A six-foot wave at Long Beach, New York, took my manhood and made me an object of derision…
cuck·old
nounarchaic
noun: cuckold; plural noun: cuckolds
1. The husband of an adulteress, often regarded as an object of derision.
verb. (Of a man) make (another man) a cuckold by having a sexual relationship with his wife.
Its true. Kinda…
In 1936 Ernest Hemingway published an amazing short story called The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber. In it, Macomber and his wife travel to Africa for a hunting safari. Their guide is a strapping, rugged and emotionless stud (a fear in and of itself for every belly bulging, hair-line receding hubby) called Robert Wilson.
Macomber hits a lion, but it doesn’t die. It stumbles into a heavily wooded/grassy area. Their guide, Robert Wilson, tells Macomber he can’t leave the lion that way. He needs to go into the bush and finish the kill. Macomber becomes terrified. Wilson says he will go with him. Macomber’s wife, Margarate, is watching this all unfold. That is to say, the first piece of her husband’s masculinity starts to fade when she senses his fear.
They go into the bush. Macomber succumbs to fear. Wilson kills the lion. Macomber is stripped of his manhood. His wife, Margarate, on the ride back to camp, kisses Robert Wilson right in front of her husband.
There’s more.
Later, Macomber wakes in the middle of the night to find his wife absent from her cot. She walks in some time later. He calls her a bitch. The next day she “accidently” shoots him to what Wilson says “will be a certain amount of unpleasantness at the inquest. The gun bearers will serve as witnesses …but you should be ok.”
A six-foot wave at Long Beach, New York, took my manhood and made me cuckold.
(It wasn’t big. Pretty good form from the higher tide. East-south-east angle. The water was cold though. Around forty-one degrees.)
Actually, now that I think back on it, that bulging swell of salt water did look like a lion rushing out of a tranquil bush. Long Beach (NY) locals (who rarely surrender a set wave) posed as the gun bearers and surrogate wives watching and waiting for me to turn and pop up. The current had drifted them toward the end section of the lineup. I had just paddled back out.
So I sat there alone. Waiting.
I paddled toward the peak. The hoots continued. I turned toward shore, dug my hands into the water and started paddling. As I looked down the line, a cadre of NY locals staring through me, I realized I did not like the look of the wave. Looked like a closeout. Didn’t feel like getting pinched by fifteen cubic yards of ice cold Atlantic with a fraction of possible Hep C. Sorry.
Eight hooded black rubber suits bobbing at the end of the line slowly making their way back to the take-off point. Watching me sit there. Detached. About 60 yards out to sea, we all saw the peak of a set wave begin to pyramid. It marched closer.
In the ocean, amid all that expanse, there are no buildings or cars to muffle noises or calls. Especially when your sitting there alone and the signals are meant for you…
“YEWWWWWW……”
“YEAHHHHH…..”
“EEEEEUUUUUU…”
These howls translate to “YOU BETTER GO PUSSY!!!”
There was nowhere to go. There was no other surfer around to relinquish priority to.
I paddled toward the peak. The hoots continued. I turned toward shore, dug my hands into the water and started paddling. As I looked down the line, a cadre of NY locals staring through me, I realized I did not like the look of the wave. Looked like a closeout. Didn’t feel like getting pinched by fifteen cubic yards of ice cold Atlantic with a fraction of possible Hep C. Sorry.
The pull back was awful.
Open mouths. Shaking heads. A couple of “un-fucking believables.”
Whatever……
However way you try to play it off like it doesn’t bother you, like Hemingway and Macomber, there is a side of us that is sickened when we cower. When we shy away from the reality of a manhood challenge. I felt that tinge of nausea in my belly.
I walked back to the car some time after.
Hoping my wife was not on the beach. Hoping the ammunition store was not open yet.
G, stick to the Jersey shore! the peeps may have been a little nicer… just maybe.
Riveting story. Next time, don’t be a cuckold. Can’t wait to read about your next adventure out on the waves.
The pull-backs haunt me more than the makes.
assuming “haunt” retains its negative connotation… duh?
What other connotation did you have in mind? I’m open to active readers, Mikey!
the only thing I could come up with was that you were using haunt as a way to describe a thought that crossed your mind before you went to bed/in your dreams etc., i.e. it didn’t necessarily have to negative
A few weeks ago, I left my outer Hawaiian island home for eastern Australia. I was surfing a solid right hand point with only a few guys. It was firing; we were all getting waves. Suddenly a huge bomb comes. I was the only person who was in the position the get out to the wave. I paddle hard to get there, swing around, paddle, and there’s an old dude right in the pocket, right in front of, directly in my path. I back off. I’m a little irritated but I had already caught a million waves and I didn’t want to risk a collision in a foreign country. Not a second thought about it until this fat, penal colony spawn looking knee boarder comes up and asks “what was wrong with that one mate?” Because I’m so nice, and didn’t even realize he was being a prick, I responded and said that there was nothing wrong with the wave; I didn’t want to risk hitting the old man. Looking back, I’m not sure what I could have said? But what I’m sure of is, passive aggressive men are pussies. Say what you want to say or shut the F up; or, as they say on Big Island, do something or shut the F up.
solid right hand point + huge bomb+ you + an old man + a knee boarder = BSAF
I had to look up BSAF on urban dictionary; in Hawaii, we barely speak English let alone bust out acronyms to accurately portray complex situations. I’m learning so much on beachgrit.
haha, that’s funny……I meant to say Bullshit AF to pay homage to Chas’ latest and well-deserved hipster dress down, then scrolled back to author’s name of this article, it wasn’t Chas, and after numerous attempts at pronouncing his syllabic jump the shark name opposing Beachgrit’s predominate 2 and 4-syllably named authors. Left convinced I have a speech impediment. So I stuttered and stepped cautiously to BSAF
penal colony spawn: hahhahahahaha
You could have just said Balaram stole your lady friend and we would have all gotten the point.
Excellent article! Couldnt agree more! Love this writer. Amazing depiction…. “I love you, your so handsome”!!!
You are = you’re, not your; sorry, the writer of the article did it too and I just couldn’t help myself.
I gotta say your reason for not going was pretty weak. Was it a rock bottom or really shallow or you just didn’t want to get wet? I mean you were already in the damn ocean, you had to duck dive a few to get in the line up. Just go next time. Not because a bunch of macho Hemmingway stuff, but because you are a surfer. Surfers surf. They wipe out, they get Hep C or whatever. Maybe it was a close out, but I’ve had some really awesome cover-ups-> race out in front.
So there are at least two of us from Long Beach contributing high mindedness and complete bullshit to BeachGrit. You have created something truly magical, Chas.
Ha! Derek and I had a New York baby!
God help us all if that’s the case…
Not eating my vegetables tonight with out an extra half hour of TV. 😡
Should we call CPS on him?
Its only jocks who actually get fired up about this kind of thing. Sad, lonely jocks.
Takes one wave to forfeit respect takes one wave to redeem it. The second one you may need to work for.
Takes one comment to forfeit respect takes many to redeem it.
If you throw respect away entirely you can do whatever the fuck you want.
I respect that.
I spent a decade climbing up the Mavericks hierarchy, beginning in the mid-1990s, crested above mid-pack maybe. Paddled out on an inconsistent day after hiatus due to health problems. Pulled back on one of the few set waves. Done. Never paddled out again.
A bad pull back is no joke.
Why did you never paddle out again though? Cos a bunch of middle aged fuck boys are going to call you a pussy? You only fucking live once mate. You should’ve gone but it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go again. Don’t let cunts change your life.
You’re right. I told the story in such a manner for dramatic effect. To be honest, I already knew I was done, that just confirmed it. I had been out for almost two seasons. My body was failing me. Around this time the crowd was doubling, where it used to be just a handful on mediocre days, sometimes even good days. A bunch of no-name area chargers were really stepping up their game. The spot requires dedication. I didn’t feel the craving anymore and was ready to move on. It was thrilling out there but not always enjoyable, especially if you’re the sort that gets claustrophobic sitting in a pack at spot where lulls are the norm. An inglorious exit but it doesn’t haunt me.
That crowd…maddening in my adult lifetime…
when hooted you must go. you probably should never surf there again because those guys wont give you another wave, nod, hello, or hoot. you are now invisible
Long Beach in the winter isn’t Hawaii in December. You can surf down here in the West End all by yourself and no one will see you or…more importantly care about you. Even in the summer and fall you can surf by yourself and not have to worry. It’s how I do my best shit surfing.
with less people makes it worse. people remember you and you are forever shunned in the small core group of individuals who you see all year long.
This is what the lineup looks like in January (except for the bare hands, of course):
Awesome…..
“The great American boy-man.”