No matter how thick of a suit you have to wear at your local, it’s still yours. Photo: Ryan Loughlin
I’ll start this off with an easy question: Do you love your wave? I’m talking about your wave, not the wave of your dreams. Not the one you’re sure you’d just love to ride if you could only save up enough money for a trip to the Mentawai, qualify for a bank loan and a week on Tavarua, or rubber up for one of those cool (really cool) British Columbian boat trips we’ve been seeing so much of lately.
Again, I’m talking about your wave, not the one you lucked into on that last run up the coast to Rincon, or during a two-hour offshore wind window before that hurricane thrashed the Outer Banks. And fantasy waves? Rolling mirages like Namibia’s Skeleton Bay or that crazy Cape Verde train tunnel that Caity Simmers crashed through? Yeah, you might tell yourself you’d love one of those waves…until by some wild chance you actually paddled into one, and be with the sobering realization that unless you’re the sort of surfer with a sponsor and a personal filmer, not to mention holding a winning ticket in the Surfline swell lottery, you don’t have a bar of winter wax’s chance in hell of even making it to the bottom on your feet.
No, I’m talking about your wave. The one you ride on the regular, whether just down the street, or out to the coast. The wave you know where to park in front of, where to paddle out into, what it rides like in offshores, onshores, or evening glass; what particular swell and tide makes it work; what it looks like on its best days, its worst days and all the average days between; how your board works there, how you work there, surfing your best, your worst and somewhere between; where that puts you in the lineup hierarchy. The wave you grew up in; the wave you’ll grow old in. The wave you ride while dreaming of somewhere else. Your wave.
I remember once talking to a friend of mine, Kirk, who was one of the core Malibu crew back in the day. The way he spoke about the spot, the passion with which he described so many of the nuances of a wave that, so far as I could tell, was literally overrun by the hordes who flocked there during anything resembling a swell. It was as if, over the course of many seasons, he’d developed such an intimate relationship with the wave that he could see beyond the fiberglass curtain. So that when that curtain occasionally parted, and he caught that special wave — his wave — it brought him greater satisfaction than those ridden during his many travels to more fabulous, unsaturated surf zones.
And here’s the funny thing — he didn’t even live in Malibu, but ‘over the hill’, in the San Fernando Valley. Yet even that, what might have otherwise appeared to be a geographic disadvantage, had been turned into a devotional expression. “Back in the days before surf forecasting, especially,” he told me. “Driving to the coast through Malibu Canyon was all part of the experience. The anticipation building, riding on a high of imagination. And then coming around that corner where you could first see the ocean, being able to read, with just a glimpse of whitewater, what the waves were like, and what sort of day you were about to have. Something about that knowledge, that knowing about your spot, is something you just don’t get when you travel for surf, regardless of how much better or less crowded it is.”
Kirk loved his wave. Like all those Rockpile locals. And if you think I mean the Florence Bros and the rest of their roll-in, top-turning acolytes, you’re looking at the wrong side of Oahu. Because on the island’s south shore, situated on an unassuming patch of reef out in front of the Hilton Hawaiian Village, is a modest little break also called Rockpile, with an equally modest cadre of men and women locals who are totally connected to their wave. Most are older, most having been surfing Rockpile, a wave that from shore is barely distinguishable from the closeouts to its right and left, revealing itself only to those suitably faithful to its existence, since long before longboards had leashes.
It may be a crumbly mess most of the time. But at least you know when it’ll be a crumbly mess. And then there are the moments of brilliance that make you forget the mess. Photo: Andre Hugo
Yet this is their wave; not Kaisers to the east, and certainly not Ala Moana to the west. Virtually hidden in plain sight between these two premier South Shore breaks, this is the spot where they know the names of every surfer on every set wave — and the names of all of their kids. Each and every wave is a wave they know by heart. Which is why, should you ever find yourself among them, and display the proper deference due to all tribal elders, you’ll probably find them more than happy to share, if not the set waves, then plenty of those in between. Like the 12-year-old daughter of a friend of mine did recently when, on her very first trip to Hawaii, she discovered the stark difference between surfing with locals who dominate their waves, and surfing with those who love them.
Another good friend of mine, Kevin, born, raised and still living in Newport, Rhode Island. Surfing since he was a kid, traveled up and down the East Coast on surfari, and Hawaii, California, the Caribbean, the South Pacific. Yet what he counts as the most satisfying experience in a long surfing life, is simply lying in bed in the pre-dawn hour, listening to a swell arrive at nearby Second Beach; timing the intervals in his head, listening for the regular crash of the surf. The satisfaction of knowing, regardless of its size and shape, that it’s going to be there when he gets up and around to it. This wave he learned on; the waves on which he taught his kids. The waves on which they’ll teach their kids. The wave he loves.
So, make no mistake, there’s something wonderful about surfing a new wave. There’s something soul-satisfying about surfing a great wave. There’s something particularly rewarding about (successfully) surfing a scary wave. But when you add up all the essential elements that make up a meaningful surfing life, these are bright, shiny ornaments, so to speak, attached to a broader framework. And the foundation of that framework is the relationship you foster with the wave that you surf most often. Because unlike all the other waves, at all the other spots on earth, that’s your wave.
You better love it.
This month, The Inertia’s Sam George released his latest book, Child of Storms: A Surfing Memoir In Progress. You can purchase your copy here.
