Andy Irons, owning it. Photo: Pierre Tostee/WSL
As much as the human species craves recognition, we are terrible at accepting compliments. Mankind is an apparatus constructed by countless measuring sticks–for there must always be a high mark to measure our efforts against. Think, “scientist.” What image flashed in your head? Was it Albert Einstein? Try, “basketball player.” Is LeBron James dunking and holding McDonalds fries in your mind? This exercise is unlimited–for every category of life that exists, we can immediately pinpoint what we believe to be the best version of said category. And forever are we standing on our tip-toes at these infinite measuring sticks of life, waiting for the day when we will meet those high marks and somebody is standing close enough nearby to witness the moment. They will smile, approach us, and say, “You did great. Excellent, really. In fact, that’s the best I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh, that? I’m really not that good. I must have just gotten lucky.”
What has just transpired is modesty. This is quite the unusual character trait. Modesty cloaks itself in the attire of the desirable–after all, what’s more impressive than an achiever who can display a little modesty? Sure, why not. A noble undertaking. But doesn’t that contradict our instinctual drive to reach those lofty goals? Why do we work so hard only to award “luck,” or “God,” or anything else with the credit? Why, when we are approached and told, “You did great” can’t we just simply say, “thank you”?
I know you’re buried down there under all of this philosophical mud I’ve been shoveling, so let me throw down the rope that ties this all together. This might be hard to take serious at first, but hear me out: There’s too much modesty in surfing. Yes, in the sport that may have once been the antithesis of modesty, a factory of rebellion and anarchy for much of its existence, surfing today has become saturated with modesty. The invasive trait is hard to miss if you step back.
A certain unspoken culture of modesty is absorbed by anyone who has surfed long enough to get a neoprene rash. For example, take the matter of wave size. It could be 3 feet out there—Hawaiian. We know what that means. Whether derived from macho surfer’s bravado or a subtle tactic to dissuade tourists from visiting, it’s much bigger than 3 feet so buck up, kid. The Hawaiian wave scale reeks of modesty.
Watch a pro get ejected by Tahitian barrel and casually exit out the back, hands inside the vehicle. For claiming is wrong. Claiming is for kooks. You should act like it’s no big deal, that wave of your life. Think about it later when nobody is around. And for the love of Christ, don’t let your friends catch you claiming a barrel that may have barely combed back your Alfalfa tuft. That wave didn’t meet the minimum requirements to allow happiness. Just keep your mouth shut and act like these waves aren’t good enough to warrant emotional reactions. Which begs the question: what the hell are we surfing for if not to have fun and exhibit joy?
Also in the undersold market is the describing of conditions. It’s sacrilegious to over-hype conditions to a surf buddy, so I play it safe and give them a modest review. It’s pretty good. Looks like there could be some fun ones. Nobody wants to be the guy claiming every session was “fucking epic.” So, most of us err on the other end of the spectrum. Most of us.
While surfing a sizeable swell, it took incriminating myself to realize the addiction to modesty in the lineup–or at least my own. A somewhat big wave (the biggest wave of the morning) rolled through with a good line on it and height to match (an impeccable head-high barrel). I barely saw the wave in time (actually I was champing at the bit, just hoping the surfer to my right wasn’t going to paddle for it). I only just made the drop and had a decent ride, maybe got barreled (YEWWWW! THIS WAVE IS INSANE!)
I kicked out and started paddling back to the lineup. I ended up next to this girl who utterly lacerates the ocean on a surfboard, and she’s smiling at me. Happier than I am acting.
“That was the best wave I’ve seen all morning!” My response?
“I got so lucky. I’m just glad I didn’t eat it.”
Why couldn’t I have just said, “Why thank you for your compliment, ma’am”? Why pretend we aren’t inwardly combusting with adrenaline and endorphins? Why do we put on the charade? And why are we coached to do so? For it is a charade. I have the proof. All you have to do is walk up to any surfer on Earth and ask them one simple question and the curtains of modesty snap back to where they belong- bundled in small amounts away from the main production.
“What’s the best wave of your life?”
Just ask. Any surfer. Just ask. The last time I did was to a bartender, and the guy came all the way out from behind the bar to better demonstrate his positioning in an Everest sized behemoth that barreled him for almost a quarter mile while dolphins followed on the foam ball serenading him with ukulele. Immediately the concept of modesty dissolves, replaced by hyperbole, sensationalism, and embellishment. And this occurs not because we are consciously trying to mislead our audience or misrepresent the pinnacle wave of our existence. This transpires because what we describe is truly the emotions that are conjured within us while re-surfing our most memorable wave. That translates into the vigor in which we adamantly demonstrate how our fins barely engaged and you had your foot just like this and the camera flash about blinding you and how your soul ignited and all of those things you might not exactly be remembering correctly.
But if amazing waves make us feel this euphoric, why do we try so hard to pretend like they don’t faze us? Are we not allowed to describe the actual height of waves without crunching the numbers through a culture formula to determine the realistic size? Why is it so taboo for a surfer to make any semblance of commotion after a jewel takes them below sea level and then presents them back to the lineup intact and feet still on board? Have they not earned the right to audibly release the breath they’ve been holding?
A dash of modesty is healthy. But we are swimming in heaps of it out there. It’s okay to not take surfing so seriously. You went surfing because you have fun riding waves. So when your purpose of catching a wave that administers that critical dose of fun occurs, let the universe know. And when someone asks you about your best wave of the day, detail it without shame. I mean, show an embarrassing amount of enthusiasm describing it. Every good story deserves a little embellishment. Most importantly: learn how to receive a compliment by saying, “thank you.”
