Surfing Proves there is a God, dude.

June 1996

I now, finally, have proof that there is indeed a God who takes a personal interest in my life and is willing to manipulate the physical world for me. I also now have proof that this same God has a wicked sense of humor. The evidence manifests itself in my (attempts at?) surfing.

I used to think surfing was very much like any other endeavor one masters in life: a very gradual, very constant increase in learning the various skills and closing the feedback loops required for proficiency in the said endeavor. I have to be careful not to laugh coffee out my nose when I now think this about surfing. It is now obvious to me that this "progression" is neither upward nor linear. In fact, I'm convinced that an active deity is employed, even entertained, with wreaking aquatic havoc with my attempt at a new hobby. I am ever more likely to "Catch a Tube" surfing, not by shooting through a tunnel of a breaking wave, but by having IV's needled in my arm and oxygen hoses jammed under my nose.

These waves can get pretty large and very powerful. I have a 9' long board. I learned very quickly the vernacular for my most frequent "dismounts." It's called "pearl diving," which consists of the high-speed burying of the nose of the board and, shortly thereafter, the nose of the surfer. There are few activities that can match the adrenaline rush of tumbling head over heals in a crashing wave with nine feet of somersaulting, angled fiberglass bungeed to your ankle (Hello? I guess the premise here is that it is easier to extract a surfboard from your torso every THIRD ride than it is to have to chase after a board EVERY ride. Hello?).

I either have a gift for being consistently at the wrong place at the wrong time or, as I am beginning to believe, the Surf God likes to watch me flounder. The ideal place to be when surfing is at the left end of a left-to-right break or the right end of a right-to-left break. This way you can ride for hundreds of feet on the "shoulder" of the wave before getting all foamed out. In the words of Marvin the Martian: "dear me, I seem to have the silly thing in reverse." My way, all you get is pummeled by unrideable ends of waves. It seems regardless of how I try to position myself, I am the vertex of the end of good waves. I had a roommate back in college who insisted that my butt was so massive that it affected the tide and the planets. The way that the waves keep breaking at me instead of with me or for me, I'm beginning to believe he might have been right.

I also have a tremendous knack for being in just the perfect place for breaking waves. I always tend to be right where 4 foot waves come crashing over. This is a perfect place for a surfer to catch a wave. This is NOT a perfect place, in fact, it's a disastrous place, for a surfer who is trying to get OUT past the surf. Talk about exhausting. I learned that waves travel in sets. Generally, the water is flat between sets of waves. This would be a good time to swim out past the breakers to get a good spot to wait for that extra tasty wave (see how I've co-opted the narly surfer lingo, dude?). Do I swim out between sets? No, that would be way too easy. I learned that waves travel in sets, by taking, like a comic book collector, the first of the set, which means that I have to fight my way back through crashing waves, exhausting all my strength, only to finally get out to the flat calm water between sets.

So let's assume that by some miracle (or more likely, God teasing me with a new irony) I manage to frantically paddle out past (through) the incoming monster waves (on a 9' board swimming through even a 1 ft wave seems like a monster wave) and somehow am in a proper position to catch a decent wave. Here comes one now. I am on my stomach pointed out towards the incoming wave. I flail my leaden arms in a circle to get the board pointed towards the beach (I don't want to go into how long it took me to figure out that pointing toward the beach makes catching a wave just a BIT easier). I manage to get the board in the proper position and start paddling like mad to get going with the wave. I am actually in position and am picking up speed. I should be suspicious. Now for the "pop-up." That is where you use your arms to get your feet under you so that you can stand up on the board. Here goes... Whoops. My arms are totally unresponsive, dangling like concrete in the water, totally exhausted from the Herculean task of getting out past the surf. I have caught the perfect wave but am stuck statuesque with 6 parts of my body on the board: the tops of my feet, my knees, my chest and the left side of my face mashed into the wax. It's a nice five second ride as the board gradually, steadily pitches forward into my inevitable traumatic dismount (pearl dive) and board bungee-whack.

There is also a lot of kelp in the water. I don't know all that much about kelp, but the particular variety of kelp here in Southern California is exactly dorsal-fin shaped. Every leaf of kelp, flapping in the surf, looks and flaps exactly like the dorsal fin of a 12-foot great white shark. I tend to surf away from other surfers, so I am more likely to be a snack should one of these kelp leaves actually be a shark. I honestly get very paranoid out there, especially when the sun is setting and it's getting dark. Especially, especially when one of those shark sightseeing boats is dumping chum at me. I'm normally still bleeding from roller hockey anyway. I know it's only my constant paranoia-fed vigilance that keeps me from being eaten.

Another weird thing is that even though where I surf it's a sand bottom, every time I start to get a little paranoid, whenever I go to touch bottom, it's never sandy. I always seem to place my foot in jaw-shaped rocks or some living goopy stuff that feels like shark tonsils and esophagus. Most of the times that I've actually stood up on a surfboard are immediately after stepping someplace shark-like as I rocket straight up out of the water.

Overall, it's been a great deal of fun, even if I haven't always had a lotta good rides. I measure my surf day by the CR:NDE ratio. That's Cool Rides vs. Near Death Experiences. Anything greater than 1 is good (I still don't know how to categorize the limp-arm, mashed-face, kneeling-until-the-pearl-dive rides).

You won't see me in any surfer magazines (except as a poster child for the "Fine the Wallys" campaign), but is a wonderful way to relax and get some exercise and fear for your life. Back before the end of daylight savings time, it was great watching the sun go down on one side with the sun-reddened cliffs on the other, the occasional dolphins surfing a break (they really do that) and the sound of surfers fighting over who was bogarting whose wave. Truly the essence of California. And proof of God.

Footnote: August 2003

Haven't surfed all that much since the above.  But did run into a new wrinkle in the continuing "Surf Whacks Boy" saga: 

Leigh and I like to leave a little souvenir at the beach when we go to the beach to play volleyball.  Sometimes it's a towel.  Sometimes it's a sweatshirt.  Sometimes it's a volleyball.  Last time, since we had our surfboards, was special.  A water jug, a Nalgene bottle, AND a neoprene shirt.  Consequently I surfed topless (it was actually warm enough).  Wipeout Reason #1197: completely smooth, spherical and very slick belly cause surfer to simply slide off the board as soon as the wave inclines the water more than 10 degrees. 

Perhaps the most impressing memory from climbing Kilimanjaro (besides putting the ring on Leigh's finger, "Hurry, it's cold!" was during the pre-dawn full-moon ascent to the summit.  Imagine a moonlit contrail (it looked like one but probably wasn't) drifting sideways south to north towards the peak.  Though still tens of thousands of feet higher than the peak, the contrail bows around the mountain.  The waves are starting to do that around my bulk (I know, I know: I need to paddle much faster).