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.