Is Ari Zeen the new Rory Parker? Hoist your opinion up the ol mast!
It’s a hobby.
A hobby of degenerates and losers. Drug addicts and con-artist who would rather get lit than get a job. You want to tell me its plausible to have a job, to have a family, to surf?
Cut scene to a family smiling on the beach while dad pushes his kids into waves at the Huntington Beach pier, mom sits happily on the beach and the son thinks he has a shot on the ‘CT when his father’s only making 55k a year. Fade to black with Electric Light Orchestra’s Do Ya plays in the background, roll credits.
And good luck grinding it out on the ‘QS.
Surfing is dead. The sport of surfing as a commercial enterprise is dead. But this isn’t a polemic on Capitalism. I don’t think about that shit ever since I plagiarized my poly-sci 101 essay in my second year of college. I didn’t vote in the last election because I was too busy surfing, then getting drunk, doing rails of cocaine with a C-list surf star who lives in Southern California (not Wardo. He’s B-list in my book and I would love to do some snortksies with that guy though), then railing a chick in a shed on a dock in Long Beach where I work.
I’m not bragging. Maybe a little.
I didn’t vote in the last election because I was too busy surfing, then getting drunk, doing rails of cocaine with a C-list surf star who lives in Southern California (not Wardo. He’s B-list in my book and I would love to do some snortksies with that guy though), then railing a chick in a shed on a dock in
Surfing died when we started catering to the metrosexuals in Santa Monica and Newport who rent oceanfront duplexes with their contractor father’s money and surf when it’s “two-feet and firing” on their CI quads because “you just can’t beat the speed of a quad” but hide as soon as a head high close-out detonates on the sand-bar.
But, sometimes, when I’m 12 Coors Banquets deep, and I’ve got an essay due at midnight, I’ll let my mind wander. I’ll drink one more beer, watch an old clip of Tommy Curren in 5’5” x 19’ ¼ or Andy Irons on lost.tv, I’ll let myself dream.
I’ll put in my last lip of Skoal Classic Straight, I’ll pump Telephone Line by ELO so loud it hurts my ears, close my eyes and I’ll remember one beautiful eight-foot pumping, sand-bottomed barrel south of the HB pier.
Just me, slack tide, and dead wind, sun-setting, wall lining up before me, lip feathering and
Oh oh telephone line, give me sign, I’m living in twilight.
But I’ll wake up and I remember where I am. That Adriano de Souza won a title with a stink-bug stance.
Surfing is dead. And it’s not coming back.
Save me Dane Reynolds.