I’ve watched numerous videos on proper “stand-up”
technique. Quite honestly, it doesn’t seem so difficult.
Soon, this surf virgin will arrive on the West Coast and
begin my surf(ing?) journey. While I have no
pie-in-the-sky aspirations or hopes for saltwater greatness, I’m
not foolish enough to think I can step into a foreign sport without
getting my mind and body right first.
Though the aspens have turned yellow
and there’s snow falling here in the high country, I’ve been
putting serious effort into properly preparing myself for the
Pacific.
Like any serious athlete, my first focus was mental.
I needed to begin to think and feel like a real surfer. Though
I’m in the mountains, I had to find a way to sink my subconscious
into the ocean. A difficult task one might assume, but not with the
assistance of modern technology.
I blast Dick Dale albums on my bluetooth headphones and kick my
shopping cart up to speed in the produce section of the grocery
store. Then I place both feet on the rail between the back wheels,
and effortlessly glide through a rolling sea of tomatoes, onions
and autumnal squash.
Late at night, when I wrap myself snug as a bug in bed, I float
to sleep on the soothing tones of Iz’s rendition of ‘Somewhere Over
the Rainbow’, and see nothing but tasty waves in my dreams.
The new soundtrack of my surf virgin life has been helpful, but
I’ve always been more of a visual learner. So, I dove into YouTube
too. A few Kelly Slater interviews, a
quick scroll-through of the Quiksilver channel, and various Pipe
Master competition recaps from years past.
After a few hours of highlights though, I grew rather fatigued,
and had to change it up to stay engaged. I rented Blue Crush on a friend’s
Amazon account, forgot to pay her back, watched it all the way
through, and didn’t stop to masturbate once. Total focus.
Next, was physical preparation.
I purchased a bulk order of Laird Hamilton’s coffee creamer. I
start each morning with two scoops blended into a mug of Folger’s
and have seriously adjusted my food intake.
You are what you eat.
I now consume a steady diet of fish & chips from the local
distillery, WalMart California rolls and $5 shrimp cocktail
platters that come in those cute little plastic trays that look
like Jell-O molds.
While a nutritionist friend in New York has expressed concern
over the possibility of mercury poisoning, and my mother regularly
reminds me that Colorado is a landlocked state, I have faith that
the sphincter-splitting diarrhea will pass. My body just needs a
period of adjustment.
In due time, I’ll stop urinating out of my rear-end and likely
sprout gills.
Next was familiarizing myself with proper form, and conditioning
my body to execute the necessary maneuvers.
Though the whole paddling part seems rather strenuous and my
cardio isn’t great, I’ve decided to trust my gut and skip any
serious preparation in that aspect.
While I’m no physical specimen at the moment, this surf
virgin is the son of a Cuban immigrant– a child of the ocean.
Thousands of my people have literally swam from one country to
another. The combination of my genetic luck and strict nutrition
plan pretty much makes me a fish.
However, you rarely see fish on two feet. So, I’ve watched
numerous videos on proper “stand-up” technique. Quite honestly, it
doesn’t seem so difficult. With help from a few YouTube tutorials,
I’ve broken down the whole process into three very manageable
steps.
First is propping yourself up on your hands and pressing your
pelvis down. Easy. My dog assumes the same position on my favorite
pillow anytime a lady pooch in the neighborhood goes into heat. And
I’ve done plenty of humpin’ in my day. All the necessary muscles
and tendons are already loose and limber. Check!
Second? Stand up. That’s it. Just stand up. I do that every
morning when I wake up, pal. Skip.
And finally, step three– balance.
This presented a bit of a challenge, but I quickly devised an
adequate training solution.
At the local park, I rose to my feet in the middle of a
teeter-totter, until I could keep it level, with both ends off the
ground, for more than ten seconds. However, I found myself a bit
bored after mastering that, so to keep things interesting and my
fast-twitch muscles firing, I stole an absent-minded kid’s scooter
before heading home. I try to ride it down the steep driveway with
no hands four or five times a day.
Boom. Done. A thousand miles from the ocean, but ready to stand
up and ride.
Lastly, and most importantly, a surf virgin must look the part.
Presentation is everything. Look good, play good.
I was gifted shit genetics from the males on the less aquatic
side of my family. Unfortunately, I have a hairline that’s receding
at a frightening rate. I won’t have the requisite lettuce on my
head when I slide my board into the water for the first time.
I’d like to pay for one of those hair transplant procedures and
one day really feel what it’s like to shake out my salt-kissed
locks under the sun. But unless BeachGrit raises their freelancing
rate, I’ve got a better chance of riding one of those real
scary-looking waves off the coast of Nazare.
The rest of my appearance I can control though.
I plan to donate my Carhartt shirts and flannel jackets to the
local Goodwill upon arriving on the West Coast, and replace them
with t-shirt’s from that Mr. Zogg fella. Sex Wax! How cool, beachy
and fun!
Oooh, and maybe I’ll get a pair of those cute Reef sandals with
the convenient bottle opener on the bottom. You know, for cervezas
after a day out and paddling about in the salty stuff with my
pals.
I’ve also been practicing my shaka in the mirror, though I never
take my shirt off. My ex-girlfriend recently poked fun at my
paleness and said I need to start figuring out a way to get a real
base.
Otherwise, if I’m the guy in a sun shirt at the beach, I risk
mockery from the locals– like the fat kid wearing a cotton t-shirt
while flapping around the shallow end at the end-of-school-year
pool party.
But SPF 30 is the lowest I can go without risking sun poisoning.
Not a problem. I originally hail from New Jersey, the land of the
spray tan. I don’t fear any artificial coloring of the skin.
Whatever it takes to blend in, this surf virgin will do.
I’m dutifully preparing, and I truly think I’m ready, but I’m
also doing my best to keep expectations in check.
The last time I was this excited to pop a cherry, I left the
captain of the cheerleading squad rather disappointed and had to
sneak out of my mother’s house in the middle of the night to
dispose of an entire set of sheets.
(Read Adrian’s debut story here,
“I’ve never surfed before but I think I probably should!”
here.)