Photo: Jan Kotyk
“See ya out there, dude.” A simple phrase, when spoken between people, it not only expresses intent, it also links, connects, and anchors. One of the awesome things about surfing in the Pacific Northwest is the lack of cell signal – no LTE, no 4G, no Wi-Fi hotspots, no tethering, and there sure as shit isn’t any Facebook or Twitter. It’s just you, the waves, the rain (more days than not), and the people who you happen to be out there with. It’s also what makes this sentence, this communication between two people, mean so much.
Before there was the Internet, cellphones, or even landlines, surfers knew where to find each other. Quite simply: If the surf was up, then your friends were probably at the break. If they weren’t, then they weren’t. You got wet and (if they weren’t at another break) they didn’t. It was a time of endless experience that linked people together. Experiences that were shared over a beer around a campfire, not through the technological ability to remain in touch with people you aren’t with, perhaps at the expense of experience.
In the PNW, especially along the west coast of Vancouver Island, this is not just a hint of the historic past. It’s part of the present. Much of the coast has no service and when it does, it’s not strong enough to check your email. Sitting in the water between sets, you meet people. You chat about the last great day, the best wave, how much better conditions are at this break than that break, and you do it in a long stream of interrupted communications. As each new set rolls in, the conversation is thrown on pause while you jockey in the lineup to catch a ride, paddling back into formation and (if you’re near the same person) picking up your chat where you left off.
I don’t have Facebook, and my Twitter account is pretty pathetic. It’s something that my activist friends are always on about – how I’m not up to speed on planning things, or as hip to all the bad news in the world as they are. It’s something that doesn’t bother my surfer friends at all. In fact, I think it makes us closer.
Rarely, I run into surfers I know in Victoria (BC, the city closest to the “sweet-as” breaks of southern Vancouver Island, and the nearest major center of employment), maybe at one of the few and fading surf shops. Like anyone into a specific sport/hobby/pastime/interest, we share our stories and elaborate on local myths. Sometimes – and this is a little rarer – we talk about our lives outside of surfing; where we work, what we’re into, where we came from, and so on. And then the time comes when one of us has to leave for whatever reason.
Photo: Pete Devries, alone in the wilderness of his mind. And the actual wilderness.
If this were any other group of people, there would be that moment when we ask each other for contact info, saying that we’ll follow each other on Instagram, friend each other on Facebook, or text each other next time we’re doing something. All of those things that we may, but probably not, do to say that we’ve stayed in touch. Friending someone on Facebook these days means that you’ll unfollow them in a few months when you get sick of their posts. Loading their number into your phone means that you’ll glance at it once in a while, possibly realizing that you only know that person from surfing, and you’ll never text them.
That’s why a good old “See ya out there, dude,” goes such a long way–it’s exactly what you’ll do! No pressure, no worries, you’ll see each other exactly when you see each other, and it’ll more likely than not be back at the break, bobbing up and down between sets. One day, you might even feel like you know that person really well, and you might even realize that all of this came from those short, frozen chats, or from beers in the parking lot after a session on one of those (“rare-as”) days when the sun is out and it isn’t too cold. You’ll know them not from their posts, photos, and random messages, but from them, through surfing.
