Surf Ranch is a Satanic Mirror!

It shows you who and what you are but the worst possible version.

Surf Ranch that fucking Surf Ranch. That God forsaken lake in the middle of California and right near my ex-wife’s hometown Surf Ranch. With the Indian casino around the corner and a fence surrounding the environmentally friendly mulch and wood chip landscaping Surf Ranch. The parking lot that still had professional surfers’ name placards in front of the spaces Surf Ranch with one or maybe two Tesla power stations Surf Ranch.

Do you want to know where I parked? In Mick Fanning’s spot. Do you want to know what happened to me later in the day on wave number four? I dislocated my shoulder for the 25th-ish time in my life and am headed to major surgery in two weeks. Where the doctor saws part of my shoulder bone off, flips it upside down and screws it back in so the muscle runs across the ball joint and helps keep everything in place.

Mick Fanning that fucking Mick Fanning.

Longtom asked in the comments of the initial Surf Ranch post, “Couldn’t you fake fire and fury for the people?” Shame washed over me. Shame followed by exhaustion. I am exhausted of thinking about Surf Ranch and looking at Surf Ranch and hearing the damned words Surf Ranch but he is right. Exhaustion is not an excuse to perform surf journalism poorly and so here I am, mustering the bile that rotted in my throat as Derek and I drove south that evening.

Surf Ranch that fucking Surf Ranch is not a pornography, as previously described, nor is it a hooker. Those two are built purely to give you exactly what you want. To reflect back what you imagine yourself to be. Surf Ranch is exactly opposite. It shows you who and what you are but the worst possible version. A horrible, satanic mirror and allow me to explain. I never not once in my entire life imagined myself a “good” surfer.

I surf.

I like to surf.

And that is all. I have also never cared. I love to write and some of the grandest writers of all time are failed bullfighters, boxers, baseball players, dancers. I am a failed surfer but Surf Ranch, oh Surf Ranch, it makes you more than a failure. It makes you a fraud.

Shall I describe? You paddle out with three other friends and line up along a fence. The man in front has priority. The man behind him second priority. Etc. The pool is calm and warm enough and you have one thought banging in your head.

DO NOT BLOW THE TAKE OFF.

You’ve taken off on thousands of waves in your life. Hundreds of thousands. So why are you even worried? But you are worried because this is not a wave this is Surf Ranch and then the countdown begins. A voice shouting across the water “One minute until wave!” One minute until wave? How often do you get a warning in the ocean like that? Never. Never especially if you are me.

That minute is eternal. You think DO NOT BLOW THE TAKEOFF. And you think DO NOT THINK DO NOT BLOW THE TAKE OFF. And you think DO NOT THINK DO NOT THINK DO NOT BLOW THE TAKEOFF. And then the plow whirs to life. It is not as loud as you would imagine. Not quite industrial but definitely mechanical and it whirs and the wave starts breaking on the shoal at the side of the pool very counter-intuitively. It is breaking over there and then the swell starts gurgling toward you and your heart is pounding DO NOT BLOW THE TAKEOFF as you paddle toward one of the flag poles at the distant end of the pool in the exact opposite way that you would normally paddle. Counter-intuitive.

The wave is there. You paddle. You stand. You did not blow the takeoff but now here it is racing before you. The famed Surf Ranch. The marvelous Surf Ranch and your legs move like they almost should and your arms move like they almost should but it is not right because you are not right. Everything is perfect as far as the wave is concerned but you are a halting, stuttering mess of conservatism and trepidation. You are you but you are the absolute worst possible version of you. The satanic version. The fraudulent version. And you surf the entire wave that way knowing you have five maybe six more chances to fix yourself.

But there is no fixing yourself. Fixing yourself takes years and years and years in heavy therapy. It does not happen in one hour at Surf Ranch.

Every single surf journalist was depressed afterward. Morbidly depressed. You could feel it in their energy. See it on their faces. Every single God forsaken surf journalist except Chris Cote (he surfed the wave better than Kelly Slater) and Vaughn Blakey (he created a new sort of tall man art form).

Every single other one though. Oh they all surfed well enough, Pete Taras and Todd Prodanovich stand out in my memory, but every one depressed and if they say no they are lying. I was there. I saw and felt with my arm dangling loose and dead Surf Ranch. Nick Carroll? You were depressed. Sean Doherty? You were depressed. You were all depressed except Chris Cote and Vaughn Blakey and maybe Pete Taras and Todd Prodanovich.

But would you like to know my proudest moment? I paddled for a left and did not blow the takeoff and was cruising down the line with my legs and arms moving almost like they should. Midway down the pool I got bored, thought “fuck this Surf Ranch” and kicked out. One of the very fine lifeguards, I think he is also a lifeguard for Maverick’s, pulled up to me on the ski and asked, “Is everything all right?”

I responded, “Yes.”

He said, “You had a lot more wave there.”

I told him, “Yeah, I got bored.”

He said, “You were the first person I have ever seen kick out.”

I smiled and then, one wave later, my arm was taken from its shoulder socket. Of course I was only bored because my lack of skill was fully exposed. My heart beating FRAUD FRAUD FRAUD not only to you but to me but to hell with it all. That’s what I think now, months removed.

To hell with it. It would all be kind of fun if you were a billionaire who could build your own or a millionaire who could rent one for the weekend with your four best friends but you are neither and so to hell with Surf Ranch.

Fucking Surf Ranch.