He, Surfer. Photo: Aloha Surf Journal
As I sat watching the national news one evening several years ago, at some point during the broadcast I experienced an unexpected and deeply personal epiphany. Soundbites about oil prices approaching a hundred dollars a barrel were just so much white noise in the background as Libyan protesters gathered by the thousands on the shores of Benghazi demanding the ouster of Moamar Ghaddaffi. In the midst of this, a sudden realization came upon me as to one who has just been touched by religion; the clarity of thought so simple and unassailable that it was perfect.
I am a surfer.
While the Middle Eastern crowds swayed screaming on my television, and the sights and sounds of gunfire and tear gas mixed together on the screen like some horrendous Coppolan vignette, I realized that I had been straining to see the waves which were breaking out beyond the whole scene playing in the foreground. Truly, I was as interested in the size and shape of the waves as I was in the unfolding historic events.
Morally reprehensible? Of course! What narcissistic tendency made me to lean forward in my barcalounger to get a closer glimpse of the background scene in a newscast?
And at that moment of personal revelation, I understood that an individual can either be a surfer–one who merely enjoys the sport and an idealized perception of surfing–or, one can be a Surfer: a person for whom the very idea of surfing permeates existence. Not merely an avocation, but a raison d’etre. A Surfer does not consciously design or conspire to be a part of the surfing mystique: he or she is, without facetiousness or guile, inexorably married to this social construct. Tide and wind, water temperature and bathymetry are all constant companions in his thoughts (and mobile devices), and of weighty import. These are not just vague or frivolous pursuits for him; they are the essential elements of what he lives and what he believes–much like his kin, the sailor.
A Surfer wakes up each morning and checks the surf report and the weather parameters even before he checks his e-mail. Phone calls and text messages sent or received before 8:00 AM almost without exception relate to waves and surf. The first four or five websites on his dropdown menu are surf-related, and the “Favorites” button on his internet browser is almost completely populated with surf or wave/weather links.
Truly, as I sat staring at the televised tragedy in Benghazi those years ago–watching all of this human drama and strife–I couldn’t help but notice that there were waves! The waves were breaking right there! And I couldn’t take my eyes off of them. I watched as solid four and five-foot sets rolled in behind the demonstrators, and I was mesmerized: not a soul out in the water! Did other people see this? I switched channels to the high-definition newscast–ostensibly to see the political carnage, but in truth to obtain a clearer vantage of the ocean beyond. Completely rippable overhead storm surf rolled in relentlessly behind the protesters and riot police. I was amazed and guilt-ridden at the same time.
Several years later, as hurricane Sandy swept slowly up the Atlantic seaboard devastating towns and cities in its path, Jon Sundt and I sat in his living room transfixed as the disaster unfolded on all of the major networks. Big grey cylinders of ocean reeled menacingly several hundred yards offshore. Huge walls of water wiped out boardwalks and homes and neighborhoods on the screen in front of us. Watching the storm surge and enormous waves crash ashore in Ocean City, New Jersey, he turned to me and said with an understated excitement discernable only to a surfer: “Look at that… those waves are completely surfable.” Indeed, there were even pictures of people surfing these big, dirty waves a few days after Sandy had passed north.
Morally suspect? Clearly. But unique to our own surf-centric psychology? I think perhaps not.
Was this nihilism a product intrinsically linked to our DNA, or was it born of a social or, some might venture, spiritual aesthetic: surfing itself. Surely there were others in the world who felt as I did; as we did –those who looked at a map and saw not topography or geopolitical boundaries, but rather swell lines converging from points unknown, forming perfect metronome cylinders that wrapped comfortably along the exposed seaward fall.
I am a Surfer.
I am a Surfer.
We are Surfers; this complex and varied group whose compulsion to glide across the face of a wave borders on manic obsession. An immensely diverse collection of individuals,from Nobel laureates to gang bangers; from captains of industry to unemployed tile setters. And for the most possessed members of this tribe (as it has oft been called) the fixation is nearly debilitating in its grip. As with other addicts, the “fix” is the focus of much of our time and energy. Likewise, our senses are attuned as such: certain sounds remind us of waves and the ocean; certain smells conjure images of the sea and surfing–the smell of coconut never fails to bring thoughts of surf wax and the beach to mind.
A few weeks ago, a young fellow came up to me in the gym, looking at me hopefully. I didn’t know him, and I pulled the earbud from my right ear and nodded towards him with a somewhat questioning smile.
“Is the window open?” he asked.
“Huh?” I was confused.
He gestured toward my shirt: EDDIE WOULD GO
“Ahh,” I replied, realizing what he meant. “Yes, I think so.”
And in an instant, a somewhat tenuous bond was formed by three faded words on a sweaty, disintegrating piece of cloth. A simple statement that spoke volumes about surfers and their heroes. Like members of some secret society who can recognize one another based on the smallest of nuances, we knew that we had much in common, no matter the difference in age, belief system or socioeconomic status.
Nowadays people all over the world, it seems, want to be a surfers. Surfing permeates the fabric of society, from Tokyo to Timbuktu–this aura surrounding surfing and surfers–this surfing mystique. From the Bessell signature Andy Warhol series in the galleries of New York to the shredded Rusty t-shirt on a grimy urchin in the streets of Rio de Janeiro, we can see the rise of the concept of surfing across the whole social spectrum–overtly and also ever-so-subtly. That surfing has taken over the subconscious and unconscious aspects of a large part of humanity is inescapable: people who have never even seen the ocean are attracted to the concept and accoutrements of surfing; of the surfing lifestyle.
Still, a Surfer’s house is filled with surf pictures and iconography: posters from surf movies, shells from countries visited in search of waves, and paddles and painted masks from the airport in Jakarta. The magazines in the living room and the bathrooms are overwhelmingly surf-related. Hell, even the family Christmas card has a surf or beach theme more often than not. When one’s every vacation is planned and executed suspiciously around surf and/or surfing (and, on occasion, the Darker Arts involving snow), one is compelled to a moment of introspection, and must readily admit to something bordering on obsession. This myopia of purpose is both refreshing and frustrating in its simplicity.
But the real surfer–the Surfer–is not so much interested in the trappings of the sport and the accompanying lifestyle as he is the day-to-day rituals and performance of the sport. To the true Surfer each day exists, first and foremost, primarily for the pursuit of waves. It is this very singularity of purpose which binds us, as surfers, together, whether or not we know each other or even like each other, for that matter. We are drawn to those of similar ilk simply because we share the same burning desire: to surf. To surf far and wide; to surf with friends; to surf well…
To be Surfers.
