Man goes against fish and mid-length grain, rides
giant performance surfboards…
I have a fetish. It’s embarrassing, but find me
one that’s not?
It ain’t fondling toes. Or sexy Kurdish step mums looking to
discipline naughty sons.
I like big boards. Like, stupid big.
I hesitate to call them mid-lengths, because it’s more than
that. When it comes to everyday beachies, I worship Volume and
Length in equal measure.
Current loves are: 6’8″ Campbell Brothers A/O. Seven-four Sam
Egan Indo gun. Seven-foot dreadnought twin. A favourite 7’10”, a
big boy’s big wave board I picked up for $250, the ugliest thing
you’ve ever seen, has just been ridden into the scrap heap.
I carry a little weight, yes. But my dims are ridic. My standard
shorties have been relegated to boardriders, boat trips and the odd
local reef ledge. Buying off the rack or from a shaper becomes a
battle of wills.
“Bro, are you sure you wanna go that big? With your size and
weight you should be riding this one three inches shorter than
usual. That’s what Mick rides.”
“Nah thanks mate, I’ll take the 6’9″.”
Flicky, skatey shorties just don’t do it for me. There’s no
smoother feeling than an early roll in, or the extra hold from a
long rail carve. Plus this whole sport grows increasingly absurd, a
big nothing. The seas of gym jocks in Hurley wetties earnestly
crabbing their 5’10″ Spineteks turn my stomach.
Constant progression is the cancer of our species.
But I ain’t a mid-length hipster, either. I’m just an
auto-contrarian.
The surfing world’s going one way, so I go the other.
Big, and ugly.
Thankfully, Gumtree caters to my proclivities. There are many,
many boards in my chosen idiom. Ones abandoned by disheartened VALs
or gals getting better or guys getting fatter.
I sit in the wings and snatch up their refuse like a spider on
its web.
(I especially love the tell-tale signs of an imminent good deal.
eg.oard measurements in centimetres or tail pads placed
suspiciously high above the leash plug. Come closer, my dear, and
show me what you’ve got…)
The boards don’t always come through.
But when they do… *kissy fingers*
It was a fish that started it. Late nineties, chop hop, 5’5″ x 19 ¼”
era. Everyone was on ‘em. I couldn’t afford a Mayhem
so, being the industriously lazy teen I was, I hacked the nose off
an old board with a handsaw instead.
Anything to get me closer to Wardo (I know, I
know).
Then fate steered me sideways. I got my hands on a Peter McCabe,
shaped for a stout friend who had left it at a mate’s house where
I’d stash my boards. He stopped surfing and I claimed terra
nullius.
This wasn’t your usual Grubby Indo blade. Wide and thick through
the chest but with tapered, low rails and a killer swallow. Purple
with black rails. It felt way too big under my arm.
But when I got it in the water? Float, glide, sting in the
summer stop. It took me places I hadn’t been before.
My first plumper. I’ve experimented widely ever since.
And so I find myself, in 2019, combing the surf world’s detritus
to satisfy my perversion.
Sometimes I wonder if I take it too far. I do worry what people
think. Where I surf a 6’2″ is considered a step-up. I know friends
laugh behind my back as I walk down the beach with my plus sized
loves.
The other day I saw a
YouTube clip of a lady that eats sofas. Piece by piece. She carries
round bits of foam in her pockets to chew on as she goes about her
day.
And there’s another guy who’s in love with his car. Who makes
love to his car. Strokes its door handles. Whispers sweet nothings
into the modified exhaust pipe.
Maybe they’re just doing it because that’s what sparks joy for
them.
Because they know shit’s fucked up too.
It’s their own little protest against a world going mad.
So that’s what I tell myself as I glide into the water on my
PWC, sniggers still ringing in my ears.
I’m a performance artist, I scream, taking wave after wave after
wave.
I’m a goddamned activist.
And this is my statement.
This is my raised fist.
