The WSL would be vastly improved with the addition
of professional dancing girls (and maybe boys!) …
I was attending college in Encinitas,
California, when I heard my destiny calling.
An Israeli national on my college surf team invited myself
and an Australian exchange student named Sam to accompany
him to his home state of Florida for Passover.
Sam and I exchanged worried looks. The weekend coincided with
Coachella and the idea of spending our spring-break eating challah
bread sounded stale. Just as the Israeli national, a Jew named
Yehuda, could hear our clumsy excuses, he informed us that this
weekend was the National Cheerleading and Dance championships held
at his local beach.
Seven thousand and five hundred college cheerleaders, the
best of the deep south and Bible Belt. Each spring they
came to the dirty shores of Daytona beach for their annual “stunt
fest”. Our desires turned from the desert in the west to the
swamps in the east.
Sam and I finished our drinks in an audible gulp, tipped the
bartender for her good service, and said “Fuck Yeah” as we
strolled into the cool desert night. We booked our tickets an hour
later. It ran us $400 round-trip: San Diego to Phoenix and then on
to Orlando. From there, it would be an hour or so drive to the
shores of Daytona where Yehuda’s mother had arranged a condo in our
honor.
It was a strike mission, get in, screw with an epic grandeur and
get out. Yes, we were traveling with surfboards, but our hearts
desired something more glamorous then the Floridian surf.
If you are to follow me next year to this weekend of indulgence,
remember this: bring a soft board with you. Yehuda had it all
figured out. I mean, he is the “Duke of Daytona” after all.
Surf lessons.
Surf lessons for all willing women who don’t mind getting
their primed hair salty. Make a sign like we did:
Three Mates Surf Dates. $5 dollars for
10 waves.
Charge them minimally. To offer surf lessons for free would be
sleazy and sleazy was too common in Daytona. We achieved legitimacy
through the beauty of capitalism.
Most of these girls had never seen surfing before. The
springtime banks of Daytona coupled with your soft board will
make you a God in the eyes of these Southern Belles. Now, back
to my story.
We were making a killing. It was impossible to meet demand.
Clean twenties and fifties filled our backpack. Numbers filled
our phone books, hints at nightly whereabouts were confirmed, and
hotel addresses took precedence in our memory over our own. There
was a ubiquitous answer among the smog of women. Rummels
was where the cheerleaders were going or “stunt sluts” if you will
and the delectable dance team girls were headed to 509’s
right next door. With the ratio bordering 75:1, we knew we were in
the running.
Attention deficit disorders fire when surrounded by this many
women. Communication skills go haywire. Attempting to stay focused
on one girl is like trying to maintain conversation with a passing
car on the freeway. They were everywhere, coming in all shapes and
sizes. Our standards rose to all-time highs.
After hours of pushing girls into knee-high waves, it was
time to try another tactic. I shed my surf trunks for a more
formal button up and black denim jeans. I had come here to Dayton
for one other reason. I was on assignment for
BeachGrit (You were? – The Bitchy
Crab) in to which I was to pose the question, Does The
WSL need cheerleaders?
I went to see the Georgia University Bulldogs. I asked
a team mom if I could have access to her girls for an
“interview.” She obliged with an ominous smile, asking me if I was
with ESPN. I told her that I was a literary surf
journalist.
The three girls I spoke too thought it would be an interesting
change of pace moving from football fields to the beaches. That the
exotic locations sounded more enticing then cities like Chicago and
Cleveland. They were confused as to the whole prospect,
however. Cheering for one surfer rather then a team didn’t make
much sense to them.
So I broke down my reasoning. The Quiksilver Pro (Snapper Rocks)
had just concluded in lacklustre conditions. Long lulls of no
action plagued the viewing experience, dreary commentary
put many to sleep.
I told the girls, whose attention was drawn inward with lack of
understanding, that the newly minted governing body of surfing was
hoping its large grandstand infrastructure would have people
flocking to the beach. It was apparent that they wanted to have an
audible cheer after the completion of a ride, that it gave the
creative expression a more sporty feel.
The girls began to catch my drift.
“So if the WSL hires us, then they can have their contests where
there isn’t a lot of people and entertain the audience when waves
aren’t coming in”
“Yes!” I roared.
“And if they had us girls cheering on the beach, they could have
their contests wherever they wanted”?
Yes! Sexy places like Indonesia and the Caribbean.
“We would all go together of course!”
They laughed at the notion, but the seed was planted, so to
speak.
We went to Rummels and to 509’s as any opportunist
would in our situation. It was a scene. Free drinks till 12
coupled with the return of the early 2000’s grinding fad.
I stand before you today, and with honesty in my heart, say that
you haven’t lived until you’ve felt hundreds of collegiate
asses trying to frottage you simultaneously. It was a conga line of
writhing bodies. Flesh gripped in gentle frenzies and subtle
raptures. On every face, eyes closed, the same smile, calm and
blissful.
I write this lengthy preface to explain my position and
show that the idea of WSL cheerleaders is no wild-eyed dream;
that even if the specific action, symbolic as it is, may seem
farfetched, the fact remains that we are inevitably heading for
something of the sort.
We need only glance at the less-than-awesome crowds on the
beach to realise something needs to change.
