I was in quandary, and knew that at some point I’d be forced to trudge this path and sift through the detritus of my surfing past for something of worth for “Simon Says”. Whilst flipping through those well-thumbed pages of surfing nostalgia the neons of the 80s managed to catch my eye, pterygiums and all. Soon enough my face was smeared with neon zinc oxide, The Police were “Watching Every Breath I Take”, and I was dreaming in checkerboard graphics. The big swell of ’82, Robin Auld at Kalk Bay, Martin Potter fins free at the Bay of Plenty on that black and yellow T&C board – you know the one- I was at home. While the circus maximus of the Spur Steakranch Surfabout was doing its thing at the Outer Kom I was bumbling about at Cemetery on my Bordello quad in a howling north wester with some school mates.
Before the net, cellphones and MP3s there were the 80s - the “Me Generation” wedged between Bee Gees disco flare and the smelly nirvana that was Kurt Cobain. The 80’s were my surfing summer, my heyday punctuated by suburban train surfaris, the edible scent of Mr Zog’s Raspberry flavoured Sex Wax, blanket jackets from Pep, and The Corner on crisp Autumn mornings. Sometimes a berg wind would carry us over Chappies to dreamy high tide A-Frames, that’s if we could coerce a Mom into making the drive. Even though we cursed our wetsuits, the endless summer days of the 80s stretched on forever, give or take the 6 to 8 weeks of the Christmas hols.
Being young and a surfer in the 80s was great, and at times life felt like an endless long weekend, despite crotch busting boardshorts and wetsuits with detachable arms (possibly the most dysfunctional surf accessory of the decade). Was life simpler back then for isolationist South African surfers? I’m not sure, but éVoid, Bright Blue and the Gereformeerde Blues Band played our soundtrack. ZigZag put words to our stoke, complete with the most rudimentary layouts and blown-out photos of mysto spots, made all the more ominous in high contrast black and white. Groms shivered in damp blanket jackets and Ballies grumbled over their Ricoffy. At times paddleskiers, windsurfers and even bodyboarders clawed their way into those kooky layouts.
Paddleskiers were a waterborne virus that reached almost epidemic proportions in the 80s, infecting almost every spot, and inspiring a loathing best compared to the current SUP infestation. Surfing and Surfer gave us Kodachrome snapshots of the “real world”; but what was it about surf videos that brought out the worst in Sony’s Betamax format? Stretched tapes turned surf slang into Klingon, and those ubiquitous blizzards of grain transformed Backdoor into K2, but hey that was half the fun of 80s surf videos.
The 80s also marked the advent of the surf label. Instinct drawstring trousers in Miami Vice pastels were de rigueur urban wear for any self-respecting surfer, often accompanied by Oakley Frogskins and oversized shoulder pads. These bizarre fashion ensembles were almost always topped off by dubious New Romantic fringes complete with sun kissed highlights. Duran Duran, The Cure and Ultravox didn’t know rail from rocker but fashion conscious surfers were never far from their trusty hair dryers in the hope of emulating those Wild Boys; or where they girls? Perhaps these coiffured surfing fashionistas were salty precursors to that emasculated phenomenon of the 21st Century; the Metrosexual? Who knows, but an equally irritating regional fashion trend flourished; the so-called “ethno-bongo” look. This egregious attempt at coming to terms with Africa was proof enough that the South African surf scene was a hub of Post Modern eclecticism. Ethnic prints, dutifully unwashed tangled locks and loping bare feet through upmarket shopping centres were quintessential “ethno-bongo” surfer statements. Sadly they still are, but in the guise of the “Trustafarian”, give or take a nasty parasitic skin infection or two.
Surfboard design progressed at a phenomenal rate, from MR Twinnies to that quantum leap in surfboard design; Simon Anderson’s Thruster. By the close of the decade, surfers were riding quads, thrusters, paper thin Persian slippers and even longboards. Pop Tom Morey’s marshmallow in the microwave(s), and soon enough summer stoke was in the reach of landlubbers who normally preferred 16 holes with their corporate mates on the weekend. Even country bumpkins from the hinterland were getting wet. Boogieboards and paddleskis would make the invention of the “gook cord” look like a three stroke paddle out. More folk took to wave-riding in the 80s than the soul kinders of the 70s could have ever imagined.
It was love at first sight, suddenly Surfing had a fiancé; and she was a leggy blond called Commercialism. The old adage “Chicks and sticks don’t mix” was also blown out to sea by local wunderkind Wendy Botha, but Roxy mania was still a decade in the making. Average 80s surfer girls preferred “klapping” their errant boyfriends than “hitting the lip” of their local spot, but that would all change.
Going vertical and even ‘beyond vert’ were ambitious 80s moves borrowed from the backyard pools and skate parks of the late 70s. Re-entries, snaps, white-water rebounds and fins free lip gouges screamed skateboarding. The rip, tear, lacerate surf skate synthesis would pave the way for another skate inspired move; “the aerial”. Yes, surfers were ‘getting air’ but it was no more than an exploratory test flight. Most surfers would eject on an aerial but only a select few would surf away from a wobbly landing. Surf photographers relished the creative possibilities of the aerial domain, and surf mags splashed photos of surfers “getting air” across their pages. Mindsets would change and paradigms shift; surfing was amputating the 70s with a rusty chainsaw.
80s wetsuits were one long leaky experiment. Wetsuits wailed in girly hues, acid greens and muted blues, but most surfers survived if a little chilly, only to be presented with an accessory worthy of a hamster’s intellect - the webbed paddling glove. Thankfully, most “Webs” were hacked to bits and used as butt patches. Rip Curl and O’Neill were coveted by most surfers, but Reef and Zero were local staples. Rash vests were unheard of but a trusty jar of Vaseline was always in reach, and used in copious amounts towards the end of a good swell. Vast quantities of petroleum jelly always managed to find its way onto the rails of your Faith twin fin, and the consequences normally had the makings of a slasher movie. Another crackbrained 80s fashion involved wearing a single bootie, usually on one’s back foot. Considering the cut and quality of the average bootie back then, surfers would have been better off wearing a gumboot duct-taped to their wetsuit.
Slithering silently in those long summer shadows was a darker side to the decade for white South African surfers. It was a place of foreboding and darn right fear, a two year wave drought some called a ‘right of passage’ and others, a ‘violation of rights’ - Conscription. Call-up was a reality for most, and stalling tactics included pulling a doctorate out of your boardbag, or for the affluent set, simply escaping to your parent’s London pad for a 2 year jol. A few brave souls refused to serve and the ECC (End Conscription Campaign) screamed blue murder in the face of a finger-waving colossus, but in most cases a lengthy prison term ensued. Some never bothered to get back in the water after “Nationale Diensplig”. The Border, Townships and even “Basics” had a way of sucking the marrow from many young men’s souls, but that’s another story.
By the close of the decade the “New Wave” was no more than a shoreline dribble. Surfing was becoming a highly profitable cash cow, and that “Best of the 80s” cassette had been fast forwarded one too many times. The excesses of Yuppiedom had reached its apogee, and would give way to the kids of Generation X, Seattle Grunge and the throb of Trance. The party was over, our Summer of Love was kaput. Long live the 80s!
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
“I wear my Sunglasses at Night” while I’m surfing in my Pink wetsuit on a 5’9” Simon Anderson Thruster!
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Smile… Spring is here!
Historically, September is a dark month. 65 years ago on the 1st of September Herr Hitler plunged Western Europe into the greatest conflict that humanity has ever suffered. By 1941, the world was aflame and would burn until the surrender of Imperial Japan on the 2nd of September 1945. More recently, 9/11 proved that terror could strike at the very cosmopolitan jugular of the world’s superpower, America. Sunny South Africa has by no means been exempt from the evil that men do. Crime, poverty and massive class disparities have been woven into the social fabric of our beautiful country. You might well ask what my sombre timbre has to do with surfing, and why I’m bumming out which would have otherwise been a pleasant Spring day? Well, here’s my gripe - we surfers are for the most part a sullen bunch of an unappreciative whiners, me included! Worse still, there are a growing number of surfers who are simply rude. Surfers love to throw a quilted blanket of tepid excuses over their limited civility.
Here are some responses I got from a variety of surfers (including some high profile individuals) when I discussed the simple act of greeting a fellow surfer;
“You have no idea how frustrating it is when it’s crowded and I’m trying to practice for a comp.”
“Hey Brah I’ve lived here all my life, don’t these okes don’t know who I am?”
“They’re just kooks jamming up my spot, why should I bother greeting them?”
“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this swell, I haven’t got time to chat to some @#$%”
“Why should I greet a doormat, egg-beater, goatboater, sponger, longboarder, or some $%^& riding a hired mal or SUP*?”
Years back, when I bothered to surf J Bay, I watched a surfer get rag-dolled over the rocks at Supers. His leash-less board bounced ahead of him towards where I was standing at the waters edge. Before Davy Jones could suck the board back out and tenderise it into a cubist sculpture I scrambled over the rocks to rescue it. When I handed the board back its owner, he snatched it from my grasp and turned his neoprened back to me without the slightest whiff of appreciation or acknowledgment. What a *&^$! I stood there dumbfounded, but fathoms deep my surfer instinct told me that the merest hint of a smile or civility would have been a personal affront to his skewed sense of surfer honour. What a *&^$! Arrogance and unfriendliness have become synonymous with our sport. I’m beginning to think all those 16mm home-styled neo-hippy surf movies accompanied by Jack Johnson and his palm fronds are no more than cunning marketing speak. Endless sunsets and blanketed fireside tales are best left to Walt Disney and his animated fairytale friends.
I digress, many surfers find it painfully hard to smile or even acknowledge the presence of interlopers due to the realities of limited liquid real estate. Their frustration is understandable, but their response is unforgivable. The over privileged microcosm that surfers, and more specifically South African surfers inhabit often preclude us to exhibit compassion or civility. Waves, bru, I want more waves…If that’s the case, drive till you find your selfish nirvana, but no doubt you’ll soon enough be eyeballing the inquisitive kelp gulls, penguins and other marine life that cross your path, until of course you hopefully paddle into the territory of an even more inquisitive apex predator.
Why can’t surfers greet each other and say thank you anymore? Perhaps it’s a painful reflection of the current state of 21st century society. Over population, gratuitous access to unprecedented technology and recessions have resulted in a “Me, Myself and I” generation, dripping in disdain for common decency and respect in and out of the water. Sadly, surfers form part of that demographic and the fallout is not altogether pleasant. It’s high time we reassessed and recalibrated our sense of importance. Perhaps it’s time we smiled a little more, helped a little more and realised how undeservingly lucky and privileged we really are.
To those self-loving individuals I say spend some of your time chatting to a veteran, refugee or one of those Big Issue vendors. They might well alter your perspective for a couple of minutes, so much so you might even be inspired to contort your face into a grimaced smile when you next encounter a fellow surfer in the line-up. Perhaps it’s time we proved the journalist Tom Brokaw’s phrase “The Greatest Generation” needn’t only apply to those who grew up during the privations of the Great Depression, and then went on to fight in World War Two. Charity begins in the water…and with a simple smile. Just ask the dolphins!
*Kindly note that no form of civility should ever be extended to the SUP menace (especially when encountered in a crowded line-up).
Here are some responses I got from a variety of surfers (including some high profile individuals) when I discussed the simple act of greeting a fellow surfer;
“You have no idea how frustrating it is when it’s crowded and I’m trying to practice for a comp.”
“Hey Brah I’ve lived here all my life, don’t these okes don’t know who I am?”
“They’re just kooks jamming up my spot, why should I bother greeting them?”
“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this swell, I haven’t got time to chat to some @#$%”
“Why should I greet a doormat, egg-beater, goatboater, sponger, longboarder, or some $%^& riding a hired mal or SUP*?”
Years back, when I bothered to surf J Bay, I watched a surfer get rag-dolled over the rocks at Supers. His leash-less board bounced ahead of him towards where I was standing at the waters edge. Before Davy Jones could suck the board back out and tenderise it into a cubist sculpture I scrambled over the rocks to rescue it. When I handed the board back its owner, he snatched it from my grasp and turned his neoprened back to me without the slightest whiff of appreciation or acknowledgment. What a *&^$! I stood there dumbfounded, but fathoms deep my surfer instinct told me that the merest hint of a smile or civility would have been a personal affront to his skewed sense of surfer honour. What a *&^$! Arrogance and unfriendliness have become synonymous with our sport. I’m beginning to think all those 16mm home-styled neo-hippy surf movies accompanied by Jack Johnson and his palm fronds are no more than cunning marketing speak. Endless sunsets and blanketed fireside tales are best left to Walt Disney and his animated fairytale friends.
I digress, many surfers find it painfully hard to smile or even acknowledge the presence of interlopers due to the realities of limited liquid real estate. Their frustration is understandable, but their response is unforgivable. The over privileged microcosm that surfers, and more specifically South African surfers inhabit often preclude us to exhibit compassion or civility. Waves, bru, I want more waves…If that’s the case, drive till you find your selfish nirvana, but no doubt you’ll soon enough be eyeballing the inquisitive kelp gulls, penguins and other marine life that cross your path, until of course you hopefully paddle into the territory of an even more inquisitive apex predator.
Why can’t surfers greet each other and say thank you anymore? Perhaps it’s a painful reflection of the current state of 21st century society. Over population, gratuitous access to unprecedented technology and recessions have resulted in a “Me, Myself and I” generation, dripping in disdain for common decency and respect in and out of the water. Sadly, surfers form part of that demographic and the fallout is not altogether pleasant. It’s high time we reassessed and recalibrated our sense of importance. Perhaps it’s time we smiled a little more, helped a little more and realised how undeservingly lucky and privileged we really are.
To those self-loving individuals I say spend some of your time chatting to a veteran, refugee or one of those Big Issue vendors. They might well alter your perspective for a couple of minutes, so much so you might even be inspired to contort your face into a grimaced smile when you next encounter a fellow surfer in the line-up. Perhaps it’s time we proved the journalist Tom Brokaw’s phrase “The Greatest Generation” needn’t only apply to those who grew up during the privations of the Great Depression, and then went on to fight in World War Two. Charity begins in the water…and with a simple smile. Just ask the dolphins!
*Kindly note that no form of civility should ever be extended to the SUP menace (especially when encountered in a crowded line-up).
Friday, August 7, 2009
The Advent of “Ballie-dom”
There’s a moment that every mortal surfer will experience, a shadowy epiphany that will mark the beginning of a new life stage; middle-age. This harbinger of agedness might manifest itself by physical means in form of a gammy shoulder or the need for copious amounts of extra sunscreen and a dorky looking sunhat. Perhaps “ballie-dom” will present itself as a sobering reflection of a pregnant looking profile in rear window of your car, as you ponder the mysterious qualities of ever-shrinking neoprene.
For me, it arrived in the water on a Sunday afternoon a couple of years ago. I’d just enjoyed, in my smallish universe, a great wave that I had punctuated with a fantail of spray and an effortless kick-out. As the adrenalin fuelled my paddle back to the peak, an elasticised 20 something year-old stroked past me and sniggered, “Hey Bru, not a bad wave for a ballie”. I should have committed my soul to Davy Jones’ Geriatric Unit right there, but deep down a youthful flame still flickered bravely in the face of the stiffening breeze.
Somehow, if you’re a surfer, “ballie-dom” or middle-age never arrives. There’s always another soul in the water, who appears a little more grizzled, grey or grumpy than you. For surfers, the goalposts of agedness are mercurial; they constantly shift up and down our beach of dreams. No doubt, you’ll be labelled as a “Toppie”, “Ballie”, “Bullet”, “Silver Surfer” or “Old-man”. Wear those labels as you would a Congressional Medal of Honour, Victoria Cross or Honoris Crux, and then go out there and prove all those little rubber people how much fun surfing really can be.
For some surfers, middle-age is fraught with crises and the need to prove that the “Zimmer-frame of surfing”, the longboard or mini-mal is still decades in the future. There’re probably about three surfers over 40 (world-wide) who don’t look a cockroach in its death throes while trying to pump their 6’2” Persian slipper through a flat section at their local beach. If you’re over 40, get your shaper to add some more foam, a couple of inches and less rocker to your next board – you have no idea how much fun you’re missing, and hey, if you’ve got this far, you deserve it.
With middle-age comes a treasure trove of possibilities without having to anguish over what “other surfers think”. Become a Joel Tudor without the neo-hippy baggage and try longboards, mini-mals, fishes, shortboards and eggs BUT never a SUP. Irrespective of the ravages of age, everyone, except perhaps Laird Hamilton looks like a wannbe gondolier on those fibre-glass buses of mayhem.
Middle-age undoubtedly presents one with a daunting array of domestic and financial responsibilities, but more often than not, although this translates to less time in the water, there’s a strong chance you’ll savour every session with the unbridled passion of a grom. Speaking of groms, if you have kids it’s highly likely the little pirates will be joining you in the water at some point. Experiencing a sunset session or dawn patrol with your kids will re-affirm your faith in humanity, and create a bond between parent and sibling that few sports can compare with.
Perhaps the best part of growing older is the advantage of life-experience. I prefer a less Life-coach orientated term - Wisdom. Wise surfers are less selfish, fonts of salty knowledge and the pillars of our lifestyle. They lead by example and influence the future of our sport in and out of the line-up with grace, humility and a smile; NOT a sullen stare, simian grunt or gormless profanity. They might not be the best surfer in the water, but in the long term they have the ability to change the perceptions of the next generation, and that in my aged opinion is more important than a boatload of Alley Oop method airs at 10 foot Teahupoo.
For me, it arrived in the water on a Sunday afternoon a couple of years ago. I’d just enjoyed, in my smallish universe, a great wave that I had punctuated with a fantail of spray and an effortless kick-out. As the adrenalin fuelled my paddle back to the peak, an elasticised 20 something year-old stroked past me and sniggered, “Hey Bru, not a bad wave for a ballie”. I should have committed my soul to Davy Jones’ Geriatric Unit right there, but deep down a youthful flame still flickered bravely in the face of the stiffening breeze.
Somehow, if you’re a surfer, “ballie-dom” or middle-age never arrives. There’s always another soul in the water, who appears a little more grizzled, grey or grumpy than you. For surfers, the goalposts of agedness are mercurial; they constantly shift up and down our beach of dreams. No doubt, you’ll be labelled as a “Toppie”, “Ballie”, “Bullet”, “Silver Surfer” or “Old-man”. Wear those labels as you would a Congressional Medal of Honour, Victoria Cross or Honoris Crux, and then go out there and prove all those little rubber people how much fun surfing really can be.
For some surfers, middle-age is fraught with crises and the need to prove that the “Zimmer-frame of surfing”, the longboard or mini-mal is still decades in the future. There’re probably about three surfers over 40 (world-wide) who don’t look a cockroach in its death throes while trying to pump their 6’2” Persian slipper through a flat section at their local beach. If you’re over 40, get your shaper to add some more foam, a couple of inches and less rocker to your next board – you have no idea how much fun you’re missing, and hey, if you’ve got this far, you deserve it.
With middle-age comes a treasure trove of possibilities without having to anguish over what “other surfers think”. Become a Joel Tudor without the neo-hippy baggage and try longboards, mini-mals, fishes, shortboards and eggs BUT never a SUP. Irrespective of the ravages of age, everyone, except perhaps Laird Hamilton looks like a wannbe gondolier on those fibre-glass buses of mayhem.
Middle-age undoubtedly presents one with a daunting array of domestic and financial responsibilities, but more often than not, although this translates to less time in the water, there’s a strong chance you’ll savour every session with the unbridled passion of a grom. Speaking of groms, if you have kids it’s highly likely the little pirates will be joining you in the water at some point. Experiencing a sunset session or dawn patrol with your kids will re-affirm your faith in humanity, and create a bond between parent and sibling that few sports can compare with.
Perhaps the best part of growing older is the advantage of life-experience. I prefer a less Life-coach orientated term - Wisdom. Wise surfers are less selfish, fonts of salty knowledge and the pillars of our lifestyle. They lead by example and influence the future of our sport in and out of the line-up with grace, humility and a smile; NOT a sullen stare, simian grunt or gormless profanity. They might not be the best surfer in the water, but in the long term they have the ability to change the perceptions of the next generation, and that in my aged opinion is more important than a boatload of Alley Oop method airs at 10 foot Teahupoo.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Secret Spots - Don’t tell anyone I told you Bru!
A couple of weeks back I heard some whispers flicker around a wintery braai about a secret spot. I thought here we go again, an unmapped gem that’s always head high, requires no rubber and is dusted by genteel land breezes. Yet another salty Elysium I will never surf. I gave up on ‘The Search’ when I realised toddlers are somewhat allergic to Sex Wax, damp car seats and copious amounts of Weskus grit.
Nonetheless, my curiosity got the better of me so I edged cautiously towards the hushed conversation, but they got wind of my ploy. They promptly closed ranks with a few well placed shuffles, and added a full-stop to my intentions with a ‘look’ that required no further explanation. I replied with an inane smile, back-peddled a couple of paces and waited for the Black Labels to kick in.
Here’s my take on ‘Secret Spots’. Let’s rather refer to them as not-so-secret spots. Someone will undoubtedly spill the beans, scribble a map on an ATM deposit slip, or bumble forth a set of inebriated directions. Better still, there are some tech-savvy surfers out there and secret pacts dissolve rapidly in the face of techno-braggadocio. These infernal pixel pirates will gladly SMS you a hi-res photo and a set of lucid directions from their iPhone, complete with a YouTube link for stoke value.
Before you can whisper “Don’t tell anyone else bru!” half of Cape Town has descended on your “Treasure Island” with jet skis, SUPs, kite boards and busloads of other annoying peripherals in tow. Thanks to Google Earth, Facebook and GPS systems, a whole generation of bitmapped Columbus’ and Magellans are discovering New Worlds with every mouse click. These surfing digeratti rarely bother with maps or good old dead reckoning. Nowadays it’s just a matter of plugging in the TomTom, fuelling up the Hummer and heading into the sunset with your posse, as Lil’ Wayne provides the soundtrack to your odyssey.
Perhaps it’s not all bad, but the romanticised notion of a secret spot has long gone been relegated to the scrapheap of surfing history, together with detachable wetsuit arms and webbed paddling gloves. A surfing population explosion of nuclear proportions and access to sophisticated technology has shortened the shelf life of the average secret spot dramatically.
So what, there are probably countless secret spots that are beyond the reach of trust funds, Land Cruisers and Twitter. The liquid nirvana that epitomises a secret spot is not the wave itself, but more often a confluence of the right conditions, the adventure of ‘getting there’, and the joy of a shared experience (I might add with friends, and NOT a herd of SUPs). The allure of discovering a secret spot will always beckon future generations of surfers, despite the inevitable 40 knot South Easters and dribbles of swell that underpin most missions. The very mention of the word ‘secret spot’ is enough to conjure up seductive visions of a little corner of surfing Shangri-la that you can call your own for a few hours.
Now back to that wintery braai – yes, the black Labels had weaved their alcoholic magic, the conversation was somewhat more animated and I was welcomed with open arms into the ‘circle of trust’. I promised I wouldn’t breathe a word, but hey, I’m only human and what’s the big deal with telling the one or two people who read this column.
Head south, towards False Bay when a deep growler of a south or even south west swell bloats the bay with corduroy to the horizon bru. A 10 to 15 knot North Wester will caress those long frequency swells into unpainted liquid canvases, but take heed, there are potential hazards. Icy offshores and long paddle outs are de rigueur, and I was told the resident Great Whites have discerning tastes; they prefer in excess of 3 millimetres of neoprene. You’ll also need length to surf this spot bru, 7’6” or longer is advisable. Your 6’4” toothpick will not suffice. Simply put, you don’t take a knife to this sort of bun fight.
As for directions, they are so passé in this digital age so here’s a link to the webcam - http://tinyurl.com/qn8td5, but don’t tell anyone I told you.
Nonetheless, my curiosity got the better of me so I edged cautiously towards the hushed conversation, but they got wind of my ploy. They promptly closed ranks with a few well placed shuffles, and added a full-stop to my intentions with a ‘look’ that required no further explanation. I replied with an inane smile, back-peddled a couple of paces and waited for the Black Labels to kick in.
Here’s my take on ‘Secret Spots’. Let’s rather refer to them as not-so-secret spots. Someone will undoubtedly spill the beans, scribble a map on an ATM deposit slip, or bumble forth a set of inebriated directions. Better still, there are some tech-savvy surfers out there and secret pacts dissolve rapidly in the face of techno-braggadocio. These infernal pixel pirates will gladly SMS you a hi-res photo and a set of lucid directions from their iPhone, complete with a YouTube link for stoke value.
Before you can whisper “Don’t tell anyone else bru!” half of Cape Town has descended on your “Treasure Island” with jet skis, SUPs, kite boards and busloads of other annoying peripherals in tow. Thanks to Google Earth, Facebook and GPS systems, a whole generation of bitmapped Columbus’ and Magellans are discovering New Worlds with every mouse click. These surfing digeratti rarely bother with maps or good old dead reckoning. Nowadays it’s just a matter of plugging in the TomTom, fuelling up the Hummer and heading into the sunset with your posse, as Lil’ Wayne provides the soundtrack to your odyssey.
Perhaps it’s not all bad, but the romanticised notion of a secret spot has long gone been relegated to the scrapheap of surfing history, together with detachable wetsuit arms and webbed paddling gloves. A surfing population explosion of nuclear proportions and access to sophisticated technology has shortened the shelf life of the average secret spot dramatically.
So what, there are probably countless secret spots that are beyond the reach of trust funds, Land Cruisers and Twitter. The liquid nirvana that epitomises a secret spot is not the wave itself, but more often a confluence of the right conditions, the adventure of ‘getting there’, and the joy of a shared experience (I might add with friends, and NOT a herd of SUPs). The allure of discovering a secret spot will always beckon future generations of surfers, despite the inevitable 40 knot South Easters and dribbles of swell that underpin most missions. The very mention of the word ‘secret spot’ is enough to conjure up seductive visions of a little corner of surfing Shangri-la that you can call your own for a few hours.
Now back to that wintery braai – yes, the black Labels had weaved their alcoholic magic, the conversation was somewhat more animated and I was welcomed with open arms into the ‘circle of trust’. I promised I wouldn’t breathe a word, but hey, I’m only human and what’s the big deal with telling the one or two people who read this column.
Head south, towards False Bay when a deep growler of a south or even south west swell bloats the bay with corduroy to the horizon bru. A 10 to 15 knot North Wester will caress those long frequency swells into unpainted liquid canvases, but take heed, there are potential hazards. Icy offshores and long paddle outs are de rigueur, and I was told the resident Great Whites have discerning tastes; they prefer in excess of 3 millimetres of neoprene. You’ll also need length to surf this spot bru, 7’6” or longer is advisable. Your 6’4” toothpick will not suffice. Simply put, you don’t take a knife to this sort of bun fight.
As for directions, they are so passé in this digital age so here’s a link to the webcam - http://tinyurl.com/qn8td5, but don’t tell anyone I told you.
Friday, May 15, 2009
No Ordinary Surfer, No Ordinary Hero
I’ve prepared for the worst and come to terms with the inevitability of my fate - lightning will strike me down soon enough. I’m about to commit a sacrilege that will no doubt reduce me to a pathetic smoking mound of ash. Here goes; I don’t think Kelly Slater is the best surfer in the world, or the Irons brothers for that matter. It’s probably nothing more than unadulterated jealousy on my part, but there I’ve said it! He’s so perfect I’ve always thought he looks somewhat awkward on a wave. Perhaps in the view of the popular press and millions of chopstick surfing acolytes he is ‘The Greatest’.
However I’m almost convinced that somewhere, someone is drawing lines that would turn Kelly’s bronzed tones to an effluent green. Perhaps Kelly would be cool with that though, and dismiss my opinion as nothing more than the jealous rant of a middle-aged kook. Methinks his Kellyship prays fervently for the day someone would just surf him into liquid oblivion so he could prepare for middle age in peace.
I’m not here to slate Kelly, but there’s no doubting that there are countless surfers out there that are never fixed in ink, pixels or fantasy. They will never know the feeling of being ‘pritted’ or ‘prestiked’ on the cover of a dog-eared homework diary or flaky bedroom wall. There are legions of unsung watermen out there, but a select few are truly exceptional athletes. I’m loath to tread sacrilegious territory again but I’d like to believe some of them are no less talented than the Kellys and Lairds of our salty cosmos.
Take Jamie Mitchell for instance – an antipodean non-entity to the average surfer unless you’re a paddleboarder. He’s no aspiring SUPping gondolier either, I’m talking real paddleboarding – open ocean pain of indescribable proportions, ‘bent double’ on your knees or prone, on needle-sharp 17 footers that are designed to cross ominous expanses of water. Forget throttles, kill switches, carbon Kevlar paddles and yuppie tow-ins; this is the real deal. Jamie Mitchell is an ex-lifeguard, a highly accomplished surfer and undoubtedly the best paddler in the world, yet few surfers have heard of him.
According to renowned Australian surf writer Tim Baker, Mitchell ‘is one of a handful of elite watermen to join the informal 20/20 club for surfers who can paddle 20 miles through open ocean, and ride a 20 foot wave by the traditional paddle-in method’. He can ride virtually every form of surf craft, from a big wave gun to an ironing board. Add to that six consecutive wins for the 32-mile Quiksilver Edition Molokai to Oahu Paddleboard Race. You probably even know one of these unassuming multi-talented types, a consummate waterman or waterwomen who shuns the limelight and just surfs, dives, paddles, swims and fishes for the pure fun of it.
Let’s go back to about 10.30 on the morning of 17th March 1978. Hawaii's ocean voyaging canoe, the Hokule’a had capsized in mountainous swells and surfing legend Eddie Aikau was scrambling to make a leash out of nylon rope for his rescue paddleboard. He had decided to seek help for his stranded crewmates. Before he paddled off, he said; "Don't worry, I can do it.”. He was never seen again. His memory lives on in the Quiksilver Big Wave Invitational in Memory of Eddie Aikau at Waimea Bay.
Eddie Aikau epitomizes the type of surfer I could only dream of being.
We more often than not place surfing in a constrictive vacuum. Nothing could possibly exist beyond the Kelly’s, Bruces, perfecto boat trips, and uber brands that scream at us from the HD screens of our surfing universe. Yet most of us do, and we almost always thrive.
Here’s to the John Whitmores, David Mockes, Frankie Solomons, Andrew Marrs and Eddie Aikaus of our watery cosmos. Even Kelly would be humbled.
However I’m almost convinced that somewhere, someone is drawing lines that would turn Kelly’s bronzed tones to an effluent green. Perhaps Kelly would be cool with that though, and dismiss my opinion as nothing more than the jealous rant of a middle-aged kook. Methinks his Kellyship prays fervently for the day someone would just surf him into liquid oblivion so he could prepare for middle age in peace.
I’m not here to slate Kelly, but there’s no doubting that there are countless surfers out there that are never fixed in ink, pixels or fantasy. They will never know the feeling of being ‘pritted’ or ‘prestiked’ on the cover of a dog-eared homework diary or flaky bedroom wall. There are legions of unsung watermen out there, but a select few are truly exceptional athletes. I’m loath to tread sacrilegious territory again but I’d like to believe some of them are no less talented than the Kellys and Lairds of our salty cosmos.
Take Jamie Mitchell for instance – an antipodean non-entity to the average surfer unless you’re a paddleboarder. He’s no aspiring SUPping gondolier either, I’m talking real paddleboarding – open ocean pain of indescribable proportions, ‘bent double’ on your knees or prone, on needle-sharp 17 footers that are designed to cross ominous expanses of water. Forget throttles, kill switches, carbon Kevlar paddles and yuppie tow-ins; this is the real deal. Jamie Mitchell is an ex-lifeguard, a highly accomplished surfer and undoubtedly the best paddler in the world, yet few surfers have heard of him.
According to renowned Australian surf writer Tim Baker, Mitchell ‘is one of a handful of elite watermen to join the informal 20/20 club for surfers who can paddle 20 miles through open ocean, and ride a 20 foot wave by the traditional paddle-in method’. He can ride virtually every form of surf craft, from a big wave gun to an ironing board. Add to that six consecutive wins for the 32-mile Quiksilver Edition Molokai to Oahu Paddleboard Race. You probably even know one of these unassuming multi-talented types, a consummate waterman or waterwomen who shuns the limelight and just surfs, dives, paddles, swims and fishes for the pure fun of it.
Let’s go back to about 10.30 on the morning of 17th March 1978. Hawaii's ocean voyaging canoe, the Hokule’a had capsized in mountainous swells and surfing legend Eddie Aikau was scrambling to make a leash out of nylon rope for his rescue paddleboard. He had decided to seek help for his stranded crewmates. Before he paddled off, he said; "Don't worry, I can do it.”. He was never seen again. His memory lives on in the Quiksilver Big Wave Invitational in Memory of Eddie Aikau at Waimea Bay.
Eddie Aikau epitomizes the type of surfer I could only dream of being.
We more often than not place surfing in a constrictive vacuum. Nothing could possibly exist beyond the Kelly’s, Bruces, perfecto boat trips, and uber brands that scream at us from the HD screens of our surfing universe. Yet most of us do, and we almost always thrive.
Here’s to the John Whitmores, David Mockes, Frankie Solomons, Andrew Marrs and Eddie Aikaus of our watery cosmos. Even Kelly would be humbled.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Surfers are Selfish
“Surfers are a selfish bunch, they only think of one thing – surfing!” There are times I would tend to agree, but I’d include “unreliable”, “work-shy” and perhaps even “self-entitled”. Surfers are inherently self-serving; the very nature of the pursuit of riding waves tends to strip away any altruistic intentions, and demands pitiless commitment to being available at the first whiff of a swell. Riding a wave has very little to with other people – simply put it’s not a team sport. Yes, what would surfing be without your brahs, brus, bruddahs, connections and soul-mates? I’ll tell you what it would be like – peaceful and sublimely uncrowded!
From the instant you stroke furiously for that shifty A-frame to the last fantail of spray before you kick out - YOU are surfing the wave, unless of course of one your connections happens to hop along for the ride on your 6’2 quad.
Missed dates, appointments, interviews and even weddings litter the collective experiences of surfers across the globe, but that’s merely fallout. The real selfishness rears its ubiquitous head in the surf zone, amongst other members of the tribe.
Irrespective of whether you’re a surf brand Barbie, neo-retro kinder in a beavertail or a dreadlocked feral type, surfing is essentially about getting waves. Have no fear, I’m not going to pontificate about localism, intimidation or our home grown favourite - xenophobia , I’m talking about a deep seated desire to always snag the best wave of the set, and be perfectly positioned irrespective of our fellow wave-riders.
Virtually imperceptible hustling techniques, silky smooth snaking, beguiling chit chat and a warm smile are more often than not employed to get the best waves. We’ve all encountered that Donovan Frankenreiter look-a-like who spreads brotherly love like smooth peanut butter in the carpark with a magnanimous smile and the warmest of ’Howzit Brus’, but somehow undergoes a metamorphosis once he’s immersed in saltwater. It’s simple, much like you or me, Dono craves the best wave.
We’re almost beyond help – seduced by a drug more potent than Crack, a passion that sparks and then ignites primal human responses like selfishness. We surfers simply cannot help ourselves. Responsibilities tend to wither in the water, and on occasion even commitments to friends and family are diluted by the most alluring of mistresses - waves. Perhaps that’s why we all collapse in hysterics when a surfer is sucked over falls and promptly pureed into fish-paste, or smile inwardly when a couple of mates are caught on the inside by a clean-up set. I’m not sure, but to varying degrees we’ve all explored the twilight zone of selfish surfing.
There are of course exceptions to the rule, like surfing’s Madiba, Duke Kananumoku, whose immortal response to wave-hogging was “Just take your time - wave comes. Let the other guys go, catch another one.”
Nonetheless, something tells me that Ghandi, or dare I add Madiba, would find it difficult to get a wave at New Pier on a good day.
From the instant you stroke furiously for that shifty A-frame to the last fantail of spray before you kick out - YOU are surfing the wave, unless of course of one your connections happens to hop along for the ride on your 6’2 quad.
Missed dates, appointments, interviews and even weddings litter the collective experiences of surfers across the globe, but that’s merely fallout. The real selfishness rears its ubiquitous head in the surf zone, amongst other members of the tribe.
Irrespective of whether you’re a surf brand Barbie, neo-retro kinder in a beavertail or a dreadlocked feral type, surfing is essentially about getting waves. Have no fear, I’m not going to pontificate about localism, intimidation or our home grown favourite - xenophobia , I’m talking about a deep seated desire to always snag the best wave of the set, and be perfectly positioned irrespective of our fellow wave-riders.
Virtually imperceptible hustling techniques, silky smooth snaking, beguiling chit chat and a warm smile are more often than not employed to get the best waves. We’ve all encountered that Donovan Frankenreiter look-a-like who spreads brotherly love like smooth peanut butter in the carpark with a magnanimous smile and the warmest of ’Howzit Brus’, but somehow undergoes a metamorphosis once he’s immersed in saltwater. It’s simple, much like you or me, Dono craves the best wave.
We’re almost beyond help – seduced by a drug more potent than Crack, a passion that sparks and then ignites primal human responses like selfishness. We surfers simply cannot help ourselves. Responsibilities tend to wither in the water, and on occasion even commitments to friends and family are diluted by the most alluring of mistresses - waves. Perhaps that’s why we all collapse in hysterics when a surfer is sucked over falls and promptly pureed into fish-paste, or smile inwardly when a couple of mates are caught on the inside by a clean-up set. I’m not sure, but to varying degrees we’ve all explored the twilight zone of selfish surfing.
There are of course exceptions to the rule, like surfing’s Madiba, Duke Kananumoku, whose immortal response to wave-hogging was “Just take your time - wave comes. Let the other guys go, catch another one.”
Nonetheless, something tells me that Ghandi, or dare I add Madiba, would find it difficult to get a wave at New Pier on a good day.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Memories
One of my most profound surfing memories has nothing to with the actual act of riding a wave. It was formed on a summer’s day in the late 70s, the type that seem to stretch on forever when you’re a kid, flickering in and out of focus like one of those grainy super eight movies. It was a bone-numbingly cold two to three foot Long Beach afternoon and my Reef 3mm shorty (the one with a front zipper) wasn’t feeling as snug as it did during my post-purchase lukewarm bath test. Besides which, my leashless polystyrene surfboard (those ones with the red plastic fin) had been wrenched from under me and was being tenderised over the pebbles by the shore break.
I was literally out of my depth as I tried body surfing the waves that were so unlike the friendly combers of Corner. As I floundered about in the chin-deep water squinting towards the outside, I remember a dark shape slip ominously across my field of vision. It was a surfer, a real surfer, paddling effortlessly towards me through the inside foam.
He wore a full piece Zero wetsuit, and rode a Bordello twin fin. My foreshortened view of the board accentuated the lines of the rails, the sublime curvature of the rocker and the deep V of the swallow tail. I could even see part of the airbrush mask lines beneath the nose. Hey, I know what you’re thinking, but for a 12 year old polystyrene riding kook, this was like seeing a P51 Mustang up close. I could even smell raspberries, as he dragged me off into the shallows, crapping all over me about getting a leash and a real board. I think he also mentioned something about Muizenberg too.
I didn’t care, because the embarrassment of retrieving my polystyrene impostor in full view of the parking lot paled in comparison to my desire to own a real fibreglass P51. One summer later, I had saved up R60 for a somewhat tired looking Ward Walkup Bordello twinnie, but I was still another summer away from eking out a bottom turn, if you’d dare call it that, on a high-tide reform at the Berg.
I’m certain we all have similar memories, which serve as a catalyst for the glassing process of what it is to become a surfer. However trivial they might seem, they define our path. Much like music, our formative surfing memories eventually become the soundtrack to our journey, from that first wobble, to the last day we feel the wet sand under gnarled feet.
Many will fall, choosing other roads, and perhaps more selfless pursuits, but now and then those indelible moments will allow us to revisit the smells, sights and taste of what it is to be a surfer.
I was literally out of my depth as I tried body surfing the waves that were so unlike the friendly combers of Corner. As I floundered about in the chin-deep water squinting towards the outside, I remember a dark shape slip ominously across my field of vision. It was a surfer, a real surfer, paddling effortlessly towards me through the inside foam.
He wore a full piece Zero wetsuit, and rode a Bordello twin fin. My foreshortened view of the board accentuated the lines of the rails, the sublime curvature of the rocker and the deep V of the swallow tail. I could even see part of the airbrush mask lines beneath the nose. Hey, I know what you’re thinking, but for a 12 year old polystyrene riding kook, this was like seeing a P51 Mustang up close. I could even smell raspberries, as he dragged me off into the shallows, crapping all over me about getting a leash and a real board. I think he also mentioned something about Muizenberg too.
I didn’t care, because the embarrassment of retrieving my polystyrene impostor in full view of the parking lot paled in comparison to my desire to own a real fibreglass P51. One summer later, I had saved up R60 for a somewhat tired looking Ward Walkup Bordello twinnie, but I was still another summer away from eking out a bottom turn, if you’d dare call it that, on a high-tide reform at the Berg.
I’m certain we all have similar memories, which serve as a catalyst for the glassing process of what it is to become a surfer. However trivial they might seem, they define our path. Much like music, our formative surfing memories eventually become the soundtrack to our journey, from that first wobble, to the last day we feel the wet sand under gnarled feet.
Many will fall, choosing other roads, and perhaps more selfless pursuits, but now and then those indelible moments will allow us to revisit the smells, sights and taste of what it is to be a surfer.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
