How about teaching your gal (or stud) to surf? The whole claiming thing?
I shot a nice sized omilu (blue-fin trevally for all you haole types) yesterday at 65′ deep, about a half-mile off Kauai’s South Shore.
For deep-ish dives I like to use my 130cm gun. It’s got good range, and enough power to take down pretty much anything in the ocean smaller than a tuna. It kicks like a mule though. You really need to lock your wrist and elbow before taking a shot.
I know this, the recoil has smashed the loading butt into my face on more than a few shots. But the fish was under a ledge and I couldn’t get a good angle without repositioning myself and spooking the thing, so I took an awkward limp wristed shot. Got smacked in the mouth pretty good, little bit of a fat lip. Which sucks when you’re two atmospheres down and have been holding your breath for over a minute.
Landed the fish though.
The point being, we all do stupid stuff, from time to time.
Here’s some dumb things surfers like to do, even though we should all know better.
Teach your partner to surf
It seems like such a good idea. You and your partner of whatever gender strokes your fancy sharing an evening glass off. The sun setting on the horizon, light playing off the ocean surface, refracted rainbows dancing in the droplets caught in your eyelashes. So romantic, so amazing, so mistaken.
The reality is that you’ve got a new surf buddy, but they suck, and you can’t just ditch them when the waves get good. Overhead barrels at your favorite spot? Tough luck, you’re driving the coast looking for waist-high garbage they can splash around in.
No matter how much you love someone, there will be times you just don’t want to spend another second looking at their stupid fucking face.
And take it from me, a guy who’s shared his life with the same woman for the last fifteen years, long-term relationships aren’t always a walk in the park. No matter how much you love someone, there will be times you just don’t want to spend another second looking at their stupid fucking face.
Say goodbye to using surfing as an escape, a chance to recharge and realize how little all your petty problems matter compared to the love you two share. Because they’re right there on the shoulder, flailing around like a drowning seagull, about to drop in on you.
Put your board on the roof without strapping it down
A gust of wind on a calm day, a flying board, that awful crunch that makes you cringe before you even turn around to inspect the damage.
Or you go even further, backing out of your parking spot, hitting the brakes, thinking, “What was that noise?” as it clatters to the ground, then backing right over the top of your new 6’0″ in the El Porto parking lot.
Secure your board before you do anything else. Once that baby’s strapped down tight you can go ahead and change, or shoot the shit with your buddies, or ogle that hot chick doing yoga on top of the berm.
Buy a board based on how well your favorite pro rides it
I’ve never ridden a Hypto Krypto. The board looks fun and all, short and fat and flat usually makes for a good time. It’s definitely marketed well, Anderson uses the thing to make life look so damn easy.
But I’m not him, and neither are the ten million kooks I’ve seen flailing in the whitewash on tiny epoxy import Kryptos they picked up after reading some rave review online. Sure, homeboy can gush about how well his 5’4″ works in any condition the ocean can dream up, but he’s one of the best surfers in the world. What works for him doesn’t really translate for us mortals.
Same deal with every shape that Dane dreams up.
Claim a barrel
I was nineteen, a week into my first trip to Costa Rica, and surfing super fun overhead barrels at Playa Avellanas. It was a magic session, some of the best warm water surf I’d ever experienced, a filmer friend was on the beach capturing all the action. I linked into the best barrel of my life up to that point, six seconds long, so deep, so stoked. I couldn’t wait to see the footage.
Later that night I got my chance. It was a two-second head dip. Bent at the waist, lip hitting my back, so awkward and terrible. And then I claimed it. Hard. So hard it’d make a brazzo pro wince. Shouting and pumping my fist and carrying on like I’d just won the world title.
Thank god it was 1999 and uploading embarrassing shit to social media wasn’t a thing yet.