We hope that once in a while we can find some space, however small, in the chaos.
There I was, sitting in the lineup at Rincon, just an innocent girl going for a surf.
It wasn’t even good Rincon.
Around here, this hasn’t been a winter to be especially picky about the conditions. A girl can’t wait forever for perfection.
If I think my board might float on it, I go surf.
I have given up on the idea of choosing the right board for the conditions. It’ll be small. It’ll probably shitty. Just take the shortboard and make it work.
This particular day offered a jumbled mess of windswell from assorted directions. Random peaks. Weird sections. Odd corners. Pretty fun, actually.
My standards, they are so gone now. Love you long time, good waves. Come back someday, maybe.
That bitch La Niña stole the good waves and turned the water colder than usual. I whined my way through the paddle out. I am not a fan of an ice cream headache without the ice cream.
There’s waves. Shut up, and surf.
Then along came a likely-looking peak. It wasn’t anything special, but it was a wave, no one sat near me, and I could ride it. Things were looking up. I turned around, ready to do some surfing, or at least, the closest thing to surfing the conditions would allow.
Then, out of nowhere there he was: the backpaddler.
Riding a brown-tint midlength — which, let’s just stop right here for a minute. You ordered a board, and you asked for a resin tint. Out of all the colors you could have picked, you went with brown? And not like, a cute, tawny brown to match your sun-streaked hair. Just plain brown. I really don’t understand this life choice.
The brown midlength casually swung around the back of me. Then he dropped in beside me, close enough to brush rails. I’m pretty sure he thought he was doing some super awesome surfing thing there. Check me out, I picked off this wave with inches to spare!
Before we go much further I should say, the backpaddlers are almost always men in my experience. But it’s not like women are not out there wearing halos, by any means. I am not here to put anyone on a pedestal.
In truth, the modern lineup inflicts countless indignities. There’s the guy paddling casually over the shoulder, just as you come down the line. There’s a girl dropping in. Never look back, that’s what she says. Then a beginner drops in on you and promptly falls over.
There’s loose boards from who knows where yardsaled around the inside. A guy is teaching his girlfriend to surf in the middle of it all. They stare up at you, anchored like buoys. And of course, Wavestorms.
It’s enough to send a girl running for the hills. If only I could run.
With short legs and flat feet, running is an exercise in comedy — and futility.
And yes, I do see you out there alone, holding down your cold-water peak, somewhere up north. There’s no one to backpaddle you out there. You’ve never seen a Wavestorm. It’s so idyllic.
I also see the 6mm wetsuit, the hood, the booties. And I see the shark circling beneath your feet. She’s trying to decide if she’d like to have a nibble. Nah, not today. Still full from breakfast. Maybe tomorrow.
If I had to pick one, I’m pretty sure the backpaddler is the worst of the modern lineup’s indignities. There he is, just cruising along on his favorite 7’6”. There he is, just so stoked to be out there today.
Then, bam!
He’s behind you, grinning like a goon. There he goes, taking off right next to you.
Does he know he’s an asshole? Probably not. He looks far too happy.
In truth, it’s not like he has any reason to know better. Most places in California, lineup etiquette is dead. What the crowds and the midlength revolution began, the Wavestorms finished.
Sure, there’s some hold-outs where the grumpiest locals throw their collective weight around the lineup. And sure, you can paddle out somewhere cold and lonely, just you and sharks, having a time together.
But most of us, live with the crowds.
We dodge and we weave.
We hope that once in a while we can find some space, however small, in the chaos.
There’s peace in the eye of the hurricane.
Just keep dancing.
I watched the happy backpaddler surf down the line, arms in the air. I cursed, even knowing he couldn’t hear me. I imagined his wax peeling off his board and his fin dropping out. I realized I’m not at all good at imagining suitable punishments. Too much thinking gets in the way of the surfing, anyway.
Another little peak headed my way. This time, the brown midlength was nowhere in sight. All mine. Lucky.
I got up and wiggled down the line. I even did a little turn, which felt like a miracle.
There wasn’t much wave there for turning, and I am not Dane Reynolds, who somehow defies all laws of gravity and throws huge turns on tiny ripples.
It was nothing special. It was surfing. It was enough.
