I love being afraid, I love failing, I love knowing
we're pointless and preening…
“….how about a straight, non-ironic piece. Ten things I love
about surfing,” Derek says. “Surprise ’em”
Harder than it looks, ten things.
Because it’s just one thing. All that other shit is peripheral,
inconsequential.
I love watching the ocean. Seeing how the water
moves through rocks, currents form, how depth is reflected in
surface conditions. Knowing how peaks can shift, when to stand my
ground as a set feathers outside. Knowing that it’s nothing magic,
it all makes sense, a powerful pattern that’s crystal clear if you
just know how to look.
I love knowing how to move through the water.
That off rhythm paddle beat on a windy choppy day. Reaching and
tucking during a freedive freefall, feeling the water move past
you, able to swoop and soar with a subtle flex. Hiding in the reef
with a speargun, anticipating a surge and bracing in advance.
Swimming with minimal effort, surging flowing forward. Never fight
it, use it. Kicking for the surface with a heaving diaphragm
and tingling fingers and toes. Bright scattered spots at the
surface, deep breathes and poor motor control.
I love watching the ocean. Seeing how the
water moves through rocks, currents form, how depth is reflected in
surface conditions. Knowing how peaks can shift, when to stand my
ground as a set feathers outside. Knowing that it’s nothing magic,
it all makes sense, a powerful pattern that’s crystal clear if you
just know how to look.
I love being afraid. Timing a set on a big day,
finding a keyhole, sliding right out. Getting taught again and
again that it doesn’t hurt as much as you think. Always a challenge
until you stop looking.
I love failing a million times and hating myself for
it. The frustration and humiliation, over-amping off
the bottom on the wave of the day, ass over teakettle into the
flats. Stalling too hard and getting eaten, taking a rail to the
shins on your way over the falls.
I love that no matter how hard you try, how
talented you are, you’re never good enough.
I love hooting someone in far over their heads,
watching the fear in their eyes on the way to destruction. I
love laughing and clapping as they surface and sputter.
I love the meaninglessness, the sheer absurdity
of being a grown man playing. I love looking down my nose at the
tragically unhip, the ones who think they’re onto something
special. I love being jaded and cutting and cruel because it all
began when I was a child and whatever magic there was is long
gone.
I love knowing that we’re pointless and preening and
immature and conservative and sheltered and privileged and
self-destructive and selfish and wasteful and irresponsible and
never ever satisfied.
I love that the people with whom I share the most in
common are those whose company I enjoy the least.
I love that surf art is terrible and uninspired
and we pretend it isn’t.
I love the countless times my sinuses’ve
drained salt water onto my wife’s face while we’re making love.
I love that moment when your ankle stops
pulling and you don’t know if it’s your leash or board
that’s broken.
I love the countless scars. Putting your
forearm through the deck of your board and leaving flesh in the
fiberglass. Getting your arms over your head just in time to leave
skin on the reef. Razor-thin slices on the bottoms of your feet
after getting caught inside at Rocky Rights. I love walking up the
beach with blood running down my leg or arm or face or chest.
Diluted by salt water, only a scratch, but you look so damn
tough.
I love surfing until your arms are limp, then
stretching out the pain when those muscles tighten hours later.
I love that I’m an ungainly lumbering ogre on
land, but in the water I can move like a dancer.
I love watching a guy on a rental take the beating of
his life ten feet from the shore on a head-high day.
I love the smell of a fresh bar of Sticky
Bumps.
There. That’s gotta be ten, at least.