Far from the Maddening SUPers?

As predicted, the SUP (Stand Up Paddleboard) was going to become popular, über popular. Spend a Sunday morning at the backline of Muizenberg Corner and you'll witness the sort of marine mayhem best left to a Sponge Bob Squarepants cartoon.

Besides a plethora of other watercraft in use or misuse, the SUP phenomenon is something of a focal point for a number of reasons. Besides the sheer scale of the craft, the whole act of SUPing draws unnecessary attention to itself because it's fundamentally ungraceful when compared to other “surfing” activities. Perhaps it’s due to the proliferation of neophyte SUPers at spots like the Berg; experts do look somewhat less cumbersome. For me, there's the endless ungainly shovelling married to that jittery muscled pose best suited to tightrope artists, and let's not venture near the murky territory of SUPing apparel! SUPers are undoubtedly made of ”The Right Stuff” - they have little need for neoprene the world over. Whether they are waddling between North Sea ice flows or lolling about at some Balinese dreamscape, SUPers only require baggies and a rashie. These hardy fashionistas are redefining surf fashion; I couldn’t help notice a particularly fashion conscious gondolier donning what appeared to be a pair of undersized Calvin Klein briefs with an Hawaiian floral print. There’s no refuting these guys (and gals) are sculpted of the same stuff as their carbon fibre oars (sorry, "paddles") which bear an uncanny resemblance to Maori traditional weapons, but I digress!

SUPs look and act like nuclear aircraft carriers; I wouldn't be surprised to see an F-18 on short finals having mistaken one for the USS Nimitz. My issue is that they demand respect without earning respect, particularly at a surfing nursery such as Muizenberg. Congregants tend huddle beyond the break, which is great, and compose an almost picturesque tableau against the rising sun over False Bay, but it's when the sets arrive that all goes awry.

SUPers tend to ignore the direction of a breaking wave; perhaps it's once again the sheer scale and easy paddle-in of their Arthurian steeds that preclude them from committing to ride only left or right across the face of the wave. I spent some time watching them weave a tapestry of mayhem through all the other watercraft with little or no concern for anyone but themselves and their preppy SUPing spouses. They scoop left, then shovel right, feint, grunt and then fade into something that looks like a 50s drop-knee cutback married to a bout of constipation, followed by another directional switch with no regard for the host of other water users, most of which are now fossilised by the fear of being mowed down.

Most SUPP rides end with an almost palpable air of supreme accomplishment followed by a flurry of digging to make it back to the take off zone somewhere near the Kalk Bay harbour! It's not so much the sport of SUPing itself, each to their own, but rather their insistence on governing an already excessively congested line-up with no concern for those further down the take-off chain! It's pointless competing with a SUP in full oar swinging commitment down the line, unless of course you have some form of nuclear deterrent or an afterburner!

What constantly puzzles me, besides the bewildering pre-SUP yoga routines in the inter-tidal zone, is that they seem to be sub-consciously drawn to the busiest areas of the line-up, and then waddle on the outside, monopolising the break as if they are of Royal Hawaiian descent. It's all a tad confusing to an average aging surfer like me, but surely a demarcated zone at certain beaches for these behemoths would go a long way to alleviate unnecessary tension, that inevitable lawsuit or serious injury. Perhaps, in the case of Muizenberg their reluctance to scoop further down the beach is dictated by real practicalities.

Yes, lugging a SUPP 300 metres down Muizenberg beach would be punishment enough for their sins, but the upside but would allow SUP jockeys to show off the benefits of their impressively toned core muscles. The other obvious issue is of course sharks, but given the iniquitous price of their gondolas and the tangle of obligatory peripheral devices, a Sharkshield would be de rigueur, and preclude the need for any Sharpspotters in a SUPers only zone. Perhaps a daisy chain of Sharkshield donning SUPPer's could offer similar protection as shark nets, by offering a compromise of sorts, and forming a protective shield for all other water users. This symbiotic solution would mean that SUPers could remain in the normal surfing area providing they don a Sharkshield and practice a modicum of surfing etiquette.

Paddles in sky stuff no doubt! Unless of course someone is smeared into the pelagic zone and seriously injured, the Boswell Wilke SUP circus will grow in popularity. Yes, SUPing is here to stay, it’s the new-Golf, now with oars and a lifetime subscription to Men's Health or GQ.

Come on guys, let’s set up some protocols so everyone, can enjoy the ocean because I’d like to think that FUN and not core muscle conditioning is the real reason for getting your sinuses flushed every weekend!

At the Back

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.

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.

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.

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.