Saturday, November 05, 2005

Surfing, Now New & Improved!

In the nearly 20 years I've been surfing, right now is by far the best time to be a surfer.

That thought hit me like a Scott's Creek cleanup set about 5 minutes ago while I was sitting on my living room floor, drinking coffee, listening to the Sprout soundtrack, and sorting our magazine rack.

With piles of "haven't read yet and still plan to" (Sunset), "haven't read yet and know we're not going to, which is fine because it comes every week" (The Economist), "have read but want to keep anyway" (Wine Spectator), and "haven't read but still like looking at the pictures when I take a dump" (Surfer), last year's Photo Annual slipped off its appropriate stack and opened up to an image of a single fin retro board sailing through the air. Next to it was a shot of some guy at Malibu, riding the nose, taken from behind.

With Ray Barbee jangling in the background, I had an overpowering thought:

"Oh man, I wanna go for a surf."

Followed by:

"Shit, this really is the best time ever to be a surfer."


Because this is the first time (in my surfing lifetime anyway), that WE THE PEOPLE have broken free from the ranks of the bro/brah professionals.

Think about your surfing 10 years ago, or 20 years ago. What were you riding? How were you riding? What kinds of boards were they selling?

It was awful. It was so awful, we didn't even realize it at the time. When I bought my first board in the mid-80's, I had three choices:

- 6 foot tri-fin thruster
- 6 foot tri-fin thruster
- 6 foot tri-fin thruster

Okay, so there were a handful of boards in the "used" section that dated back from the 70's. A couple of pin tails and thick railed-experiments, hocked for a couple of twomps, and left in the darkest corners of every surf shop, banished to decades of dust and ridicule - permanent drydock.

I remember paddling out on that first board, a 6'0" G.M. Corocroft (big GMC logo on the deck, gleefully referred to as the "Gay Men's Club" by my junior high buddies). I'll never forget the feeling of horror as I attempted to paddle out at low tide, glassy, nearly flat Hook at the end of 41st St. in Santa Cruz (actually Capitola, but that's like calling San Francisco "Central California" - technically true, but head-scratching to the masses).

It was the most awkward I'd ever felt. Nothing like the 10' foam board I'd paddled out on in Lahaina Harbor a year earlier. That was instantly felt natural. This...what the fuck was this? It was like balancing on a tightrope. I kept slipping from one side to the other, sinking forwards then sinking backwards. Thank goodness it was basically flat because even the knee high rollers that ambled through were like torpedoes in the hull.

And trying to catch a wave? And then stand up? Are you kidding me?

It took me nearly A YEAR before I could consistently catch a wave, stand up, and ride it. Granted, I lived about 45 minutes from the beach and only got to surf twice a month or so. But still, I was paddling, catching waves, standing up and SURFING within probably 20 minutes during my foamboard lesson on Maui.

"Yeah," I'd justify to myself after a particularly humiliating session at Pleasure Point or Steamer Lane. "But that wasn't really surfing. That was a big foam beginners board. It wasn't a REAL surfboard."

Fuck me it wasn't a real surfboard. If anything, that used, six foot Gay Men's Club heap of shit wasn't a surfboard. Real surfboards allow you to ride waves - TO SURF. I'm not sure what I'd call my weekly sessions of falling on my ass at the Half Moon Bay jetty, but it sure wasn't surfing. Floundering, more like.

And you know what? 10 years ago, it was probably even worse. For me anyway, I'd finally learned how to ride those tiny 6 foot thrusters (more or less). But for a newcomer, wanting to learn to surf...shit, can you even imagine clambering onto one of those flip-nosed, all-rocker potato chips that were all the rage back then?

And that's pretty much all they sold. Yeah, the "longboarding rennaisance" was in full swing, but thanks to the surfing media and the narrow-minded attitude of most professional and influential surfers at the time, longboarding was compartmentalized, ridiculed, and wholly excluded. It wasn't "surfing" was "longboarding". Like windsurfing and boogieboarding, the loggers were told to start their own magazines and surf at their own spots. A different sport altogether, matey.

It is ASTONISHING looking back on it now. It's like living through the civil rights movement and then looking back 20 years later and going, "Holy fuck, we thought black people were a different species of human...what the hell were we thinking?"

Thank goodness, our evolution - our civil rights movement - did finally happen. Things finally changed. A couple of guys started riding fish as a summer novelty. Guys like Joel Tudor showed they weren't just one trick ponies, and could smack a lip as easily as they could dangle ten toes over. Then the retro boys like Donavan took their love for vintage clothing to the next logical step - vintage boards. And finally, FINALLY, the word got out, a few movies hit the circuit, and everything changed.

THIS IS IT, my friends.

This is the best time to be a surfer...EVER. It's all available to you. Whoever you are, however your genetic code shaped you, wherever you live, whatever your style, you have finally won the right to have as much fun as Andy Irons, Kelly Slater, or Tom Curren.

Beginner? Take your pick of foamboards, longboards, funboards, eggs, retro fish...whatever the hell suits your body and suits your local break.

Intermediate? Sure, take out the shortboard...only now you can buy a board that's actually suited to YOU. At first they called them "hybrids" but that was only because shapers didn't know what else to call them. In reality, these "hybrids" were the first genuinely custom boards these guys had ever made. You may have ordered a "custom" board back in '92, but really you just got Kelly's board with your name scrawled on it.

Advanced? Sky's the limit. No longer are you shackled to that shortboard, avoiding small, crappy days because you don't want to grovel in the slop and look like the kook that you know you aren't. Take out the log, ride the fish...hell, get on the damn surf mat or go for a body whomp. Arch your back and drag your hand. Dip your head and do a layback. Stand up straight and stick your fist up in the air with a mighty, "Schnell!"

Anything goes right now, so please, get out there and enjoy it. For the first time in most of our lifetimes, surfing belongs to us, the 99.9% of us who weren't born in Newport's "hottest hundred yards" and who didn't grow up a block from Anthony Ruffo's meth lab.

The inmates are running the asylum, bros.

The Colonel says, "Let's paddle."