No one would see me crossing the street and think,
“Woah, that dude definitely shreds.” Regardless, I still think
surfing is for me.
I’m moving to California and I’m gonna
surf.
Never done it before. Haven’t even taken a lesson. There’s no
part of me that thinks I’ll be particularly good at it either.
Looking at me, you’d probably assume I’d be rather bad at the
beach. Bald, pasty white, and sporting a ginger-tinged beard.
I’m latino by blood, but for some odd reason, my appearance screams
Celtic. Definitely not Coastal.
And after two years of beating my body to shit with bar food and
budget beer while grieving a death, my abdomen looks like a
half-roasted marshmallow that’s been dropped and kicked around on
the floor– shapeless, white, and lumpy, with odd hairs sprouting
from strange places.
There are abs under there. I’m working on
it.
No one would see me crossing the street and think, “Woah, that
dude definitely shreds.”
Regardless, I still think surfing is for me.
Ballsy logic from a guy who’s never achieved a true suntan and
hasn’t even made an attempt at standing up on a board before. But
I’d never skied or guided whitewater rafting trips before I moved
West either. Flying blind into an unfamiliar sport is kinda my
thing.
Water, whether frozen or fluid, has been the one consistent
throughline of my life since I ditched New York City. In brief
bursts while paddling or skiing, my brain goes silent.
But, I have to admit that, in the beginning, I got into mountain
sports partly because I wanted to be seen. Get good fast, get cool
pics, get acknowledged and announce my arrival on the scene. Maybe
one day become the whitewater Jimmy Chin. Young, insecure and
desperate to prove something after walking away from life as an
office grundle, I wanted it known that I
was really doing it.
That faded with time on river and snow. Eventually, it was
mostly the action itself that provided satisfaction. I still posted
outrageous shit about how incredible I was with paddle or pole in
hand, but the intention was just to entertain or aggravate my
friends. Attempts at accelerating my improvement eventually became
about making myself happy.
But I don’t want any of that with surfing. No goals, no
competitive urges, no hard-ons for recognition– externally or
internally.
The way I envision it, I’d like to get in the water before the
sun’s finished putting on her makeup and stepped out the door. The
time of day when (I assume) the only other people out there will be
surfers so seasoned, they’ll take one look at me bumbling my way
through the waves, and not risk conversing with a kook.
That’s what I enjoy most about my imagined intro to surfing, and
why I want it– the removal of room for ego, the doing it alone and
the quiet.
A lot of shit annoys me. Restaurants that serve ranch instead of
bleu cheese with buffalo wings. Vineyard Vines shirts.
Sanctimonious Instagram posts. The tone that gossipy booster club
moms talk in. Clammy hands. Italian subs with no prosciutto or
roasted peps. Groups that walk shoulder-to-shoulder at a snail’s
pace down the sidewalk on Saturday afternoon.
That last one chaps my ass way more than all the others. Nothing
makes me boil more than when others affect the pace at which I can
move or engage with the world as I desire. Somewhat irrational, I
know. Like my abs, I’m working on it.
But that’s another reason why I want to surf. I’m ignorant
to the sport, but not ignorant enough to think that every day the
beach will be empty for my pleasure. That’s not what I’m getting
at.
What makes my peaches swell, is the idea of an activity that’s
powered by the individual from start to finish. I’ll have to step
around umbrellas and kids digging holes if I’m not up early enough,
but there won’t be any serpentine gondola lines to wait on, or
forced, close-quarters conversation on a chair lift. No dependence
on paddle partners or agonizing waits as my half-brained friends
orchestrate a shuttle drop at the take out.
Drive to the beach, put the board under my arm, walk and commune
with the water on my time.
I’m under no delusion that I’ll one day be a great surfer. Nor
do I want to be. I just want to do it, be pleasant to others as I
learn, lug the board back to my truck, then fuck off with the rest
of my day still intact, no thought of status or progress on the
mind.
I don’t look like a surfer nor do I know dick about how things
in that world really work. But, from my limited research, I’ve
surmised that I should avoid being seen with a Wavestorm in my
possession, and that it’s a subculture that runs on respect. I like
that.
Understanding how to operate in that sort of space is how I made
it in the whitewater world. I never became a master, all-star river
guide. But I did turn myself into a solid Class IV boater, because
in the early stages, the silverbacks saw someone who was willing to
listen and always defer to them. I’ll try to do the same thing
surfing, though again, without any goals in mind.
I just wanna learn to stand up and stay there for a couple
seconds, man.
It won’t be a perfect process. I’ll get mollywhopped on a reef,
lose my board or, knowing my luck, see my prick turn all red and
pink after a jellyfish sting. I’m sure I’ll unintentionally fuck up
decorum and etiquette at some point too.
Local’s will get pissed at me in the lineup some day (that’s
what they call it, right?). But, I’m ok with that.
I’m a dirtbag river guide, a ski town bartender and a Cuban
refugee’s kid. I’ve always been good at getting punched in the
face.