Dick and I would squander hours up on the bluff, guzzling
untold gallons of Arabian petroleum in our idling cars, gulping ounces of
watered convenience store coffee from paper cups, all while talking story of
past “epic” sessions, as we stared out to the lineup, trying to conjure clean surfable
pockets in the usually small and crumbly surf.
More often than not, we’d talk each other into paddling out into that small
and crumbly surf regardless. We’d
scratch frantically into the gutless onshore knee-highs, only to have a section
crumble before us just as we popped up, or even have our fin scrape the bottom
sand. Invariably, at some point in the
session one of us would turn to the other, wait to catch the other’s eye, and
mutter, “Well, I’ve been out in worse.”
And then we’d both laugh and agree that we had indeed been “out in worse.” But rather than grumble and complain about
the dearth of consistently real swell activity in the Gulf of Maine, the
session would elevate to a comedic episode of who could ride the most pathetic
wave or execute the most goofy, exaggerated “Waimea survival stance” on an
ankle-snapper. And also invariably in
every session, one or the other of us would catch “the-wave-of-the-day.” A ride that if not exactly worthy of a Surfer
magazine cover shot, was at least enough to redeem our decision to paddle out. I’m not saying we always paddled out, but
when we did, there never seemed to be a reason why we would’ve been better off
driving off our separate ways, grumbling expletives about the cruel irony of
being a surfer on the East Coast.
I see them now. As I
sit in my car, no longer idling not because of consideration for the atmosphere
so much as consideration for my checking account. Surfers pulling to hard stops at the
overlook, glancing quickly, not even waiting to see if there are any sets
before making their decisions to squeal tires out of the lot, in hunt of better
conditions elsewhere. When they do exit
their vehicles for a more prolonged look, they usually do so with a cell phone bonded
to their ear, talking to a buddy who is at that other spot so they can compare
notes. Sometimes they’ll instead use
their smartphones to check buoy reports and webcams. Rarer now do you see surfers congregate in
mass to cast steely eyed appraisals of the surf’s prospects while they regale
each other with bullshit stories of “that time…” There’s no sense of community anymore. Back then, a gathering of us, all warm in our
hoodies and boots, coffee cups and/or ciggies in hand, would gaze out to laugh
at the lone sucker who’d volunteered to be our guinea pig; breaking the ice to
grovel in the slop and show just how bad
it really was. And then the bullshit
stories would become grander, more exaggerated once we were satisfied it wasn’t
worth the effort. Of course, if that
poor sucker managed to catch a half decent ride, you couldn’t have witnessed
even cockroaches scattering before a flicked on light scramble with more
alacrity into our suits and lug our boards down over the rocks to the water.
Though my earliest inspiration was of course Bruce Brown and
his “Endless Summer,” my period’s heroes were Kevin Naughton and Craig
Peterson, globe-trotting vagabonds who would set out on their adventures
impetused by no more than a rumor overheard in a pub, or a crude map scrawled
on a napkin, of a mystical point break on a forgotten shore. Of course, more often than not, after
slogging through malarial jungles, dodging AK-47 toting revolutionaries and
bandits, and paddling down crocodile infested estuaries, they’d find a break
that was even more crumbly and depressing than my home break in Maine. Oh, but the stories Kevin could tell,
accompanied by Craig’s pics, that even while you knew were idyllic
misrepresentations of the realities they’d experienced, would inspire legions
to set out on their own adventures. You
see, in those days, whether you were driving your VW van down to dawn patrol
your local beach, or stowing away on a rust-bucket freighter bound for “somewhere
in the Indian Ocean,” you went on hope and faith and mystery. It was a glorious time to be a surfer because
it was all about “the score;” you never could be sure what you’d discover. Sure, we caught it good far less frequently,
stood skunked and frustrated on more drizzly, small and crumbly beaches than we
care to remember. But when you broke cherry
on an undiscovered point, or even lucked into an epically un-forecast day at
your home break…well, it was an experience that is lost on the current
generation of surfers.
One stand-out day I’ll never forget was that sunrise morning
when Dave and Clancy and I lucked into a head to just overhead day at the
Rivermouth when the sun was gloaming through the backs of the waves and the
barrels were crystalline orange and surfer after surfer on the overlook would
pause to check it. We laughed as one-by-one
they all drove away. It was nearly two
hours before another surfer finally broke the ice and paddled out. Within minutes we were overrun, but with the
hordes, came also the onshores. So we caught
our last waves and went in, laughing how we’d had it all to ourselves for so
long. And in the lot we watched them trying
to outmaneuver each other, to catch what now had turned into sectiony, bumpy
faced walls. Clancy and Dave agreed that
I’d caught the-wave-of-the-day, an overhead, long, long walled bomb that they’d
seen me screaming across, in the barrel, from behind the wave, riding a 5’4”
stubby little quad that I’d crudely hacked from a broken board and glassed in
hideous ’80’s era neon orange. Both had
agreed I had no hope of making what from behind looked like a closeout, until…until
I blasted out over the final section, some two-hundred yards down the line…
Surfers now, instead of bundling into their cars with
wetsuits and boards and coffee for the morning surf check, will stumble across
the room to power up their lap tops or cell phones or tablets, to study web
cams and buoy readings and tide charts and surf reports on Magic Seaweed,
before making the decision to crawl back under the covers if it doesn’t exactly
look “epic.” I pity them. I weep for the loss of adventure, the independent
“screw-you” ethos that surfers once possessed.
Most surfers today miss out on what used to be an integral aspect of the
surfing experience. The parking lot, or
bluff overlook surf check. The gathering
of your tribal mates. Of sitting in your
car on a miserable, drizzly, leaden gray day, gulping hot java and shooting-the-shit
with epic characters like Dick and Clancy and all the other epic characters I’ve
known through the years. They miss
watching Canadien kooks paddling out into onshore, closed out slop, merely for
our amusement. They miss the Naughton
and Peterson inspired adventures. And
they more frequently than not, miss those days when in spite of the cams and
reports and discouraging forecasts, you paddle out into marginal conditions
anyway, and just happen to score that “wave-of-the-day” that sticks in your
memory till the next time you arrive at the beach in a petrol fueled automobile,
coffee fueled body, and a hope fueled soul that there is something there that
is worth the effort. Because there
almost always is…
