Am I still a “core” surfer? I don’t know.
Let’s say, hypothetically speaking, you’re an American
male in his mid to late forties who has lived virtually his entire
life on the east coast of North America within a zone of
relatively easy access to the ocean.
Let’s say you’ve been surfing since at least the early eighties
and did the requisite trips to tropical destinations from time to
time, going off grid here and there to chase empty barrels and
lined up walls, sometimes successfully.
And let’s say that, even though the halcyon days of youth are
behind you, and in spite of some rather tumultuous and chaotic
situations on land, you are still getting in the water regularly,
catching just about every hurricane or nor’easter swell, paddling
out before first light, cultivating a first name relationship with
the early morning regulars, catching your share of set waves
breaking on the outer bar, and all the while further refining that
spray-hurling cutback you first leaned into back in the
eighties.
Now, let’s also say in the midst of this set wave catching,
spray hurling, land chaos run, you simultaneously fall hard for a
woman, and you’re convinced life’s kaleidoscope would fade away if
you let her go — in fact, let’s say for sake of discussion that she
is the kaleidoscope, in all the ways that you used to believe were
merely fairy tales and discovered to be true only after you found
her.
But, to add some spice to this purely hypothetical scenario,
let’s pretend this real life princess isn’t living on the east
coast or the west coast; indeed, for purposes of our discussion
let’s assume that she lives in a landlocked state, one without a
wave pool or a great lake or even a foaming mountain rapid.
And, let’s say that given certain immutable features of life,
the details of which are unimportant here, her location is locked
in, a move to either coast is simply not possible.
The choice between these two divergent paths, hypothetical
though they may be, could be agonizing.
On the one hand, true love and all of its eternal promise,
celebrated by every great artist from Shakespeare to Sublime. On
the other, shimmering lines at dawn, visions from the aquatic
cathedral, that anticipation when you’re in the spot and turn to
take those last few strokes before dropping in (plus wriggling out
of 5/4 chest zips in sub-freezing parking lots, dealing with
grueling beach break paddle outs, and managing cranky local
wannabes, but I digress).
Yet, are these the only choices?
What if, hypothetically speaking of course, there were a third
way?
What if true love and surfing could co-exist, even thrive?
What if quality could trump quantity?
What if select surf trips to prime waves could replace, even
eclipse, regular paddle outs at the onshore local?
What if it didn’t matter if everybody (in the lineup) knew your
name?
And, what if this road less traveled were after all was said and
done and considered and perused the actual path our middle-aged
American pursued?
What if he did indeed leave the Atlantic behind and pack all of
his meager belongings in a rattling, decade-old, out-of-production
Subaru and drive 18 hours to a land he’d never truly experienced,
to sleep every night in the arms of a lady he decided was worth
everything, to risk dry rot for his beloved 5/4?
If you haven’t figured out yet that this isn’t really a
hypothetical, you’re probably lacking in mental capacity, much like
a WCT judge. In non-hypothetical real life, that 18-hour drive was
nearly five years ago. Pre-COVID, pre-Pipe Pro 2022, back when KS11
was only on retirement #12, Snapper was still on the WCT,
Fisher’s dick board
wasn’t getting any action, and Medina didn’t get fucked in every heat of
consequence.
That fall day in 2019 was when the life of this full-time
blow-in began. No more last-minute dawn patrols just to get wet. No
more checking it out in victory at sea conditions to see if the
jetty might be blocking the wind just enough to make it worth a
paddle out. No more lunch break surfs to catch the two hours of
tropical storm swell window. And no more asshole wannabe locals
talking smack thinking you’re from out of town because they’ve
never been in the water before ten am.
But, the actual surfing never stopped.
Now the Pacific, not the Atlantic, is surf home away from home.
Regular post-ups in surf-rich zones. Side trips to places where
localism doesn’t exist, like Waco. There’s even a stretch of the
West Coast never explored until a few years ago that now feels
almost as familiar as East Coast waves that were surfed dozens of
times.
I may have even offered you, dear California reader, a cup of
steaming hot coffee at such a place without you even realizing I
was just a nomad blowing through your sacred homeland. You may have
felt the refreshing spray of my trademark cutback (the only decent
maneuver left in my bag) and smiled, never realizing the shower
came off the buried rail of a surf immigrant who more likely than
not had practiced that very move on a surf skate in a far away
inland parking lot just days before, Raglan surf report’s views on
such blasphemy be damned.
And, speaking of cutbacks, turns out that pre-dawn paddle outs
are the best strategy to avoid crowds just about anywhere on earth.
I have a blown-up photo hanging on my wall (taken by the princess)
of me on a solid lined up wave without a single other surfer in
sight, with the sun just peaking over the mountains in the
background, at the most famous section of what is generally
heralded to be one of the most crowded spots in the USA.
Wait you say, you’re a sell out! What a kook! You can’t be a
“core” surfer and not live within spitting distance of an ocean!
Fuck that, you can’t even call yourself a surfer, period! You’re
shittier than the shittiest VAL! This is basically the equivalent
of the Dead Kennedys selling songs to Walmart for TV commercials,
but at least the DKs, unlike you, have talent!
Worse still, you’re making a mockery of all the true surfers
who’ve sacrificed love and family and career and literally
everything on the altar of Mother Ocean! Do you think you’re the
first man who’s ever had to pick between love and surfing! What a
self-involved prick! Fuck off, asshole! Don’t ever comment here
again!
I guess. I hear you. I can see the comments. “Fuck off kook”
leading over “live and let live” by a healthy margin.
But everyone has to follow their own path. For me, the tradeoffs
have absolutely been worth it. For you, maybe not, who knows.
Am I still a “core” surfer?
I don’t know.
I still love the ocean, maybe more than ever. I still get short
of breath when I’m kneeling on the sand waxing up, looking out at a
firing lineup. I still think heaven is watching the sun come up
from the lineup as a pod of dolphins cruises by and a far away
shadow on the ocean’s face indicates a set is on the way. And when
I realize I’m in just the right spot for that next peaking wave, I
still feel twelve years old all over again.
In fact, I might say that getting your shit worked out and
finding true love on land opens your mind to greater appreciation
of everything in life.
I might say that I love surfing more than ever.
And maybe that just sounds like self-justification bullshit to
you.
I get it.
But she was worth it.
