Some days are like that. Photo: Austin Neill
There are certain days that feel like dark forces follow me around to ensure nothing goes right. No matter where I go, evil waits for me with its feet propped up on a table, finger twirling away at a mustache, and a cigar in hand. This mysterious misery brings me all varieties of disappointments and defeats throughout the day, to the point that I wonder if someone had a voodoo doll made of me and just received a fresh batch of pins.
To combat this omnipresent Snidely Whiplash, I like to head to the ocean in hopes that its salty powers will wash away whatever is haunting me. Seawater is supposed to help heal wounds of both the physical and psychological types. And, if one wave will supposedly change your life, then multiple should sufficiently chase away cartoonish danger.
But, despite sound thinking, this decision only makes things worse.
These sorts of jinxed days always follow the same pattern. The waves will look good – it’s hard for them to not look good after enduring so much negativity. But whatever curse vexes me on land follows me into the water. As soon as I paddle out, Nature drags a needle over a vinyl record and brings the wave party to a screeching halt. Any trace of swell that existed moments ago is now gone. I have scared it off. Everything was fine before that guy showed up, the other surfers surely think.
When a set wave does lumber towards me after some time, I get excited. Finally, I’ll be able to catch a wave and end this nonsense. But, with the day’s curse alive and well, I immediately bury my rail deep into the wave’s face and topple into the sea below. Having watched me wipe out, the rest of the lineup will let out a collective groan, tsk-tsking about wasted opportunities and oafish foot placement.
After blowing waves on my own, whatever cosmic forces are present will select another surfer in the water for me to unintentionally torture. Somehow, I will always be in this one surfer’s way; a piece of human flotsam constantly forcing them to adjust their line and bring an end to their ride. It will matter not where I sit or paddle. I could be multiple peaks away and still somehow find myself staring down the pointed nose of their high-performance board. “When the wave breaks here, don’t be there,” is the sage advice from the North Shore’s Turtle that is pounded into any surfer’s head through the lips of waves and humans alike from the day you start learning. And yet, here I am, always magically appearing “there,” disrupting the same person time and time again.
These are days that feel like everything has gone against you. Despite best intentions, it seems I’ve ruined the waves for myself and everyone around. Whether this is due to voodoo, a bout of kookiness, or simple bad luck is unknown. Regardless, it feels like I’ve been outdone by some outside force that has deemed today not my day.
However, maybe I’m looking at this the wrong way. From office to ocean, my ineptitude has frustrated an impressive amount of people. I’ve been treating this as an awful trait, but maybe it’s one I could harness. Perhaps I should embrace my ruinous days and become an evildoer. Then, with enough help from surfing in the San Onofre nuclear effluent, I could transform into a mutant surfing super villain, combining forces with Gabriel Medina to ensure Caio Ibelli never catches a wave ever again.
Then someone would definitely make a voodoo doll out of me.
