Surfing for the love
I guess it’s become my morning ritual. Getting soaked by the salty water in exchange for waves, before surrendering a five buck note for a coffee. It’s the moment of mindlessness before consciousness arrives. And I’m hooked on it; I find the water utterly cleansing and necessary. Today I’ve found myself at Merewether, post-surf sipping hungrily at a coffee. I shared today’s mediocre waves with surfers far better than me. They could somehow ignore the mediocrity of them and ride the bumpy as if smooth, the weak as strong and the fat as fairly steep. There was barely any discrimination and somehow all waves offered the potential to get air born. It was truly humbling to a punter like myself. To me their boards all looked the same. Thruster, that new glowing white with a tail pad at the back, and a stylish ripcurl sticker on the nose. Just south of us was the contest area for the ’Surfest’; noticeable by its bright coloured surfers and the two flags in the sand.
I suppose it was simple enough, returning to my car after a middle of the day surf session. I placed my board gently on the stinking hot bitumen before walking around it to retrieve the car keys from the passenger-side tyre. Today’s session would have been about an hour and a half of, let’s face it, sitting; waiting. Just monotonously bobbing in the ocean’s chop, holding out for the miracle left to approach precisely where I was. It didn’t. The stillness of it all left me frozen cold which made the likelihood of riding a wave feel even dimmer. The most I could’ve bragged about was a couple of closeouts and a shorie.
I reached into the car for a towel and smothered myself, removing each drop of water from my goose bumped body. I suppose it was a fairly long session by most standards, however, next to the pros out there who sat next to me it was comparably brief. Well, I suppose they wore steamers which protected them from any imaginary coldness that I was feeling. It would be the only thing they wore for the day; until the contest was over. I looked down at my chosen attire that was dripping onto the bitumen near the car’s tyre. A pair of boardies and an old t-shirt infused with crusted salt from previous surfs. It was my ‘surfing shirt’. It wasn’t until then that I realised that back when I left the house I hadn’t really prepared for an all day surf. I’d actually subconsciously intended for this surf to be short. If I had wanted to surf all day I would’ve been more prepared. I would have placed light but nutritious snacks all through the car so that I could have a quick feed before returning to beyond the break, I would have worn at least a spring suit, and I would have ignored when my body when it began shivering with coldness. I started imagining an endless list of differences between myself and the pro surfers out there today. For them surfing is a full time gig. It’s what they wake up to, sleep early for, eat healthily for, save money for, and remain sober for. It’s what all of their travelling holidays revolve around, and if not, it’s what they need to get back for. I myself am indeed a surfer; a keen one too. But I am also a writer, and a guitarist. I am an occasional drinker, and perhaps even a fast food eater too; not to mention my uncontrollable addiction to chocolate. I don’t always get up early for the morning glass; some mornings I’d rather pretend it’s not there and just sleep through it. If I am in need of money, I’ll pick up extra shift right when the wind is supposed to drop and tide is supposed to recede. I do have a lot of boards — you might even say too many. But they are mostly second hand and all different shapes. Truth be known, I haven’t got a competitive bone in my body and I don’t really love crowds; I prefer to wait until work hours so that most of the waves have been vacated. Surfing, yes, is my chosen form of exercise, but it hasn’t saved me from becoming a little portly in the winters. I’m more of a sedentary creature. I guess I’m pretty lax when you find me next to these guys.
So yes. Here I am, warm and listening to a smooth tune by Jack Johnson in a coffee shop, but am I really that different from the surfers competing in the surfest? 6 years has passed now since I have competed in a surf comp or even thought about surfing in a competitive way, but I still stopped today to watch the comp. Perhaps I still feel a little nostalgic for competitive surfing, perhaps I took pleasure watching the impressive display of aerials and ferocious turns. Most likely I looked out to similar creatures to myself — others who struggle with that physical inability to go a day without entering the ocean. For them it’s still a necessity and like me live a life structured around it. I might have completely different views on surfing than my competitive counterparts but I still find myself in the water at least once a day. We have somehow both found ourselves at Merewether on this particular Tuesday; in these sloppy conditions, where we still choose to surf. I may not be competing but I’m drawn to this place for the same reason they are; and if it were flat we’d be home. We love the atmosphere; that warm sun that beats on our necks as we wait for waves, we love to hate the long roots of weed that grasp our leg ropes, our hair has been bleached by salt and the sun, and we’d give almost anything for that miracle wave to open up and carry us all the way to shore. For us, the beach is more than sand water sun. Unlike others we feel the waves rather than see them. The sea not only excites us but also changes us. In a way we are a product of our daily ventures into its currents. We are somehow linked to this strange environment and we care about it because it affects us. It’s a similar diagnosis that can be applied to all surfers — pros and free. It’s almost impossible to describe but can easily be experienced.
