Although I haven’t been in a fight since I was a teenager, a few weeks ago, I came within seconds of paddling over to a stranger and physically removing him from the line-up. Why I didn’t follow through with my foolish plan is a story of trusting my fellow surfers and, ultimately, of how one boy’s clarity helped elevate everyone’s consciousness at a moment when we all needed it most.
Surfing in Los Angeles is often crowded and requires patience. So I do the best I can to wait my turn, to act friendly in a busy line-up and to yield the right of way to folks already on a ride. I act this way because that’s how my friends taught me to behave in the water and because, for me, surfing is a joyous part of my life, not an occasion to demonstrate anger or aggression in the water.
Invariably, however, I encounter others who drop in, act aggressively or dangerously, and live under the illusion that they get to violate rules that everyone else must follow. The question I usually always ask myself when I encounter folks like this is: “What. The. Fuck?” And my answer to that question has always been to paddle away, find an inside break and just steer clear of the testosterone.
More often than not, I’m forced to deal with this very question while surfing at a local break called Topanga. Now, those who know Topanga won’t be surprised to hear there’s inappropriate behavior there. I mean, the place has a hell of a reputation for good reasons. I’ve been yelled at, called out and dropped in on more times there than I have at any other break in the entire state of California. But scoring even just one wave at Topanga helps erase all of that noise in a heartbeat. It’s a point that breaks right and, on a good day, you can catch rides over half a minute long. Pure. Freaking. Exhilaration. Plus, the place is loaded with incredibly talented surfers, so being patient and watching is like having your own surf clinic up close. So I’ve kept going back with my peeps despite the challenges.
On this day however, I’d gotten in for a late-morning session after my friends had already left. The conditions were only fair but there weren’t a lot of people in the water so I was excited. As I paddled out, I immediately noticed one middle-aged fella riding a fun board with no leash. He kept smoking these incredible rides down the line, crouched down and holding onto his outside rail, looking like he’d just stepped off of a pro-level highlight reel.
But within minutes of joining the line-up, I heard a man’s voice over the surf: “I said ‘Salaam Aleichem,’ son. Aren’t you gonna say ‘Aleichem Salaam’ back to me? Don’t you even know your own fucking culture, you Iranian scumbag?!? We try to help you and your country and then you turn around and stab us in the back. You’d better watch yourself, man. This is America and we don’t care for traitors, mother fucker.”
Insulting, racist, ignorant, crude and total fucking whacked were the words that came to mind as I looked over my shoulder. What I discovered shocked me. The object of the tirade was the amazing surfer I’d just been admiring and the source of all of this inappropriate language was a short, overweight man, sitting on an ill-fitted board and wearing gloves despite it being the middle of summer. To keep things easy, I’ll simply refer to him from this point forward as “The Douchebag.”
Everyone in the line up stopped what they were doing, turned, and – for a collective moment – was stunned into silence. The Douchebag took advantage of that. “Hey, everyone: steer clear of this Iranian motherfucker. He’s got AIDS. And if you don’t want to get AIDS, don’t talk to him and don’t let him breathe on you.” The talented surfer didn’t say a word. He just paddled to the side and continued grabbing incredible rides. I paddled over and checked in with him but he said it wasn’t a big deal. I thought it was a big deal but didn’t say that. Instead, I just told him he was an amazing surfer.
The rest of the line up eased away from The Douchebag bunching together in small groups and conferring with one another. How fitting. And poetic. Here’s an ignorant and clearly mentally compromised individual who tried to divide his fellow surfers with insults but instead caused the entire line up to unite.
None of this fazed The Douchebag. He turned to a Japanese woman in the line up and said, “Hey, didn’t we kick your ass in World War II? Why the fuck are you even surfing here? This is America, mother fuckers. Get the fuck out of the water or we’ll start bombing your country again.” There were about four Japanese surfers in the line up that morning including the woman. They all giggled uncomfortably, paddled further away and clearly began talking about the guy in Japanese. Everyone shared a few odd smiles, shrugs and basically ignored the guy. This stunned me, but I decided to put my faith in the pulse of the rest of the line up and keep surfing.
Only, so did The Douchebag.
For over 45 minutes, he spewed racist, homophobic and xenophobic slurs (real surfers, of course, know what xenophobia is). He kept talking to anyone within earshot, which, unfortunately, was most of us. And when that didn’t get the reaction he’d hoped for, The Douchebag started singing the chorus from the Genesis song “Illegal Alien.”
It’s no fun… being an illegal alien, no
It’s no fun… being an illegal alien
I could have gotten out of the water at any time. Any of us could have. But we’d come to surf and have some fun. So no one left the line up despite The Douchebag’s ridiculous and offensive behavior. In fact, his actions only made me focus more intently on having fun. It was like a game until a bunch of children entered the line up. There were about four or five of them aged between about eight and 11 years old.
