He can beat Kolohe Andino and Kanoa Igarashi!
True!
I was a winner, dammit! I had CT
dreams!
Can you? Will you? Please? Believe that I was once High School
surfing champion in 2010, 2011. Not NSSA, but SeaView League.
Competed against second-tier surf teams in Orange County. I was a
big fish in a stickerless pond. Didn’t lose in two years. Not one
fucking heat. Kids at school called me “Telly Slater”. Done so
mockingly, of course.
I thought I was the shit. I beat Kolohe
Andino once. If memory serves me, he received an interference
for standing up after the hooter. Checked the scorecards though,
had him fair and square. It is a feather in my hat that I
wear every time Brother dons a rashie.
Smoked Kanoa in an AirShow too. But he was, like, 13. I’ve never
worn that feather past round three, but hope one day too!
Keep swinging Igarashi!
My story begins as all washed-up athlete stories do.
It all happened in my senior year of high school….
I got a sponsor. Lost… ! Stickers, clothes and Matt Biolos
shaping me surfboards at cost. Announced contests back then, too.
Was able to save enough for an ASP Pro Jr. membership and fly
myself to the East Coast. If I made a few heats, I told myself, my
competitor wristband would get me so much tail at the U.S Open come
summer. That was the goal.
I was once High School surfing champion in 2010,
2011. Not NSSA, but SeaView League. Competed against second-tier
surf teams in Orange County. I was a big fish in a stickerless
pond. Didn’t lose in two years. Not one fucking heat. Kids at
school called me “Telly Slater”.
So I trained and I trained and I trained. Surfed everyday.
Hucked myself into the wind after school. Desperately trying to
extend my bag of tricks past the standard three to the beach.
So I go to New Jersey with my older sister. Stay in a shitty
hotel far from the contest. Show up a few hours early for my
professional debut. Nervous as hell by the guys in my heat who had
actually gone through puberty. This was back when Pro Juniors were
under 21, not 18.
My plan was to do an aerial.
The night prior, I went over and over it in my head. Board
leaving the lip. Hand clutching the rail. Spot landing. Compress
into the whitewash. Rise with hands firmly kept by my side. Look
judges directly in the eye and beg them to free me from a
life of mediocrity.
I showed up that morning with my game plan firmly intact. Mother
Nature didn’t agree.
A hurricane had blown through the night before and the waves
were offshore, head high, and tubing. I gorged before my heat.
Pulling into cylinders spinning off the jetty with the other
competitors. Feeling like I was finally in the scene. But I wanted
to win. I wasn’t there to make friends.
Grabbed my jersey three minutes before my heat. My big sister
told me to have fun. I told her I was out for blood. Paddled out
dismayed. Every wave was breaking right. Zippy freight-trains that
I couldn’t get more than a turn off on my not-so-stellar
backhand.
Get myself a little tube. Not very deep. Get a five. Sweet. Guys
behind me get sevens and eights. Shit. They are men. Man-handling
sections that I was going around. Pull into close out after close
out. Wasn’t backing down without a fight.
Few minutes left, I go on a wave with foam in its face, very
difficult to ride. Fins never felt the face. I bottom turn, go for
a slash and accidentally do a reverse. I make it. Disbelieved but
still going, I bonk the end section. Gave a lion stare to the men
in the judges booth. The announcer laughs at me.
They give me a four and a half. I needed a six.
In my adolescent rage, I left for California convinced that if I
had only done a backside air reverse, I would’ve made the heat.
So I start skateboarding. Every day, different skatepark. Trying
to learn how to air on transition. I progress slowly. One fateful
afternoon, I break both wrists simultaneously .
Miss the next few contests and fall out of touch with
competitive surfing. Late one sleepless night, I learn that I love
to read. That poetry is my true passion. Fuck the ASP, I had open
mic night dreams!
And now here I am. Typing my miserable tale.
Laugh as you will,
But understand why I must give the QS one last swing.
It is not for the women. Tales of travel. Rekindling friendships
with those who have probably long forgotten about me.
It is because when you google my name, it says WSL Professional Surfer: Jake
Tellkamp.
You think I’d be thrilled. Surely this would go off on a Tinder
profile right? No. Because there isn’t anything there. Not a photo,
not an embarrassing last place in a grade 1 Pro Jr. Nothing.
http://www.instagram.com/p/5BN_FLFBP4JhIQ_7NFY6IGQcH_Rcza5rNHJIg0
It is a hanging reminder. A cloud of suffocating weight. That I
am trivial and a nobody. An unshakeable burden that I can no longer
bare!
Considering you guys were generous enough to give a
heroin dealer money for his fake cancer
treatment,
I figured one of you might be willing to swing ten gees my way
so I can pay for my membership into the World Surf League and help
me join the tour!
In return, I’ll decal my board in honor of our favorite surf
site, and ride into battle screaming, “Ultra Hard Surf Candy!”
With a bit of luck, and lots of back paddling, I can qualify for
the Volcom Pipe Pro. I promise to wear Chas and Derek’s size 31
short shorts in my heat, and the slight chance I actually win, I’ll
tell surf fans on streaming webcast anything you so please.
Donate here.
