A changing poncho might be your best bet. Photo: McLeod//DryRobe
I was standing in the street naked the other day. Over the years I’ve found myself in this circumstance quite often. No other American subculture I can think of — certainly no other male culture — spends as much time bare-assed in full public view than the surfer. This point was made clear to me recently when a non-surfing acquaintance who happened to be along for the ride commented not only on the aplomb with which I brazenly changed out of my wetsuit, but my actual technique. The fact that I even had a technique was proof that I had completely adapted to a situation most civilians reserve for their most troubling nightmares.
“But what I don’t quite get,” my friend said. “Is why you turned in the direction you did when you put your pants on. I would think that you’d not want to face the street for that.”
That would take some answering. And it’s not like I haven’t given the subject much thought, standing with one pant leg on, hopping up and down on the other leg, all four of my cheeks bared to the wind.
Of course, the old time Hawaiians (it always comes back to the Hawaiians, doesn’t it?) had it easy. They took off all their clothes for he’nalu, and then only put them back on if they felt like it. Naturally, 19th century Protestant missionaries were outraged. The very same selectively prudish pulpit protesters after whom free-loving locals named a particular sexual position. However, their position on public nudity was immutable, especially concerning females. The sexy, see-through pareau was replaced by the full-coverage Mother Hubbard dress, which in turn morphed into the wrist-to-ankle-length muu-muu, a hyper-conservative fashion mandate which pretty much shut women’s surfing down for the next century. You try riding an alaia wrapped from head-to-toe in soggy flannel.
Hawaiian men, on the other hand, enjoyed the rebirth of the sport in the early 20th century in stylish, physique-flattering woolen short johns, and daring Mainland wave-riders quickly followed suit. Emphasis on daring: keep in mind that even during the Roaring Twenties, when debauchery of all sorts ruled, American men still weren’t allowed to go bare-chested on a public beach.
Post-WWII surfers eventually traded their tank suits for rudimentary surf trunks — female beach fashion already years ahead of their male counterparts. So, when in California, for example, these new bohemians moved up from the already populated beaches of the South Bay and Santa Monica to the wilds of Malibu, dropping a pair of duck trousers and slipping into a pair of trunks felt like a completely natural thing to do. And if this liberating act of civil disobedience scandalized some of the squares up on the Coast Highway, with their hard-soled shoes and tight, white undies (or Playtex girdles and Maidenform bras), all the better.
That’s really the essence of the thing. Surfers do their sandy-toed strip tease in a deliberate display of, well…everything. A preliminary rebellion, the waving of these twin white flags proceeding the greater battle against mainstream convention to come.
OK, so not all surfers enjoy this feeling of naked anarchy, or the wind in their nether regions, for that matter. Go to any surf spot and for every glimpse of gluteus maximus you’ll find plenty of surfers of both genders expending more calories in the parking lot than out in the waves, all in an attempt to avoid a momentary flash of their loins. The Boardbag Pancho, Front Seat Rigor Mortis, Furniture Drape, Jean Screen and ever-popular Wet Towel Wrap are just a few of the reverse Kama Sutra-like postures designed not to expose our lingams and yonis.
Me, I just drop and hop. Of course, my flagrancy has got me into a spot of trouble from time to time. During my more than 15 years of surfing Trestles on a daily basis my bare butt was yelled at by more U.S. Marines than Pamela Anderson’s, so many of them visibly angry, apparently, at catching me out of uniform. Some years back, when quickly slipping into my new Rip Curl T32, I was first ticketed and then thrown out of Jalama State Park for indecent exposure (“But officer, it’s 6:00 a.m. and the parking lot’s empty. There’s nobody here to see anything.” “Yeah,” the indignant ranger asserted. “But if anybody was here, they would’ve got an eyeful.”) And once, in much younger, much more self-conscious days, my friend Jeff and brother Matt drove off and left me standing without a towel on the corner of 41st Avenue and East Cliff Drive in Santa Cruz, buck naked on a busy Saturday morning. I’m still dealing, no doubt, with the lasting psychological effects of that little prank.
But for the most part, I, like most other surfers, have become comfortable with my nudity. Perhaps even adept. Which is probably what prompted my non-surfing friend to ask me why I took that nimble turn while dressing on a very busy street.
“Because of the direction of the wind,” I explained. “When you hold the waist of your pants into the wind it inflates the legs, sort of like a windsock. That way it’s easier to slide your feet in without getting sand all down the pant legs.”
I know. It sounded as ridiculous saying it as it feels now writing it. But among my catalog of life’s skills — a life that has often found me shedding my clothes on my way in and out of the ocean — this certainly has been one of the most useful.
