Wednesday, May 19, 2010
The Surf Diaries
#3 Dumpers de Lux
Flat and fucked up. It's obvious that today is one of those fucked up days. It can't make up its mind to be a beautiful day or a piece of shit, so it becomes like a clean windscreen that's got shit smeared over it. It might as well be a miserable day. But since it isn't a complete piece of shit, suckers like me pitch up at the beach and suckers deserves a good kick in the arse.
At least the beach is completely empty. Well empty if you ignore hundreds of seagulls milling around like pensioners beside a cruise ship. Thought bubbles popping all over the flock: "What the fuck are you doing here? Are you deranged?"
And yes, the waves are gnarly. Dumpers de Lux. Not small, just not the sort of sets you can use. Some waves are HUGE. So what, I'm here.
There's not much to report regarding my performance. The waves are so crap I basically get to mid-crawl before they fizzle into nothing. I try to pop up as the wave walls up and push me forward. Maybe my boep gets in the way, maybe the water is too wet, maybe the sea is too salty. In short, I suck.
I know I'm supposed to pop up. I get it. Thanks. I try to pop up but what I am actually doing is more like...well let's say a popcorn kernel pops and a marinaded rump steak doesn't pop. It kinda stews. Well it's like that, I'm a marinaded sirloin trying to be a piece of popcorn. I'm committed but let's face it, I'm not popping.
Behind me a wave that I think is going to be 3 feet swells to an impossible 5-6 feet. I dive for safety, hoping my board won't be snapped in half. Instead the leash tied to my ankle stretches then slips off. Time to call it a day? I few more shitkickers smash me and I suddenly feel a nasty sense of disquiet. I'm alone in this shitty brown water, the waves are bitches, the cloudy water under a shadowy sky is the perfect cover for an opportunistic shark. I'm starting to think it may be a good idea to surf where other surfers are. Maybe they need some comedy relief, maybe they've had to sell their punching bags in this shithole economy and need a new face to practise on. Maybe it's time to go from kindergarten to preschool.
I watch another wave turn into a motherfucker.
Instead of preschool I register to be a pussy. I grab my board and catch a few foamies. I get to the standing pozzie, but the waters are too fizzly and shit to surf. What did you expect? A kelp gull hatched yesterday could have squawked the news to you: KOO KOO. This feels more like jumping with your back into the pool all day.
As I walk back through the remains of the grey day I'm wondering whether I'll be surfing somewhere else soon. You know, where there are real waves and real surfers, not shitkickers and pussies. Maybe I can try the big swell right in front of my window? I'd like to be able to call myself a surfer when I try for that. And that means more than 1 second on a board, and maybe even a handful of seconds where you actually move with the water and experience a sensation which most motherfuckers associate with surfing: fun.
I am nowhere near being included in that species of creature know as a surfer. I'm a little lower on the evolutionary scale. I'm a mudskipper.
Read Surf Diary # 2
Read Surf Diary # 1