chin), and Adam “Wipeout” James.
Here’s Steve on his boat from a few years ago. AGAIN, I should have taken a few photos from the ART WALK.
BUT I did, because I was displaying some drawings I did years ago of houses in Port Townsend, get an opportunity to draw one for someone. AND I DO OWE a big thank you to JOEL and RACHEL for the opportunity. TRISH says I should give them a piece of my art. “WHY? He already has the surfboard?”
So, BIG THANK YOU! Heart emoji, hang loose emoji.
MARKETING. I’m working on it. AND I did actually have a good time, chatting it up with people I don’t know, running into some I do know (shout out to Ian), hanging with friends.
Perhaps, on Wednesday, I’ll go over how I’m getting over and/or dealing with the detached retina, the infection in my leg, both related, possibly, to a fall, and a high blood pressure situation I discovered because I just had no choice but to go to a doctor; and the double chin thing. I am totally ready to get back in the water. TAKE THIS AS A WARNING.
Good luck. And, again, if you can’t be nice, be real.
I YouTubed the latest BEACH GRIT Saturday morning. Not the hour plus version, a more user friendly ten minutes (or so) edit (I’m assuming), the first three minutes (or so) an advertisement for a solar watch I just have to purchase. The topic was… I don’t remember. Oh, yeah, it was a response to letters to the editor (sorry, emails from the blog-ets); in this case, what a surf dude should wear to get married in, from arbiters of all things surfing, David Lee Scales and Chas Smith (and I apologize for calling David Lee Seales last time). Good stuff. Not what I was intending to write about.
I got this image from “Mariska and Fernando something something.” Congratuations!
’ll get to that. FIRST, I must say I was kind of jazzed that, according to my tablet, the post had been, you know, posted, like, forty-two minutes earlier AND had, at that time, no comments. Not that I ever comment. I think it requires signing in somewhere, and emojis, and misspellings, and pretty horrific grammatic usage. BUT, I must add, I am a fan of surf-centric content, though I’ve seen enough that I fast-forward frequently; especially when (even) one of my cosmic, cloud-breaking, globe-floating surf heroes (even Nate or Jamie or any of the Koas) start hyping product and/or starts being too whiny or obsequiously and, possibly, phony-ly nice. AND I have yet to subscribe to any channel or blog. BUT, if you subscribe to worldwide (honestly, they keep track and I check… daily) non-phenomenon… realsurfers, I’m not going to beg, but so many, many thanks, many congrats on your, um, discernment (insert virtual kiss emoji here).
I DO HOPE following Dave and Chas and then commenting on their commentary doesn’t make me a troll, BUT TODAY’S TROLLING is because their recent identifying/outing TYLER WRIGHT as an entitled, privileged, ‘I’m a victim,’ narcissist got me thinking. Yes, I was kind of taken aback, while watching hours of a WSL contest from somewhere, that she mentioned, you know, menstruation and its effects on heat strategy, but I didn’t get more involved than that. BUT I don’t have the insider access D and C have.
WAIT, aren’t most sports stars a little bit… that? Aren’t most, even non-world-class surfers somewhere on the self-centered spectrum? Since I’ve long been of the opinion that most who surf with a skill level over day three surf camp (day two, private lesson) are, placed in the competitive petri dish arena at any decent surf spot, SOCIOPATHS, adding a bit of the victimhood aspect doesn’t faze me at all. OR HURT ME.
ANY OF us who have taken and/or can take the time to develop skills in a difficult sport, often performing (or trying to snag a wave if not a set bomb) in crowded conditions, might be considered Privileged, Entitled, Narcissistic, Irrefutably Sociopathic Headcases (PENIS HEADS, for short). Enjoying the activity… Separate issue. Separate posting. Later.
TAKE THIS TEST: If you’re surfing like shit, is it someone else’s fault? Of course. Or the wrong board, or the wrong wax, or some backpaddling assholes and/or drop-in bitches (bitches in the non-gender way)? For the non-surfers, think about navigating heavy traffic (your choice of vehicle), OR the lineup at the multi-pump COSTCO. If you picked the gas tank on the right side line because you know the hose will make it AND the line is shorter, BUT some asshole decides to take his or her (formerly correct way to say ‘their’ as identifying something singular) sweet ass time topping off their Hummer or checking their mileage… whatever, YES, it is their fault that you’re late to the barbeque, their fault the guacamole went brown in your artisan sidedish.
NOT TO MAKE THIS overlong, a greater privilege for the truly entitled is to be able to write and post sarcastic, sniping commentary on, you know, like, whatever.
HOWEVER, I must add that I harbor no ill will toward Tyler, John Peck, or pretty much anyone else. WAIT. Thinking. There are, not that I’m bent too far over in a direction a reader might recognize, a few politicians I wouldn’t want to hang out with, clowns who make me a bit gRUMPy.
BY WAY of confession; when I do get up to the gas pumps, I do take my sweet-ass time. Let’s see; 281.5 miles divided by 12.5 gallons equals 22.5 mpg. YEA! Thanks, Volvo.
AND, as with every time I see a post from Nathan or the quickie (only) from Keith Olbermann, or the first (surfing) half of a video from Mason Ho, when I next see something with David Lee and Chas; NO NEED TO ADD BAIT- Oh yes… CLICK.
NEXT TIME (maybe), Why we all want to be realer than other surfers.
I tried to pre-write this, but I had to edit it. WHY? Because I care.
I do care. I almost wish I didn’t… but I do. Every time I surf I try to surf as well as the waves will allow, and as well as I can.
Yes, I surf for fun, and I do have fun, but it would be even funner if I didn’t put asterisks next to my name and provide disclaimers before others get the opportunity to do so. But I do. I do this any time I describe myself (to pretty much anyone) as a surfer (“No, really, I surf, but…”), or if I recall (even to myself) my latest surf session (“Sure, I was ripping it up, but… knees, age, big ass board, paddle, years of experience, etc.”). Not excuses, explanations.
The negative self-explainers are pre-staged, baked-in as I try to gauge or grade my ability to ride waves in relation to others in the water (“Okay, five people out. I’d say I was… third best.”). Subjective. And I have asked other surfer’s opinions (“More like four; you’re getting… better.”). Subjective. The other, more important criteria was whether or not my surfing was improving (“Oh, I got in your wave? Hey, man, I’m just learning, etc.”). Excuse.
All this self-analysis goes on before (“Oh, it’s crowded, tricky, someone’s feelings are going to get hurt”), during (“Why didn’t I go for a side-slip?”), and after, all the while trying to guess what others might be saying (“Sure, he catches a lot of waves, but…), which of the available asterisks they might put beside my name, or exactly how others gauge or grade or… judge my surfing ability. I wish I didn’t care, but I do. And maybe you do.
But here’s the truth: No one is analyzing you as much as you are self-analyzing.
With exceptions. In fact, an even truer truth: Everyone judges everyone else; we attempt to put ourselves in front of or behind you in an innumerable number of categories, one of which, as surfers, is the ability to ride a wave competently. And we rate each other, definitely, on where a person fits on the kook-to-cool-to-totally arrogant dick/princess scale.
My site being ‘realsurfers’ is discriminatory. You are or you aren’t. Qualifications vary.
I recently asked a woman surfer on the beach if she judges whether a random person, before he or she actually gets in the water, is a decent surfer. “Definitely.”
“Yeah. If I saw me, I’d say (disclaimer alert) ‘that guy’s too old, too fat… not a real surfer.’” “Probably,” the woman may have said, and could have added “But…” Objective. I can… surf.
On the same outing, I asked a guy about the GoPro mounted on the front of his board. “WHY?” “Huh.” “I mean, everyone, no matter how good or bad he or she surfs, or how big the wave is, if the camera’s pointed at the surfer, it just looks… fake… Beach Party kind of fake.” “Well, I do it to work on my technique.”
At that point, because I am pretty far along on the ‘arrogant dick’ scale, I replicated the GoPro moves. I’m not sure the guy appreciated it. Still, realistic.
It should be easily believed that none of us look as cool as we think we do. A simple cell phone video from the shore or a fancy drone shot will prove this. Easily.
All surfers look awkward some of the time, some look stylish some of the time, few look either stylish or awkward all of the time. Maybe Clay Marzo can look awkward AND stylish all the time.
Forgive me, but I really don’t care how well you say you surf. Or once surfed. I’ve pretty much given up on telling people I rode six-foot boards for years, or I surfed here or there, or that I have surfed waves that were… challenging.
No. I still do that, but I wish I could… stop.
If I recount my history and list my credentials, it might not explain why I can’t surf up to my self-hype. That could be embarrassing. If I cared.
And I do.
For me, it’s all part of the FUN. Fun-funner-funnest. See you… out there.
I learned a few things watching a YouTube with local librarian/ripper Keith Darrock’s favorite surf magazine writer (spiffy columns with an accompanying photo of him… smoking- so rebellious) turned (with the demise of most print mags) into an (I’m not saying posing) outsider (allegedly)/critic of many-if-not-all things corporate, or cultural, or just plain obviously wacked-if-not-permanently ruined in the once pure (purer, perhaps), whole wide world of surfboarding, consistently those evil-ish ghouls and thugs who profit from it:
The massive (and easy) target of the World Surf League, and… oh, my god (not meaning, like, God God) Kelly Slater, Greatest surf Of All Time, and almost certainly the biggest beneficiary of the wave-washed money that has come from Kelly’s stellar career (K.S. wave pool in where? Dubai- wannabe sports capital).
Chas, in the continuance of his career, appears in his videos with a bottle of spirits, glasses donned and un-donned, and, though I haven’t watched enough of them to see if he lights up, I do admit he looks pretty cool in a Don Johnson/Miami Vice/throwback way (and, if I hadn’t stated this so far- I am in no way criticizing Mr. Smith), starting his commentary with, “I hate surfing, I don’t hate you.”
Hopefully I got that right.
SO, having former TransSurf (Surfing before that, I believe) magazine editor and current WSL commentator, Chris Cote, on his Vlog, cups and saucers rather than a bottle on the table in the foreground, with the clickbait come-on headline of (I looked this up in my History), “Chris Cote on the killing of the surf industry and the joys of toxic positivity, I meant just to watch just a bit, but stayed for all 23 or so minutes of the thing.
SO, here’s what I learned: The average age of the approximately 33 million surf or surf-adjacent people in the world is, like, forty-six (or so, I didn’t rewatch), AND, the BIGGIE, surfing is NO LONGER considered COOL among the not-yet-sponsored younger set.
WHY?
CHECKING out the comments section as Chas and Chris chatted, I read about clueless and etiquette-deficient crowds at any decent break, the swelling of kooks and hodads furthered by wave pools and surf lessons and surf camps; and words on the tragic replacement of blue (or no) collar surf rebels with time-and-money rich techies and mid-level managers driving tricked-out Sprinter vans and custom racked Teslas. Yeah, that seems… correct.
Folks just want to be part of something with a perceived (or conceived- by ad agencies, mostly) coolness they are not contributing to.
I have some theories, most centered on this: IF YOU ARE NEVER going to get as many waves as your father claims to have ridden, you might never surf better than he (or your mom) does; and anyway, few of us have fathers we would be embarrassed to hang out on the beach with; if this is the truth of surfing (and that it is actually kind of… difficult; all the paddling and stuff); WHY BOTHER?
“No, you love it. You love it! Now, just get out there, you little Ripper!” Photo from, yeah, RIP CURL.
THIS ISN’T TRUE in my case; my father, a champion swimmer, was a great body surfer, even if his wearing of the traditional Speedo (I didn’t follow suit after the sixth grade) was a bit… awkward. My mother’s driving her seven children to the beach, mostly because she loved the beach, and her support of my surfing (“Tell your friends surfing, to you, is a sport; it isn’t a lifestyle” was her point when I couldn’t go with them because of religious reasons). If it was a sport, I wanted it to be a lifestyle. Still do. It still isn’t, but it is a part of my life.
AND, in furtherance of my hypothesis, my three children do not surf; the children of many of my surf friends do not surf. Granted, I live in an area late to the game, with fickle surf and cold water, and adverse winds, difficult access, lots of troublesome rocks (though not quite far away enough from large metropolitan areas- some would say); and purchasing gear for rapidly growing kids might be financially daunting. STILL, the average age of the surfers I run into is probably in keeping with Chas Smith’s assessment. YES, I do up the demographic. AND, I do see some second generation surfers. Not, statistically, that many, but some.
OKAY, this has about the word count that seemed appropriate back when I had a column (not self-promoting, as such, it’s long gone) in the Port Townsend Leader. SO, hmmm… considering doing a live thing. NO, I’m just not cool enough. PODCAST? Double hmmm.
MEANWHILE, looking for content beyond anything Nathan Florence puts out, always checking out Keith Olbermann’s short hype-ups for his podcast, though never hitting on the full length version (and never subscribing or ‘liking’ any videos), occasionally fooled into watching some wannabe Nate Florence kooking it up in some shorebreak, next time I’m clickbaited by Chas Smith, I will probably… CLICK.
I was planning of showing my latest illustrations, but I forgot to bring my dedicated thumb drive to the printer, and, when I tried to get copies, the super fancy, super expensive machine didn’t cooperate. This kind of thing can irritate the shit out of the owner/operator. YES, I did make the stupid comment that, “Yeah, that’s why I almost always brush and roll paint jobs.” “Uh huh. Three-sixty-one.” “Okay. Let me dig out some change.”
This is a photo stolen from a group text between some (East) Olympic Peninsula surfers. I am using it totally without the permission of JOEL CARBON, dude with the jams, the shades, the exact hairdo Rob Machado had at this exact time. It was the early 2000s, and somehow (not yet fully explained) Joel, possibly still a surfer from-if-not-still-living-in Long Island, New York, was on a team at a SURFRIDER PRO-AM SURF JAM in Huntington Beach, California. Now, Joel does claim he got a score of 7.3 in a heat at the pier, but he didn’t answer when I text/asked if that was for, like, two waves. HOWEVER, he did ask if any of us recognized the calm looking young man on the left of the line. YES, he return-texted, it is, indeed THE DANE REYNOLDS. To quote Joel’s text: “Hes one of the coolest surfers tho. All those guys were freakishly talented.”
24th CAPE KIWANDA LONGBOARD CLASSIC- This is what got the convo (cooler version of conversation) going. Several surfers were on hand, informally representing the Olympic Peninsula and the Strait of Juan de Fuca. INCIDENTALLY, it’s all being live streamed as I write. IN CASE YOU MISSED IT, yesterday the waves were closing out all day. Tiny closeouts followed by bigger closeouts. NOW, I do check out Cape Kiwanda, like, daily, mostly because there’s a camera. AND I am critical. “The backoff capital of the world” is a comment I have made. Others will defend the place, and one of my friends said he actually got some almost-like-a-pointbreak waves there. I do believe him.
SO, there are some surfers from the Peninsula, and there were some comments that the judges (MAY) have a (slight) tendency to reward OREGON surfers a bit, you know, higher than, maybe, Strait surfers. AGAIN, this might just be frustration, OR it could be outright competitiveness. AND, yes, I am getting caught up in the raising fever.
I have to believe the competitiveness is exacerbated by actually seeing the heats. I just put the YouTube coverage on the big screen, like it’s the WSL or something. One can’t help but think (or say) “I could totally kick ass out there.”
NEXT YEAR, MAN… that’s the discussion. Others are excited. I’m excited. What about a crew? Several crews? Though surfing is a one person sport/activity, there’s always a sort of tribal aspect. SO, what about a crew going down, competing, showing what surfing tiny peelers can do for a performer’s skill level? Yeah. Okay, so I texted a suggestion: “Mostly Strait Surf Crew,” with t-shirts and all. No text response. “Okay, ‘Totally Strait Surf Crew.’ Even though I’m thinking about designs, no response.
In my slightly-over-amped imagination, I can visualize a contingent from the Peninsula being greeted by Oregonians with the same warmth and Aloha/sharing spirit as North Shore surfers reserve for Brazilians.
I didn’t follow the contest long enough yesterday to determine if there is a 70-and-over division, but I am currently excited enough to resolve to get my non-paddle skills up a bit (yes, this would include the oldster-feared feat of popping up).
It could just be the two day excitement bump. We’ll see. STILL, practice is as good an excuse as any to go surfing.
FUCK CANCER! Our daughter, Dru, is recovering from an eleven hour reconstruction surgery in Seattle. Trish has been over there for support. Hopefully I’ll be bringing them back home tomorrow. I have to get off the computer and get going. SUNDAY traffic/Ferries/Seattle trafffic/parking/hills/hospitals… FUN.
ROAD TRIPS, it’s all a journey from where we are to where we hope the waves are. Pretty much all of my friends have hit the road recently, to various destinations. And I ventured out on the roads, despite the summer road closures and the annoying number of traffic accidents involving folks, not realizing the journey is part of the story, hitting the road just a bit too fast, too aggressively, and often, stupidly. That’ll fuck up one’s zen. Not mine.
Get there; get waves (or not); enjoy (or not) others in the water, the trails, the parking area; check out some other spots on the way home; go to Costco/Home Depot/QFC (not optional for me) and maybe FRUGALS Drive Through (part of the deal when I had to beg friends to take me with them, before my new stealth rig got roadworthy- not included if I’m alone); get home.
MEANWHILE, and all during and after the trip- We are anticipating, enjoying, assessing, picking out the most relevant waves, rides, interactions in the water, quotes worth repeating (Me, after backing off wave-“Did you really think you were going to make that section?” Guy who yelled at me but didn’t make the section-“I was trying to.”) when we tell the adventure story.
And somewhere, some time, if it’s comparing notes with another surfer who surfed different spots, or with non surfers who ask if we’ve been surfing lately, we will.
Maybe we find waves, maybe we find the sort of experience that enriches us spiritually, purifies us, transports us, changes us into someone… better.
Probably not.
I always have and can’t seem to stop taking mental notes on surf vehicles and Kooks and costumes and first class equipment owned by Kooks in costumes, rather than pretend my best ride was, like, world class, and that an old guy on a thrashed board might have a touch more soul than… yeah, I am working on all that stuff. Despite my pettiness, I can and do appreciate any surfer who gets a great ride. Mostly, faking humility, I’m just happy I can catch some waves and make some sections.
I was looking for an image of surf vehicles stuck in traffic. This photo from Heckle Photography was too cool to pass up.
MY ORIGINAL thought for this piece was what I got out of a recent video of NATHAN FLORENCE. I am a huge fan- more because of his froth/stoke/enjoyment level than that he makes money surfing killer slabs all over the world- he earns his money. Nate and his brother, IVAN, and his support crew, and his mom, and his wife, were at SKELETON BAY in Namibia, long lefts with long walk-backs. Rather than focusing on the rides, he kept track of, and went on about the workout. True enough, very impressive. At one point he had surfed and walked (or ran) a marathon distance. And then he kept going.
After years of surfing before or after work, or taking a break from work, I do try to dedicate an entire day to any surf adventure. During that day, I do try to exhaust my surf lust, build up my wave count. This is, partially, economics- waves per dollar. It is also a sort of reserve, not knowing when my next adventure might happen. No real surfer has even been SURFED OUT.
Still, I could mention surf exhaustion is part of my story. The good kind of exhaustion. In the next chapter…
SPEAKING OF CHAPTERS, I have moved ahead in the latest, hopefully final rewrite of my novel, “SWAMIS.” I will be posting Chapter Nine on Wednesday. Joey’s surf friends Gary and Roger call him from Swamis. Chulo had been killed there the night before.
Film at eleven.
Check it out.
NOW, I usually put something about copyrights with each post. This one, yeah, if you want to take it and say you wrote it for some or any reason, go ahead. OTHERWISE, see you out on the road.
Real Surfers 