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The Surf Hoot Heard Around the World (or…Just Inside My Head)

Is it still a hoot if no one is there to hear it? Photo: Tino Rischawy


The Inertia

I paddled out in the pre-dawn silence, as much to get in the water as to get away from my racing thoughts. I hadn’t surfed in over three weeks due to holiday travels and for just a second, my board felt foreign as I jumped on it. I paddled out, immediately went for the first wave I saw, tried the late drop, and didn’t make it. Ah, that’s how the crisp morning Pacific feels when you don’t show her any respect: heavy, cold, and uncaring.

As the waves sank into a lull and the tide sucked low over the rocky reef, my mind churned tired circles. It’d been a long week, month, year. There’s no need for specifics, because everyone has their own issues; but let’s just say that rather than falling into place, things have simply been falling. As I sat there in the water, my problems rippled around me in the water like dark fins. I couldn’t figure anything out, except for one thing: I should paddle in and try to find some solutions. Sitting out here on a mid-length, stuck in the middle again and nursing my mid-size problems was only making things worse.

At some point I realized that my solo session was suddenly not so solo, and I recognized a few talented locals gathering around me like sharks. Great, I thought darkly. I burned my first wave and now I’m surrounded by a crew of eager rippers, smiling through their mornings, caffeinated and enthusiastic and living their best lives. 

Somewhere across the hopeless swells, a rideable wave rose like a beacon. I turned and stroked for it automatically, sliding my cold feet into better position as the wave stood up and I dropped to the bottom, then began to rise. The wave instantly did what all decent rides have the power to do: temporarily lift me away from any and all bad vibes.

And then I heard it: The Hoot. Not just any hoot, but a hoot from a surfer I’ve seen ripping waves apart, a loud shout served with the quickest gleam of a smile as said surfer ducked under the curl and I pivoted off the lip. Somehow, the wall of water deigned to stretch on, holding me suspended in the blank space where my doubts and concerns couldn’t find me. My decent wave had become a good wave, the sort of ride I’d remember later in the day, the random shout of an unknown surfer ringing in my head like a bell.

I kicked out and dropped to my board, an unfamiliar sensation tugging my lips upward. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t heading in. As I paddled out, the sun shone a little brighter. Paddling felt a little easier, the water a little warmer. All wasn’t lost, was it? The ocean was still there, temperamental and dangerous, generous and beautiful. Life would bring its trials, but there would remain ways to escape, coupled with the possibility that good things can happen. The stranger’s shout shone a light through my brain, revealing that when the road feels dark and weary, there are opportunities for light — even in the strangest of places.

As surfers, we get called out constantly for localism and elitism and general surf snobbery. Yet, we constantly hoot for our friends, calling them into waves and cheering for them whether they make it or not. We hoot sometimes for strangers, and even at times for ourselves when no one else is around, looking back at the empty beach to claim the unseen barrel. Cheering on a good ride is an infectious part of surfing that occurs instantaneously, an explosion of encouragement and stoke that represents not only the single wave, but our shared experience of being out in the ocean.

Every single time we paddle out, we take a chance, right? The unpredictability of the ocean is one of the aspects of surfing that makes it wholly unique. There are multiple opportunities for humiliation and even injury, yet also openings for greatness, for that intense sensation of satisfaction and fulfillment when we kick out of a sublime wave. Many of our best waves go unseen, but that doesn’t bother us because surfing is all about the sensation, the indescribable feeling, the high.

There was nothing remarkable about the wave I rode that morning, and there’s no way the surfer knew that on that gloomy morning, I needed a yell of encouragement. The shout was no doubt instantly forgotten, wiped away by their next duck dive. For me, though, their exclamation of breath and noise sent me flying even faster across the surface, ducking to compress and rising to extend. More importantly, it somehow lightened my mental load. It reminded that as individualistic as surfing is, riding waves is also about community.

So, here’s a thanks to that anonymous shortboarder for sending me back for another paddle, another wave, another chance — even if it was a wipeout.

 
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