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).
Showing posts with label surf journalism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label surf journalism. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
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.
Monday, March 23, 2009
‘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.
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