Dark days for a once happy boy-man whose eyes have been opened to the horrors of being a lifelong surfer.
The Disney-ification of surfing has been written at ad nauseam: the advent of the leash, big-wave vests which suddenly enable the likes of me and my 50 closest friends to paddle out at waves far beyond our grasp, the dreaded midlength.Β
Reading those who have dipped their pen into this tired inkwell often conjures images of old men no longer able to paddle into waves, cursing me for my youth and still-intact hairline.Β
But, on the wrong side of 25, maybe itβs my time to enter these hallowed grounds.Β
Surfline is killing surfing.Β
It has been an abysmal summer in San Diego. Small, windy, and inconsistent. Iβm pretty sure Iβm getting scoliosis from schlepping my log down to the beach every morning. At best, maybe two swells since May.Β
Still, like the junkie I am, I check the forecast religiously, multiple times throughout the day. And, to my utter amazement, I notice something. Maybe, just maybe, a swell. In fact, the first swell of fall. Nothing special, but just enough to pull the trusty shortboard off the rafters.Β
Surfline sees it too. That all seeing monster. It knows. It always knows. A week out, it gives the day a modest 2-3+. Seems about right given the forecast.Β
But then, an Instagram post. βFirst WNW Swell of Season Provides Widespread Waves to California.β A menacing blob dashes across the screen, plunging into California.Β
3-4.Β
Itβs 24 hours before the swell arrives in San Diego. 4-5. Surfline posts a cam rewind of Mavericks, captioned βSwell Update: @peter_mel packed one this morning at Mavs.β A lone figure pulls into an unremarkable closeout at Mavericks.Β
I check the forecast before bed just for giggles. Has the swell turned code red yet? Whatβs the Surfline color code for βEpicβ again?Β
2-3+. An unremarkable 2-3+. Exactly what the forecast calls for. Surfline pulls off the ultimate bait and switch.Β
I pull up to the beach a little earlier than usual. I have to be at work early and I have a feeling thereβs going to be a crowd.Β
The street is full. A surfer next to me pulls on a brand-new changing poncho. It matches his out of the box suit. I can almost smell the new neoprene.Β
Now, I surf a nondescript spot every morning. No camera; not even a Surfline entry. A C-grade spot that can get fun but is tucked away and crushingly mediocre.Β
On any day, 5 or 6 guys, 10 max. Today, 40.Β
I paddle to the outside peak, a tricky part of the reef that is seldom surfed. Two locals turn and grin at me, quietly lamenting the absurdity of a 40-person lineup.Β
One of the bigger sets swings wide and Iβm in position. Itβs standing up on the reef. I set my rail.Β
Like a gimp-styled superhero, he drops in from the heavens. Arms flailing, an unintentionally delayed bottom turn. I straighten, lest my bang rails with this intruder. He does a few ungainly pumps, straightens, and kicks out.Β
And then, the piΓ¨ce de rΓ©sistance. He flashes me a shaka. Not a limp, ironic shaka, but a hard, twisting shaka. The kind that makes your forearm cramp. Itβs not an apology. Itβs an βaloha, bro.βΒ
You know who he is. He exists in every lineup. The surfer just competent enough to wreak havoc in a lineup.Β
Jen Seeβs already made the connection, but itβs worth repeating. This is your fault, Surfline. Youβve created this agent of chaos. Youβve pumped him full of color-coded, easy to read, always embellished forecasts and pushed him out to sea.Β
And that was fine. Even nice. A discerning beginner could piece together how to read buoys. You taught us something. You taught me something.Β
But then you decide to double down. You started throwing out meaningless buzzwords to your 2.2 million followers. A post (or two) for every βswell.β Code red. First swell of the season. Hurricane X. Raising the temperature, giving the masses exactly what they wanted.Β
And yes, the brands didnβt help.
They clothed him, put him on a 7β0β funboard, and told him jazz hands look cool on a wave.Β
But youβre the one who put him in the water.Β