I used to be a competitive swimmer, though I sadly report, I didn’t swim all that competitively. Still, I was a proficient enough swimmer to master the basic techniques in all the different strokes. Later on in my athletic life I became a triathlete, and discovered that my competitive swimming background gave me an advantage that other athletes from non-swimming backgrounds didn’t have. Still, I didn’t swim with the elite practitioners in that sport either. It wasn’t until much later, when I was only swimming for fitness and because I just flat out, love the water so much, that I discovered I’d been doing it all wrong for all those years.
My revelation came in the form of a book I stumbled across in the local Barnes & Noble. Total Immersion Swimming. What I discovered is that all those years, all that training, all those laps in all those pools…I’d been fighting the water, rather than becoming one with it. I was trying to be a speed boat, powering over the surface, rather than slipping through the water, offering my body’s least resistant surfaces, as a fish or marine mammal might do. The writer explained that too often swimmers are taught to lift their heads so as to plane (or attempt to plane!) over the surface and present less of your body to the water. He advised abandoning that concept, lowering the head, relaxing into the water, and then, finding the optimal way of moving one’s body through it. He explained how to roll the body from side to side, knifing through, extending your reach, making your body longer so as to glide more effectively. Above all, it was about relaxing and becoming more supple. I tried the techniques and immediately found I was a better swimmer. I covered more distance with fewer strokes, and my muscles relaxed and I just felt smoother. It was glorious. I only wished I’d stumbled upon these ideas sooner in my not-so competitive career.
A few years back I had a similar revelation while reading an article on a surfboard design that embraced many of these same concepts…primarily, flowing with the water rather than trying to skim across the surface. The design had been around for ages but had never seemed to catch on with the masses. Only a few die-hards stuck with it, and now, decades later, there is a minor resurgence of the design’s advantages.
Hull. It’s called a hull because of its similarities and design concept connections with marine hulls, ie. boats. The basic differences are that rather than the flat bottom and hard edges that predominates in most surfboards, it features a rolled bottom and more forgiving rails. It also incorporates flex in both the foil and glassing of the board, and specifically with a flex fin that bends with the water on turns, building up energy, to be released on exiting the turn. In short, like total immersion swimming, the board moves through the water rather than over the water.
The other day I paddled out on the hull design that I shaped for myself two summers ago. I hadn’t ridden this board much because of medical issues I’ve had and because the board is so radically different from what I’ve become used to in almost 40 years of surfing. With a rolled bottom, 50-50 rails, thinly foiled nose and bubbly thick point further back on the board, not to mention a deep, thin flexible fin that is positioned twice as far up from the tail than a normal single fin, it took a little getting used to. But I shaped the board because in reading about the characteristics of how it surfed, by those who’d been riding them for all those years, I had an epiphany: “That’s how I want to surf!” I exclaimed aloud while reading the article.
It had been about 7 months since I last rode this board and because of some injuries, that session had not gone well. But I resolved to myself that this summer, me and the hull would get better acquainted. So as tropical storm Alberto spiraled off into the Atlantic, leaving the last remnants of swell, and I paddled out into the foggy gloom for a solo session at my favorite break, I wasn’t sure what to expect.
I noticed right away how easily and smoothly the board moved through the water, just paddling. There was a soft rolling motion, similar to my total immersion swimming as I paddled out to the lineup. I felt more like a fish, one with the water…and it just felt…right! Even better, my first wave, I cranked off the bottom and the board just eased right out onto the face with a burst of speed. But rather than pumping and humping down the line, I just leaned into the rail and the board smoothly spliced whitewater sections breaking ahead of me. Most of the waves were closing out, yet the hull kept pace and kept connecting all the sections with minimal input from me. I was along for the ride, and it was bitchin! Minimalist surfing, making the difficult look easy, just how I’d always wanted to surf.
The fog was so thick that I don’t think anyone could have seen me from the beach. But even if they had, I doubt they would have been impressed. I wasn’t blasting airs, or gouging turns like the young hotshot, Kelly-wannabes that are so prevalent these days. From the beach, I’m sure it would have looked like largely, unspectacular surfing. But OMG, the FEEL of it was incredible! The flow of the wave is what has always attracted me…watching birds soar with effortless grace in thermal updrafts has always seemed more majestic than the flittering, spastic flight of smaller, birds; even the gentle glide of a whale or large ray is more pleasing to my eye than the nervous skittering quick direction changes of dolphins and seals. Oh, sure, I like powering turns on my shortboards and the fancy footwork of longboarding as much as anyone, but hullin, when the mood is there and the waves are just right, is a feel like no other…and it is my intention to replicate that feeling as often as necessary!
