At the back every salty bead culminates in
the hollow slap of board against water,
and the lesser tap of polyurethane against fibreglass.
My leash is suspended,
in the last gun metal hours of daylight,
tethering leg and thoughts to one final wave,
before the scratch of each stroke grows to an ache
and joints seize like a wasted engine.
Every molecule is laced by the offshore,
even my thoughts of you at the evening stove,
are soaked by the darkest of blues at the back.
Showing posts with label surfers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label surfers. Show all posts
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Beta Beach, Bakoven
Placed between the last fragments of day and shadow
are minutes marked by the exhaling
of a final breath of light,
weighted at the edges
by atoms of gold and copper
that infuse the horizon
to a shiver of orange and blue.
Detail melts to animated silhouettes of black card,
cormorants, dogs and flirting couples
joined to sand and rock
in a ballet of unfathomable colour.
are minutes marked by the exhaling
of a final breath of light,
weighted at the edges
by atoms of gold and copper
that infuse the horizon
to a shiver of orange and blue.
Detail melts to animated silhouettes of black card,
cormorants, dogs and flirting couples
joined to sand and rock
in a ballet of unfathomable colour.
West Coast Surf
Slug slow tendrils
of mist cancel out the peaks,
footprints crumble from
the tent with it’s rummage
of sleeping bags and surfing mags.
The car is spread in deltas of dew,
stranded at that point
where bush becomes beach.
The incongruous slam of a door
followed by the clearing of a throat -
it scares the gulls.
Beyond the muslin,
the sea breaths in metronomic crashes,
exhaling into the immensity,
reminding us why we are here,
toes curled in sand cold as crushed glass,
anticipating those first needles of water,
seeking out the gaps between skin and neoprene.
A pair of Oyster Catchers dash for cover,
as the shorebreak detonates in a blast of sand and shell,
larger patches of water now float in the fog,
and the sun has become a yellow button in the east,
burning the bite away.
We shake the night out of our wetsuits,
and unsheath the boards,
then the frenzied flap and one-footed tug of rubber
on a damp towel in the sand.
Laughter, happy curses and running headlong into
a wall of West Coast mist.
of mist cancel out the peaks,
footprints crumble from
the tent with it’s rummage
of sleeping bags and surfing mags.
The car is spread in deltas of dew,
stranded at that point
where bush becomes beach.
The incongruous slam of a door
followed by the clearing of a throat -
it scares the gulls.
Beyond the muslin,
the sea breaths in metronomic crashes,
exhaling into the immensity,
reminding us why we are here,
toes curled in sand cold as crushed glass,
anticipating those first needles of water,
seeking out the gaps between skin and neoprene.
A pair of Oyster Catchers dash for cover,
as the shorebreak detonates in a blast of sand and shell,
larger patches of water now float in the fog,
and the sun has become a yellow button in the east,
burning the bite away.
We shake the night out of our wetsuits,
and unsheath the boards,
then the frenzied flap and one-footed tug of rubber
on a damp towel in the sand.
Laughter, happy curses and running headlong into
a wall of West Coast mist.
Tube
So elusive
you’ve become Heroin for some,
These days it’s become easy to avoid
my average bones and strung muscles,
me bobbing, taking water
like a holed bath toy,
above this vast pitch of dusted green.
Swells graze acned reefs of red-bait,
or mow head-on into sandbanks,
infused with littoral energy,
born in a pile-up of isobars
in the Roaring Forties.
Soaring through mercury,
fused to fibreglass by wax
crouched as fingertips taste speed,
All is quiet as a lake for Icarus at sea,
and then the ocean folds into a blur of spray,
and she holds you like a lover,
inside a mosaic of ecstasy,
breathless,
as the world dims to an almond.
Come June
and cold fronts that look like coils of razor wire,
Conrad would have paddled out too,
forsaking Lord Jim and Nostromo
for these few fractions in the tube.
you’ve become Heroin for some,
These days it’s become easy to avoid
my average bones and strung muscles,
me bobbing, taking water
like a holed bath toy,
above this vast pitch of dusted green.
Swells graze acned reefs of red-bait,
or mow head-on into sandbanks,
infused with littoral energy,
born in a pile-up of isobars
in the Roaring Forties.
Soaring through mercury,
fused to fibreglass by wax
crouched as fingertips taste speed,
All is quiet as a lake for Icarus at sea,
and then the ocean folds into a blur of spray,
and she holds you like a lover,
inside a mosaic of ecstasy,
breathless,
as the world dims to an almond.
Come June
and cold fronts that look like coils of razor wire,
Conrad would have paddled out too,
forsaking Lord Jim and Nostromo
for these few fractions in the tube.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Grey Suits & Shields.
In the abyss, fathoms deep with buck-eyed teeth and cartilaginous stealth they lurk. Loitering around the dog-eared corners of our nightmares are perfect instruments of submarine terrorism. Forget Nile crocs the size of Land Cruisers, or grumpy Puff Adders infused with large doses of cytotoxic inertia. We surfers are hardwired to relegate all other fatal mishaps to that of a mozzie bite when encountering a very large fish of the order Selachii.
Sharks have been around for a long time, most likely somewhere in the region of 450 million years. Evolution gave up fine-tuning their hydrodynamic efficiency some 100 million years ago, and in turn instilled in ocean going humans a primal fear that swamps all rational thought with the merest flicker of movement beneath the late afternoon glass. Even the Great White’s latin name, “Carcharodon carcharias” cuts through modern English like a rusty razorblade.
We suppress our fears, taking comfort in the reams of musty stats that declare the chances of perishing in an aviation disaster far more likely than becoming a human sushi roll at some perfecto point or suburban surfing nursery. Tabloid headlines and fear mongering are best ignored. Somehow fear always becomes that missing jigsaw piece, even when paddling out at a postcard beachie in the middle of summer on a pushing tide? Glassy A-Frames perfumed by sunscreen and wax in the mid-morning offshore are simply too idyllic for a fishy bogeyman. Cousin Johnny and the underwater Mafioso don’t exist unless you add them as sinister variables to your sublime equation. Then factor in treknet fisherman, shark cage operators or river mouths spewing muddy human detritus and your summery dream will end in one merciless blur of spray and thrashing, turning the sea to Pinotage and death.
Marine biologists, shark aficionados, crackpot journos and surfers all have their infallible opinions, stoking the fear in some cases with great glee. Shark attacks sell newspapers; humans feast on fear, gorging themselves like a crazed cabal of Blue Pointers. 100 million sharks are “harvested” annually in comparison to approximately 10 human fatalities. Even when faced with these incongruous numbers, deep within mankind’s genetic encoding there’s an instinctual fear that’s not going to capitulate to rational thought anytime soon.
Nonetheless it’s somewhat satisfying knowing there’s an equaliser patrolling our watery playground, an animal of almost mythic proportions that can shove us humans a good few links down the corroded food chain. No amount of surfista bravado or inked-up testosterone can square up to “Carcharodon carcharias”. I’d love to see a local bully “take it to the beach” with a hungry Raggie or tetchy Zambezi. It’s a shame a shark’s “Ampullae of Lorenzini” (sensory receptors) cannot differentiate between decent folk and 1st grade dipsticks.
So how can we as surfers protect ourselves from ending up as a briny crouton? “Nuke-em-good” knee-jerk reactions including shark nets, shotguns, spear guns and diving knives are a medieval waste of time. However, some time back the Natal Sharks board developed a device that’s best described as battery operated “Kryptonite” for sharks. It would eventually evolve into a commercially viable Australian product known as the Shark Shield™. The electrical impulse emitted by the device is effective up to 6m, and acts on the Ampullae of Lorenzini located on the snout of a predator shark. When a shark nears the electric field of a Shark Shield it experiences extreme discomfort and involuntary muscle spasms, immediately dissuading the fish from any further investigation.
New surfing vistas are now opening up for those surfers broad-minded enough to don a Shark Shield and paddle out with peace of mind. However, surfers are at times a narrow-minded tribe, perhaps blinkered to common sense by excessive doses of sunlight dancing on a dappled ocean. Ironically, these very surfers are convinced that they are beacons of free-thought and open mindedness, yet when it comes to embracing a scientifically proven device that deters our grey-suited friends, almost 90% of surfers I’ve chatted to cave into bullish conservativism. They suddenly squint into the middle distance and with all the wisdom of an Oxford don revert to urban myths about Shark Shields attracting ravenous schools of man-eaters. The wheel barrow loads of bullshit that spews forth from these armchair experts, and in some cases “highly respected” surfers, is on par with telly evangelists, African dictators and The Spanish Inquisition.
Yarns of Great Whites gulping down Shark Shields like jelly tots, and becoming “immune” to the device’s three-dimensional electrical impulse are no more than self-deception and technophobia in the wake of a revolutionary solution. Another favourite predestination of surfers is, “if it’s my time to go, then so be it”. I wonder if one of these dream-catching “fatalists” would saunter unprotected through the Kruger National Park with as much reckless abandon? Surfers reacted in much the same way to the invention of “gookcord”, leg rope or leash, but it turned out to be an indispensable surfing accessory in the long term.
As for the Shark Shield there’s no denying it’s an expensive piece of kit, but so were Flat screen TVs when they first flickered onto the market. If you surf a “sharky” spot, a fully charged device will give you at the very least, 4 to 5 hours of peace of mind. I’ve paddled out at a number of spots wearing my Shark Shield only to be scoffed at, or simply given a side-ways glance dripping with disdain and betrayal. Do I care; unequivocally not? It takes a couple of sessions to get used to the device, but it won’t affect your overall freedom in the water. Most detractors often bemoan the device as bulky and cumbersome, but then again they also like to think their surfing is on par with Mick or Kelly.
Yes, a Shark Shield is a man-made device and prone to possible malfunction from excessive abuse. If you don’t turn the device on it will not work, and more importantly, it needs to be rinsed-off and re-charged after every session. Perhaps that’s a bit too much to ask for some, considering the mountains of neoprene involved in ongoing micro-biological experiments in the back of bakkies and boots across the land.
Shark Shields come in two distinct types. One version allows for the battery pack to be fitted, by means of a base-plate to the tail of your board. The other type is secured to your ankle much like a leash. In both cases the electrode can double as a leash.
Interestingly enough, competitive surfers were protected by three battery operated Shark Shield devices attached to buoys at the backline of Nahoon Reef during the Mr Price Open surfing championships in 2009. Lifeguards merely replaced the Shark Shield batteries every four hours offering protection for surfers during the event. Global Surf News even reported that Surfing South Africa (SSA) was considering using Shark Shields at other surfing competitions in the future. It’s a labour intensive and expensive undertaking, but these tentative steps offer a life-saving solution that can be streamlined in the future.
Shark Shields are used by the Australian Special Forces, South African Navy, US Coast Guard and is also approved by NATO. I’ve watched countless videos online, chatted to commercial divers who swear by it and read detailed reports on the efficacy of the device. For me, it’s about peace of mind, and it happens to comes in the form of a Shark Shield when I paddle out at a high risk spot. As for the drive in my ’94 Toyota Corolla to my sharky bay, well that’s another story…
Sharks have been around for a long time, most likely somewhere in the region of 450 million years. Evolution gave up fine-tuning their hydrodynamic efficiency some 100 million years ago, and in turn instilled in ocean going humans a primal fear that swamps all rational thought with the merest flicker of movement beneath the late afternoon glass. Even the Great White’s latin name, “Carcharodon carcharias” cuts through modern English like a rusty razorblade.
We suppress our fears, taking comfort in the reams of musty stats that declare the chances of perishing in an aviation disaster far more likely than becoming a human sushi roll at some perfecto point or suburban surfing nursery. Tabloid headlines and fear mongering are best ignored. Somehow fear always becomes that missing jigsaw piece, even when paddling out at a postcard beachie in the middle of summer on a pushing tide? Glassy A-Frames perfumed by sunscreen and wax in the mid-morning offshore are simply too idyllic for a fishy bogeyman. Cousin Johnny and the underwater Mafioso don’t exist unless you add them as sinister variables to your sublime equation. Then factor in treknet fisherman, shark cage operators or river mouths spewing muddy human detritus and your summery dream will end in one merciless blur of spray and thrashing, turning the sea to Pinotage and death.
Marine biologists, shark aficionados, crackpot journos and surfers all have their infallible opinions, stoking the fear in some cases with great glee. Shark attacks sell newspapers; humans feast on fear, gorging themselves like a crazed cabal of Blue Pointers. 100 million sharks are “harvested” annually in comparison to approximately 10 human fatalities. Even when faced with these incongruous numbers, deep within mankind’s genetic encoding there’s an instinctual fear that’s not going to capitulate to rational thought anytime soon.
Nonetheless it’s somewhat satisfying knowing there’s an equaliser patrolling our watery playground, an animal of almost mythic proportions that can shove us humans a good few links down the corroded food chain. No amount of surfista bravado or inked-up testosterone can square up to “Carcharodon carcharias”. I’d love to see a local bully “take it to the beach” with a hungry Raggie or tetchy Zambezi. It’s a shame a shark’s “Ampullae of Lorenzini” (sensory receptors) cannot differentiate between decent folk and 1st grade dipsticks.
So how can we as surfers protect ourselves from ending up as a briny crouton? “Nuke-em-good” knee-jerk reactions including shark nets, shotguns, spear guns and diving knives are a medieval waste of time. However, some time back the Natal Sharks board developed a device that’s best described as battery operated “Kryptonite” for sharks. It would eventually evolve into a commercially viable Australian product known as the Shark Shield™. The electrical impulse emitted by the device is effective up to 6m, and acts on the Ampullae of Lorenzini located on the snout of a predator shark. When a shark nears the electric field of a Shark Shield it experiences extreme discomfort and involuntary muscle spasms, immediately dissuading the fish from any further investigation.
New surfing vistas are now opening up for those surfers broad-minded enough to don a Shark Shield and paddle out with peace of mind. However, surfers are at times a narrow-minded tribe, perhaps blinkered to common sense by excessive doses of sunlight dancing on a dappled ocean. Ironically, these very surfers are convinced that they are beacons of free-thought and open mindedness, yet when it comes to embracing a scientifically proven device that deters our grey-suited friends, almost 90% of surfers I’ve chatted to cave into bullish conservativism. They suddenly squint into the middle distance and with all the wisdom of an Oxford don revert to urban myths about Shark Shields attracting ravenous schools of man-eaters. The wheel barrow loads of bullshit that spews forth from these armchair experts, and in some cases “highly respected” surfers, is on par with telly evangelists, African dictators and The Spanish Inquisition.
Yarns of Great Whites gulping down Shark Shields like jelly tots, and becoming “immune” to the device’s three-dimensional electrical impulse are no more than self-deception and technophobia in the wake of a revolutionary solution. Another favourite predestination of surfers is, “if it’s my time to go, then so be it”. I wonder if one of these dream-catching “fatalists” would saunter unprotected through the Kruger National Park with as much reckless abandon? Surfers reacted in much the same way to the invention of “gookcord”, leg rope or leash, but it turned out to be an indispensable surfing accessory in the long term.
As for the Shark Shield there’s no denying it’s an expensive piece of kit, but so were Flat screen TVs when they first flickered onto the market. If you surf a “sharky” spot, a fully charged device will give you at the very least, 4 to 5 hours of peace of mind. I’ve paddled out at a number of spots wearing my Shark Shield only to be scoffed at, or simply given a side-ways glance dripping with disdain and betrayal. Do I care; unequivocally not? It takes a couple of sessions to get used to the device, but it won’t affect your overall freedom in the water. Most detractors often bemoan the device as bulky and cumbersome, but then again they also like to think their surfing is on par with Mick or Kelly.
Yes, a Shark Shield is a man-made device and prone to possible malfunction from excessive abuse. If you don’t turn the device on it will not work, and more importantly, it needs to be rinsed-off and re-charged after every session. Perhaps that’s a bit too much to ask for some, considering the mountains of neoprene involved in ongoing micro-biological experiments in the back of bakkies and boots across the land.
Shark Shields come in two distinct types. One version allows for the battery pack to be fitted, by means of a base-plate to the tail of your board. The other type is secured to your ankle much like a leash. In both cases the electrode can double as a leash.
Interestingly enough, competitive surfers were protected by three battery operated Shark Shield devices attached to buoys at the backline of Nahoon Reef during the Mr Price Open surfing championships in 2009. Lifeguards merely replaced the Shark Shield batteries every four hours offering protection for surfers during the event. Global Surf News even reported that Surfing South Africa (SSA) was considering using Shark Shields at other surfing competitions in the future. It’s a labour intensive and expensive undertaking, but these tentative steps offer a life-saving solution that can be streamlined in the future.
Shark Shields are used by the Australian Special Forces, South African Navy, US Coast Guard and is also approved by NATO. I’ve watched countless videos online, chatted to commercial divers who swear by it and read detailed reports on the efficacy of the device. For me, it’s about peace of mind, and it happens to comes in the form of a Shark Shield when I paddle out at a high risk spot. As for the drive in my ’94 Toyota Corolla to my sharky bay, well that’s another story…
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.
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 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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
