“Shit. This place sucks. There’s waves, you want to go surf?”
I just got a new surfboard. It made me love surfing again. It made me love life again.
My old surfboard was 6’ 3″, narrow, heavily-rockered, and stiff as a board. Stiff as a high school boy with a beautiful Spanish teacher (Ms. Ciccone). I got it six (yes SIX) years ago in Hawaii, where it worked wonderfully. Waves are different where I live, though. And by different, I mean worse. More slope, less power, much colder… just generally worse. It’s depressing. I spent the last five years trying to chase those Hawaiian waves at home, with absolutely no luck, and an ever-diminishing love for what I once loved more than my own mother. After every session, I was left wondering why I was getting worse, why I was having less fun than I used to.
One of the best parts of my job is designing surfboards, which I am thoroughly unqualified to do. I don’t know exactly what does what; if changing this will affect that. But I do know how I like to surf: with the least amount of effort I can possibly manage. If I could surf lying down and not be a sponger, I would. Surfing is, after all, not supposed to be work. I wanted something fast and loose, but not so loose that my mediocre skills wouldn’t be able to hold my ever-teetering body in head-up attitude. A few months ago, the company I (also) work for decided to add a couple of new shortboards to the line up, and the design duty fell on me, the best bluffer/bullshitter of the rag-tag bunch. I say that because had they actually seen my average-at-best surfing, they probably wouldn’t have let me design one, let alone ten more. But I’m not one to shy away from a challenge, especially when that challenge lands me a free surfboard, which depending on my “design” skills, may or may not work.
So I designed a little 5’10 quad swallowtail, with barely any rocker and an almost ridiculously wide mid-point. Paddling hard is for suckers. It was sent off to the manufacturer, and I waited (not-so) patiently for it to arrive. When it did, I was pleasantly surprised. It sat on the lawn, its Snooki-like profile glittering in the early morning sunlight. No wax, no stickers, no logos, just white, like an egg. A big, fat, short egg. It looked very awkward sitting there, but it looked just how I wanted it to.
And so it sat. For six agonizing weeks, it sat. I was too busy, the waves were too non-existent, and life was generally in an upheaval. A split from a long-term girlfriend, a new apartment, and a bunch of other little things threw me into a weird tailspin of a self destructing romance with Cutty Sark, Marlborough Reds, and a disgusting amount of pickles. So my fat little egg waited (not-so) patiently in the storage area, waxless and naked. A cruel fate.
Then, yesterday morning, a friend showed up at the doorstep of my dark dungeon of a bachelor suite (the only thing missing is the old, skinny man chained to the wall, wailing through his beard – thankfully, because that would keep me up at night). He walked in, looked around, and said:
“Shit. This place sucks. There’s waves right now, you want to go surf?”
Yes. Yes I did. I pulled my booze-ridden body out of its depression-induced slumber – with some difficulty, because I like to drink – smashed out anything pressing I had to do for work, and unzipped the bag, exposing my fat little egg to the light. I swear to God, I heard that surfboard smile. I smiled a little myself, dang it. I had been trying for so long not to, but it happened. It’s so easy to stay in a dark pit, basking in self-pity. And really, no one actually gives a shit, because (in this case, anyways) the problems we face usually aren’t that big of a deal in comparison to say, famine. Or earthquakes, or nuclear disasters or tsunamis.
We walked down the muddy trail to one of our favorite spots. The sound of the waves and squelching bear-shit mud concoction made its way through the spruce scented air. It wasn’t great, but it was good enough. Waist high runners made their way off the point, working through a kelp bed. Three people sat trading waves in contented silence. The board worked amazingly. It was like cheating. Waves were easy to get into. I could do those little tail flicks that I think look great, (you weren’t there, alright, so they were perfect). But that wasn’t the amazing part. What really happened was I turned happy again. The switch flicked. The clouds cleared. The angels sang, and they were singing my favorite song. All with one surf, with one surfboard.
What I’m getting at is that surfing isn’t just a pastime, nor is it a sport. It’s completely different from tennis, or ballet, or jai alai, or any other activity. People spend so much time dissecting it, because it’s endlessly fulfilling. It’s different for everyone. It’s not something that requires boundaries, although when they’re present, it doesn’t change much. Surfing has the ability to change your entire outlook on life, often with just a few waves. Can soccer do that? It’s like that kid from Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead said to Keanu: “Surfing’s the source. Change your life, swear to God.”
And man, am I ever happy it is, because the sun sure feels good when it has been cloudy for so long.
