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.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
“Let’s go SUPPING now!” (should be hummed to the tune of the Beach Boys “Surfin' Safari!” while drinking a triple latte)
Let’s get this straight right from the outset, I’m not against SUPS per se, it’s the attitude of the inexperienced SUPPER that irks me. Another point - this rant isn’t aimed at the likes of Laird Hamilton, Rob Machado, or experienced watermen who have an intimate knowledge of the ocean and its unwritten highway code. Oh no, my crosshairs are hovering over those lifestyle magazine poseurs who think a carbon fibre paddle and a rather large chunk of fibreglass adorned with a retro Hawaiian print underfoot is a passport to the sanctum sanctorum of the backline. Countless images of SUPPERs silhouetted against a gilded sunset, shovelling away at a glassy sea as seagulls hover overhead adorn the glossy spreads of lifestyle magazines, and beckon like a bevy of Homeric sirens.
There’s a problem though, lurking amongst those leather armchair athletes are those who think the ocean is one large Virgin Active Gym, with a free lifetime membership - something like a rather large watery playpen where they can flex their show muscles with paddle in hand and chin pointed squarely at the horizon, all to the dulcet strumming of a ukulele. In most cases these wannabe gondoliers have tried their hand at kayaking or surf skiing, but that’s old hat or too much graft for them. Those faded Men’s Health stickers that adorn their garaged surfskis don’t look quite like the chick magnets they were a couple of summers back. It’s time for a new lifestyle pursuit, and hey, there’s space in the activity den (garage), and the Prado’s looking somewhat sparse with nothing strapped to the racks.
Sadly, huge wads of disposable income don’t often come with much common sense or humility, and that’s what fuels my fantasies of chainsaws and SUPs locked in mortal combat. Despite the sheer mass of a SUP, buffed neophyte SUPPERs always seem intent on heading for the most congested line-ups. Surfing nurseries such as Muizenberg are NOT the place for SUPs simply because an unpiloted SUP in the soup is about a thousand times more lethal than a cruise missile, or say Sally “Roxy” Billabong’s Malibu cartwheeling towards you on a paddle out. For crying in a SUP, head down the beach, go dig about at Sunrise Beach, where you can commune with tetchy Great Whites and rotting seals. Better still, head for a dam, lagoon, the canals of Venice or perhaps even Tafelberg Reef at 60 feet. It’s a whole lot safer for all concerned and doesn’t mean that you’ll have to cut back on your monthly wine club expenses, or cancel your lifetime GQ subscription because of that pending lawsuit.
Can these latte-drinking paddlers and Surfers enjoy the same surf zone? I seriously doubt it – given the fact that one SUP in the water means that more will inevitably plough their way into the line-up, get waves earlier and frustrate the pecking order. Alpha males and paddles will soon be connecting in creative ways, and there’s no telling how cheeky body boarders and those bathing capped False Bay pensioners will take to having a SUP at their local spot. The bottom line is that ignorance and the ocean do not mix. Add to the mix a plethora of other surf related craft and you have a recipe for marine mayhem. Once again, education should be your paddle! Hey, I’d feel nothing selling a container load of SUPs to some Bedouin nomads in this economic climate, but deep down I do think it’s vital that first time ocean SUPPERs should be educated. I’m pretty certain surf dealers do that anyway, but I guess you’ll always encounter egos that are beyond those cautionary tales about ‘turning your back to the ocean’, or ‘swimming straight after a Sunday lunch’. Perhaps pro-active local municipalities could demarcate areas where overnight SUPPERs could shovel away at the ocean until the next fad blows in on the back of a 40 knot South Easter.
Once again, experienced wave-riding SUPPERs can ignore this article and then take to my inbox with a flamethrower, but you might want to take note of this tidbit. An extremely reliable source has told me tow-in SUPPING is the next big thing! He whispered something about motorboats, cables and SUPs – it should be uber cool and prohibitively expensive!
There’s a problem though, lurking amongst those leather armchair athletes are those who think the ocean is one large Virgin Active Gym, with a free lifetime membership - something like a rather large watery playpen where they can flex their show muscles with paddle in hand and chin pointed squarely at the horizon, all to the dulcet strumming of a ukulele. In most cases these wannabe gondoliers have tried their hand at kayaking or surf skiing, but that’s old hat or too much graft for them. Those faded Men’s Health stickers that adorn their garaged surfskis don’t look quite like the chick magnets they were a couple of summers back. It’s time for a new lifestyle pursuit, and hey, there’s space in the activity den (garage), and the Prado’s looking somewhat sparse with nothing strapped to the racks.
Sadly, huge wads of disposable income don’t often come with much common sense or humility, and that’s what fuels my fantasies of chainsaws and SUPs locked in mortal combat. Despite the sheer mass of a SUP, buffed neophyte SUPPERs always seem intent on heading for the most congested line-ups. Surfing nurseries such as Muizenberg are NOT the place for SUPs simply because an unpiloted SUP in the soup is about a thousand times more lethal than a cruise missile, or say Sally “Roxy” Billabong’s Malibu cartwheeling towards you on a paddle out. For crying in a SUP, head down the beach, go dig about at Sunrise Beach, where you can commune with tetchy Great Whites and rotting seals. Better still, head for a dam, lagoon, the canals of Venice or perhaps even Tafelberg Reef at 60 feet. It’s a whole lot safer for all concerned and doesn’t mean that you’ll have to cut back on your monthly wine club expenses, or cancel your lifetime GQ subscription because of that pending lawsuit.
Can these latte-drinking paddlers and Surfers enjoy the same surf zone? I seriously doubt it – given the fact that one SUP in the water means that more will inevitably plough their way into the line-up, get waves earlier and frustrate the pecking order. Alpha males and paddles will soon be connecting in creative ways, and there’s no telling how cheeky body boarders and those bathing capped False Bay pensioners will take to having a SUP at their local spot. The bottom line is that ignorance and the ocean do not mix. Add to the mix a plethora of other surf related craft and you have a recipe for marine mayhem. Once again, education should be your paddle! Hey, I’d feel nothing selling a container load of SUPs to some Bedouin nomads in this economic climate, but deep down I do think it’s vital that first time ocean SUPPERs should be educated. I’m pretty certain surf dealers do that anyway, but I guess you’ll always encounter egos that are beyond those cautionary tales about ‘turning your back to the ocean’, or ‘swimming straight after a Sunday lunch’. Perhaps pro-active local municipalities could demarcate areas where overnight SUPPERs could shovel away at the ocean until the next fad blows in on the back of a 40 knot South Easter.
Once again, experienced wave-riding SUPPERs can ignore this article and then take to my inbox with a flamethrower, but you might want to take note of this tidbit. An extremely reliable source has told me tow-in SUPPING is the next big thing! He whispered something about motorboats, cables and SUPs – it should be uber cool and prohibitively expensive!
“Local is not so lekker or Hey kook, don’t tell me to pull up the handbrake at my ‘local’ spot”
I watched a distasteful scene of ‘local’ intimidation unfold at an infamous surf spot recently. An above average surfer, let’s call him Jack, was subjected to a torrent of verbal abuse by a so-called ‘local’. Jack had committed no infringement, other than drawing some effortless lines across the wave’s face and marking the end of his ride with an impressive fantail of spray. A bewildered Jack was subjected to all the expected profanities and infantile bullyboy tactics. Quite clearly, the enraged ‘local’ had embarked on this journey before, but it was painfully clear that his issues stretched far beyond the lineup. Jack ignored the pitiful display and simply paddled away; I was impressed, and hoped the Neanderthal didn’t have back-up in the form of a club or other tribe members. Unfortunately, this outburst soured what was a beautiful autumn Sunday morning, not only for Jack, but for a fair number of other surfers in audible range of the tirade. It left a bad taste in my mouth that lingered long after I had left the water.
Yes, you’ve heard this tiresome tale before; congested lineups have evolved into stress inducing saltwater equivalents of our urban environments. Sadly, one of nature’s most awesome spectacles of energy will always be the ideal breeding ground for a particular sub-species of surfer; the ‘disrespectful unlocal’ and ‘xenophobic local’. Surfers should see these aberrations as a natural human response to a crowded lineup, and treat them as such. We’ve all seen or experienced the fallout from this particular surfer personality type. He replies to the greetings of fellow watermen with a practiced sullen glare, unless of course they are part of his equally narrow-minded cabal. In some instances he will resort to vitriolic outbursts, malicious damage to property and even physical assault in an attempt to stamp his authority on a stretch of fluid real estate. One would swear he had scales, gills and fins, and only ventured to dry land to ‘settle an issue’ over a drop-in on a 2 foot closeout. In most cases the ‘guilty’ party is physically smaller, younger, less experienced or surfing solo, so ‘justice’ can be carried out swiftly and without too much challenge. These individuals inevitably meet their nemesis, just ask Nat Young, and the resultant violence adds yet another bad note to what was a pretty catchy melody, in an environment where all the cares of the world should be left at the water’s edge for an hour or two.
Considering the growing levels of intolerance in and out of the water, and global popularity of the sport; the concept of a universal surfing brotherhood will soon be relegated to the pages of our sport’s history, or idealized scenes from 16mm neo-hippy surf movies. Surfers need to realise their art form is now mainstream – global surf brands are enticing hordes of surfing converts at the turn of every page of fashion, sports and lifestyle magazines. I’m not here to debate the merits or demerits of the surf industry, but I believe a paradigm shift is required on the part of surfers. Perhaps the retro revolution is a last gasp on the part of the sport to return to the idyllic lineups of yesteryear, where surfers enjoyed a relatively isolated lifestyle, far from the raging currents of commercialism. Ironically, in some instances, localism was as much a sixties and seventies phenomenon as it is today.
Congested beaches lead to congested mindsets; consider the Oscar winning performances of ‘locals’ at beaches such as Llandudno, Glen Beach, Long Beach, the Reserve, Elands Bay, J Bay and New Pier. How many a session has been soured by a minority of mental ingrates whose sense of self importance and entitlement is determined by their geographic proximity to the beach. The policing of a lineup by a select crew of impartial ‘locals’ is a paradox, and is open to abuse, and possible legal consequence. Despite the initial good intentions of such a venture, it’s flawed due to lack of legal recourse or legitimate (by means of law) enforcement. Chastising (verbally, or perhaps by means of a slap, shove or knobkerrie) a wave-hog may have dire consequences for the self-appointed Wave Police in or outside a courtroom. How many judges understand the terms; ‘local’, ‘unlocal’ or the unwritten rules of surfing, and that the policing of ‘bands of energy’ by means of force is justified. The good intentions of an organized group of ‘locals’, evolve speedily, and are often adjusted to serve the selfish needs of select few. Consider the White Shorts, Black Shorts and Bra Boys; all tainted by xenophobic thugs whose sense of entitlement is inexcusable.
The hierarchical nature of an intense lineup, based on experience, age and locale has established a pecking order of sorts that in most cases, is observed. Unfortunately the sheer intensity of 21st Century surfing requires a shift in thinking.
Perhaps it’s time the surf media, surf industry and surfers themselves acted responsibly and made an attempt, however insignificant, to educate all wave-users.
Anyone with a modicum of surf savvy could think of some possible solutions;
- Educate by means of articles and media segments.
- If ‘locals’ are so concerned by mass invasions of ‘their’ spots they could erect signage (in consultation with their local Municipality) reminding visitors and ‘locals’ alike not to litter, and behave like the privileged humans beings that they are by exercising common decency and respect in and out of the water. Involve the ‘local’ municipality, and educate those who will give real clout to your venture.
- A change of scenery often reveals hidden gems. Leave your comfort zone, hit the road and explore our awesome coastline.
- Don’t surf breaks beyond your ability, or paddle out at a heavy spot due to peer pressure. You’re putting yourself and others at danger in an attempt to fuel your ego.
- You too were a grom, kook or beginner at some point, and remember that twenty something paddling machines also grow old, get arthritis and pile on a couple of extra kilos. Smile and acknowledge the presence of other people in the water. A simple greeting or apology (if you’ve dropped in unawares), more often than not, can diffuse a potentially volatile situation. If an enraged Johnny Boy Gomes clone demands satisfaction on the beach, it’s best to paddle away and avoid a violent confrontation. If you are assaulted or any of your property (car, surfboard etc.) is vandalized or maliciously damaged - press charges. Believe it or not, most of these cretins have jobs, in some cases a family, and a public profile that extends beyond the tidal zone. A court case, restraining order or criminal record will do wonders for his popularity, CV and enthusiasm to act like an overgrown playground bully the instant he dons a wetsuit.
- Remember, you don’t influence behaviour by telling people what to do.
You do it by exposing them to enough cases of people behaving well, and that’s what creates a new norm.
As for that bad taste in my mouth, with age comes wisdom, and I’m sure there’s an empty A-frame, within a 40 minute drive of the clogged peaks of inner city surf spots. If you listen carefully you can almost hear the squeals of delight that yet another ‘unlocal’ has moved on. Little do they know that I just saw 3 carloads and one surf tour outfit of heading for their little hamlet.
As for the those baleful terms ‘local’ and ‘unlocal’, well perhaps it’s high time we realized the reason we pursue surfing with such passion is because it’s fun, and mutual respect in and out of the water determines whether we are deserving of a far more meaningful term - human being.
Yes, you’ve heard this tiresome tale before; congested lineups have evolved into stress inducing saltwater equivalents of our urban environments. Sadly, one of nature’s most awesome spectacles of energy will always be the ideal breeding ground for a particular sub-species of surfer; the ‘disrespectful unlocal’ and ‘xenophobic local’. Surfers should see these aberrations as a natural human response to a crowded lineup, and treat them as such. We’ve all seen or experienced the fallout from this particular surfer personality type. He replies to the greetings of fellow watermen with a practiced sullen glare, unless of course they are part of his equally narrow-minded cabal. In some instances he will resort to vitriolic outbursts, malicious damage to property and even physical assault in an attempt to stamp his authority on a stretch of fluid real estate. One would swear he had scales, gills and fins, and only ventured to dry land to ‘settle an issue’ over a drop-in on a 2 foot closeout. In most cases the ‘guilty’ party is physically smaller, younger, less experienced or surfing solo, so ‘justice’ can be carried out swiftly and without too much challenge. These individuals inevitably meet their nemesis, just ask Nat Young, and the resultant violence adds yet another bad note to what was a pretty catchy melody, in an environment where all the cares of the world should be left at the water’s edge for an hour or two.
Considering the growing levels of intolerance in and out of the water, and global popularity of the sport; the concept of a universal surfing brotherhood will soon be relegated to the pages of our sport’s history, or idealized scenes from 16mm neo-hippy surf movies. Surfers need to realise their art form is now mainstream – global surf brands are enticing hordes of surfing converts at the turn of every page of fashion, sports and lifestyle magazines. I’m not here to debate the merits or demerits of the surf industry, but I believe a paradigm shift is required on the part of surfers. Perhaps the retro revolution is a last gasp on the part of the sport to return to the idyllic lineups of yesteryear, where surfers enjoyed a relatively isolated lifestyle, far from the raging currents of commercialism. Ironically, in some instances, localism was as much a sixties and seventies phenomenon as it is today.
Congested beaches lead to congested mindsets; consider the Oscar winning performances of ‘locals’ at beaches such as Llandudno, Glen Beach, Long Beach, the Reserve, Elands Bay, J Bay and New Pier. How many a session has been soured by a minority of mental ingrates whose sense of self importance and entitlement is determined by their geographic proximity to the beach. The policing of a lineup by a select crew of impartial ‘locals’ is a paradox, and is open to abuse, and possible legal consequence. Despite the initial good intentions of such a venture, it’s flawed due to lack of legal recourse or legitimate (by means of law) enforcement. Chastising (verbally, or perhaps by means of a slap, shove or knobkerrie) a wave-hog may have dire consequences for the self-appointed Wave Police in or outside a courtroom. How many judges understand the terms; ‘local’, ‘unlocal’ or the unwritten rules of surfing, and that the policing of ‘bands of energy’ by means of force is justified. The good intentions of an organized group of ‘locals’, evolve speedily, and are often adjusted to serve the selfish needs of select few. Consider the White Shorts, Black Shorts and Bra Boys; all tainted by xenophobic thugs whose sense of entitlement is inexcusable.
The hierarchical nature of an intense lineup, based on experience, age and locale has established a pecking order of sorts that in most cases, is observed. Unfortunately the sheer intensity of 21st Century surfing requires a shift in thinking.
Perhaps it’s time the surf media, surf industry and surfers themselves acted responsibly and made an attempt, however insignificant, to educate all wave-users.
Anyone with a modicum of surf savvy could think of some possible solutions;
- Educate by means of articles and media segments.
- If ‘locals’ are so concerned by mass invasions of ‘their’ spots they could erect signage (in consultation with their local Municipality) reminding visitors and ‘locals’ alike not to litter, and behave like the privileged humans beings that they are by exercising common decency and respect in and out of the water. Involve the ‘local’ municipality, and educate those who will give real clout to your venture.
- A change of scenery often reveals hidden gems. Leave your comfort zone, hit the road and explore our awesome coastline.
- Don’t surf breaks beyond your ability, or paddle out at a heavy spot due to peer pressure. You’re putting yourself and others at danger in an attempt to fuel your ego.
- You too were a grom, kook or beginner at some point, and remember that twenty something paddling machines also grow old, get arthritis and pile on a couple of extra kilos. Smile and acknowledge the presence of other people in the water. A simple greeting or apology (if you’ve dropped in unawares), more often than not, can diffuse a potentially volatile situation. If an enraged Johnny Boy Gomes clone demands satisfaction on the beach, it’s best to paddle away and avoid a violent confrontation. If you are assaulted or any of your property (car, surfboard etc.) is vandalized or maliciously damaged - press charges. Believe it or not, most of these cretins have jobs, in some cases a family, and a public profile that extends beyond the tidal zone. A court case, restraining order or criminal record will do wonders for his popularity, CV and enthusiasm to act like an overgrown playground bully the instant he dons a wetsuit.
- Remember, you don’t influence behaviour by telling people what to do.
You do it by exposing them to enough cases of people behaving well, and that’s what creates a new norm.
As for that bad taste in my mouth, with age comes wisdom, and I’m sure there’s an empty A-frame, within a 40 minute drive of the clogged peaks of inner city surf spots. If you listen carefully you can almost hear the squeals of delight that yet another ‘unlocal’ has moved on. Little do they know that I just saw 3 carloads and one surf tour outfit of heading for their little hamlet.
As for the those baleful terms ‘local’ and ‘unlocal’, well perhaps it’s high time we realized the reason we pursue surfing with such passion is because it’s fun, and mutual respect in and out of the water determines whether we are deserving of a far more meaningful term - human being.
‘Your Perfect Day’
“In this crowded world the surfer can still seek and find the perfect day, the perfect wave, and be alone with the surf and his thoughts.” John Severson, Editor of Surfer magazine 1960-65
You know the spot only too well, you’ve scratched for that horizon a thousand times in all sorts of inclement conditions. Much like the relationships we enjoy, surf spots have many moods and subtle tones, but over the years one spot will assume the status of a liquid comfort zone, a benchmark of sorts that we compare all other waves to. Some of us share it, others speak of it in cautious whispers, and some defend their tiny piece of liquid real estate with the skewed passion of a fascist thug. However, for most of us it’s a haven of sorts where you can be Jordy or Kelly for an hour or so, try that Terry Fitz speed stance on your retro single, or grab your Longboard, press repeat on the Beach Boys tune in your head and practice a drop knee turn in the two foot onshore dribble. Almost every surfer has his or her little nook, bay, cove, slab, reef, point or couple of metres of sand that fits like a well-worn pair of jeans. Regardless of what the hardcore crew, black shorts, pink shorts or cabals of sullen surfistas with uranium cell wetsuits and fibreglass toothpicks think, you keep paddling out, even when she’s looking a little bedraggled - sans make-up and with the false teeth in a bed-side glass - sometimes two foot onshore drivel is more than sufficient to satisfy your needs.
Perhaps your spot is not a great wave by bru crew standards, and real surfers last rode it on pine and balsa boards that were nailed together, but once in awhile it gets dusted by an offshore zephyr, the swell direction dials the right number, and as the tide pushes, peaks begin to caress those close-out banks like a long lost lover. Everything slips effortlessly into place – and why not throw in a glorious Turneresque sunset as the last piece of that 6000 piece puzzle you’ve been waiting all year to complete. The Fates don’t often allow a rendezvous between your spot and perfect conditions, but once or twice a year this brief but perfect union takes place. Even the “I ditched my homework, skipped work or missed the last root canal appointment” guilt-trip evaporates into the salty ether as you’re treated to a cover shot angle of an almond-shaped barrel unload on a sandbank that normally throws up a mutated double-up, or coughs up a ripple with no steam on the other 364 days of the year. But today everyone seems to be smiling, laughing, chatting, and even hooting – hey, it’s a sandy version of Will Smith’s ‘Summertime’. Even Bradley, the inked up psycho local, has declared a Christmas truce, and gives a wave or two to a gaggle of pimply bodyboarders.
Somewhere, someone is surfing their ‘Perfect Day’, marvelling at this synchrony of nature, friends and fibreglass, reveling in a few stolen hours from our regulated lives.
Most mortals wait 364 days of the year for an hour or three, when the conditions are just right for YOU. The point is, your ‘Perfect Day’ is like a fingerprint; it’s a unique mental composition that’s been doodled onto countless dog-eared schoolbooks, diaries and other papery scraps. For some, their perfect day might be a session of derailed 6-8 foot freight trains at an offshore slab, whilst my perfect day might be 3-4 foot A-Frames at a mellow beachie. That’s what I love about surfing, because however jaded it might sometimes appear through the lens of localism or commercialism, each one of us, regardless of our abilities can claim a couple of hours that came close to Investment Banker Dwayne’s umpteenth Mentawai boat trip.
We all have our ‘Perfect Day’ that remains indelibly imprinted on our memory, and yes, as the memories inevitably blur to fantasy, it’s still your ‘Perfect Day’, all at a fraction of the price of air-conditioned tropical perfection.
You know the spot only too well, you’ve scratched for that horizon a thousand times in all sorts of inclement conditions. Much like the relationships we enjoy, surf spots have many moods and subtle tones, but over the years one spot will assume the status of a liquid comfort zone, a benchmark of sorts that we compare all other waves to. Some of us share it, others speak of it in cautious whispers, and some defend their tiny piece of liquid real estate with the skewed passion of a fascist thug. However, for most of us it’s a haven of sorts where you can be Jordy or Kelly for an hour or so, try that Terry Fitz speed stance on your retro single, or grab your Longboard, press repeat on the Beach Boys tune in your head and practice a drop knee turn in the two foot onshore dribble. Almost every surfer has his or her little nook, bay, cove, slab, reef, point or couple of metres of sand that fits like a well-worn pair of jeans. Regardless of what the hardcore crew, black shorts, pink shorts or cabals of sullen surfistas with uranium cell wetsuits and fibreglass toothpicks think, you keep paddling out, even when she’s looking a little bedraggled - sans make-up and with the false teeth in a bed-side glass - sometimes two foot onshore drivel is more than sufficient to satisfy your needs.
Perhaps your spot is not a great wave by bru crew standards, and real surfers last rode it on pine and balsa boards that were nailed together, but once in awhile it gets dusted by an offshore zephyr, the swell direction dials the right number, and as the tide pushes, peaks begin to caress those close-out banks like a long lost lover. Everything slips effortlessly into place – and why not throw in a glorious Turneresque sunset as the last piece of that 6000 piece puzzle you’ve been waiting all year to complete. The Fates don’t often allow a rendezvous between your spot and perfect conditions, but once or twice a year this brief but perfect union takes place. Even the “I ditched my homework, skipped work or missed the last root canal appointment” guilt-trip evaporates into the salty ether as you’re treated to a cover shot angle of an almond-shaped barrel unload on a sandbank that normally throws up a mutated double-up, or coughs up a ripple with no steam on the other 364 days of the year. But today everyone seems to be smiling, laughing, chatting, and even hooting – hey, it’s a sandy version of Will Smith’s ‘Summertime’. Even Bradley, the inked up psycho local, has declared a Christmas truce, and gives a wave or two to a gaggle of pimply bodyboarders.
Somewhere, someone is surfing their ‘Perfect Day’, marvelling at this synchrony of nature, friends and fibreglass, reveling in a few stolen hours from our regulated lives.
Most mortals wait 364 days of the year for an hour or three, when the conditions are just right for YOU. The point is, your ‘Perfect Day’ is like a fingerprint; it’s a unique mental composition that’s been doodled onto countless dog-eared schoolbooks, diaries and other papery scraps. For some, their perfect day might be a session of derailed 6-8 foot freight trains at an offshore slab, whilst my perfect day might be 3-4 foot A-Frames at a mellow beachie. That’s what I love about surfing, because however jaded it might sometimes appear through the lens of localism or commercialism, each one of us, regardless of our abilities can claim a couple of hours that came close to Investment Banker Dwayne’s umpteenth Mentawai boat trip.
We all have our ‘Perfect Day’ that remains indelibly imprinted on our memory, and yes, as the memories inevitably blur to fantasy, it’s still your ‘Perfect Day’, all at a fraction of the price of air-conditioned tropical perfection.
2009 Absa Cape Epic Rant
Yesterday the Absa Cape Epic pedalled into Cape Town, to be precise - my neighbourhood amidst much pomp, carbon, titanium, aluminium and circumstance. One of the most gruelling mountain bike races known to man was about to start on the slopes of a sooty funeral pyre that was once called Table Mountain. I decided to watch the hundreds of courageous men and women granny gear their way past my house, whilst my kids waved with the enthusiasm of Tour de France groupies.
Two years previously I photographed the vicious prologue in Knysna, and this year I was treated to an equally impressive visual feast albeit from a different perspective. After an hour or so of watching these lycra skinned athletes parade past my house I came to a possibly generalised conclusion of sorts – a certain undeniable character-type proliferates at the Absa Cape Epic. I must have seen over 300 cyclists huff by my front gate and not one of these self-entitled over-privileged corporatists acknowledged the waves and support we gave them. Take note, they were not racing, so I’ve been running over the figures in my head and remain somewhat perplexed by the entire episode. How much energy is expended in lifting one’s hand from a handlebar to wave, or moving one’s facial muscles to smile in acknowledgement to the support offered by two kids and one adult? Then it dawned on me, an epiphany of biblical proportions – the sheer intensity and monumental challenge of the Absa Cape Epic precludes any need for these puffed-up off-road pigeons to show civility to us mere mortals, to us simple proles on the periphery of a dusty odyssey that is way beyond our physical and mental comprehension. These clipless übermenschen might share the same physical space as us, but they exist in a superior parallel dimension. It’s an elitist existential plane where everyone who doesn’t own an 85k plus titanium hardtail and a corporate sponsor, is relegated to that distant galaxy where mass-market bikes and ill-fitting helmets are de rigueur.
Well experience has taught me that certainly not all Absa Epic riders pedal blissfully unaware into the above generalisation, but based on yesterday’s carnival of egos, there’s no way I’m bothering with following this year’s race. I’ll leave it those who own the obligatory SUV and Lifestyle magazine subscriptions. However, something was still bothering me, and then I swatted it like a mossie in the wee hours. I wondered what the many gardeners manicuring the lofty hedges, domestics dragging out the bagged detritus of suburbia and pram-pushing nannies thought of the fanfare on a crisp Autumn morning under the smouldering slopes of Table Mountain.
And I’m still wondering what they thought of the Absa Cape Epic…
Two years previously I photographed the vicious prologue in Knysna, and this year I was treated to an equally impressive visual feast albeit from a different perspective. After an hour or so of watching these lycra skinned athletes parade past my house I came to a possibly generalised conclusion of sorts – a certain undeniable character-type proliferates at the Absa Cape Epic. I must have seen over 300 cyclists huff by my front gate and not one of these self-entitled over-privileged corporatists acknowledged the waves and support we gave them. Take note, they were not racing, so I’ve been running over the figures in my head and remain somewhat perplexed by the entire episode. How much energy is expended in lifting one’s hand from a handlebar to wave, or moving one’s facial muscles to smile in acknowledgement to the support offered by two kids and one adult? Then it dawned on me, an epiphany of biblical proportions – the sheer intensity and monumental challenge of the Absa Cape Epic precludes any need for these puffed-up off-road pigeons to show civility to us mere mortals, to us simple proles on the periphery of a dusty odyssey that is way beyond our physical and mental comprehension. These clipless übermenschen might share the same physical space as us, but they exist in a superior parallel dimension. It’s an elitist existential plane where everyone who doesn’t own an 85k plus titanium hardtail and a corporate sponsor, is relegated to that distant galaxy where mass-market bikes and ill-fitting helmets are de rigueur.
Well experience has taught me that certainly not all Absa Epic riders pedal blissfully unaware into the above generalisation, but based on yesterday’s carnival of egos, there’s no way I’m bothering with following this year’s race. I’ll leave it those who own the obligatory SUV and Lifestyle magazine subscriptions. However, something was still bothering me, and then I swatted it like a mossie in the wee hours. I wondered what the many gardeners manicuring the lofty hedges, domestics dragging out the bagged detritus of suburbia and pram-pushing nannies thought of the fanfare on a crisp Autumn morning under the smouldering slopes of Table Mountain.
And I’m still wondering what they thought of the Absa Cape Epic…
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