Undulation
(an excerpt)
The sand was cold beneath my bare feet. I placed my flip flops in a backpack and pulled a damp wetsuit from a large pocket. The air was light from the East. A front from the North had settled in just offshore within the last couple of hours changing the direction of the wind. A slight chop textured the water, a remnant of the earlier winds, but with a few more breaths from the East the water would glass off. I was conscious of cars pulling in and out of the parking lot, of people walking by along the sand's edge, of random eyes passing over me as I prepared to enter the water. As I was retrieving my wetsuit I caught a glimpse of a magazine I had pilfered from the local café. Some strange surfing magazine, but not really a surfing magazine. It didn't have the requisite 'pro surfers score perfection in badu badu land'. The title was, Undulation, the art of waves. I flipped through the magazine and saw long passages of words without photos or ads, essays and stories. Actually, it was almost void of ads except for a couple at the back, after a contributor's section. It was unlike anything devoted to surfing I had ever seen. Other parts were full of photos of paintings and sculptures and other art all inspired by waves.
I opened a page randomly and began reading.
Surfing is cool. It's like we know something the rest of the world will never understand. The water, the waves, the energy of motion born thousands of miles away, days ago: that's why I come here. I want to catch the final hundred yards of a journey born long ago.
That was then. This is now.
The crowds are increasing. The hunt, the need for waves by ever more people are sucking the life and blood from our pursuit. Surfing is cool, but that's a byproduct. The marketing managers for the big surf conglomerates vying to sell you the latest trend don't want you to understand that. They want you to be cool, so they can be cool and surfing is cool so you will tell a friend and he will tell a friend, and she will tell a friend and on and on and on.
Who will you tell? I hope you tell every last soul that yes indeed, surfing is the coolest and if you don't do it then you are sad. Please tell your brother, your father, the next door neighbor. Write your senator and congressman and tell each and every one of those people that yes indeedy, surfing is the shit. And if they don't understand, tell them again. Because in the end they will understand and with that understanding they will go out and by the stuff, or sell the stuff, they will go to the beach in their stuff, with their stuff and paddle out in their stuff and finally after many years of telling everyone that surfing is cool we will reach the zenith of our pursuit bought and sold at every single convenience store on the face of the planet: buy and sell, buy and sell so we may finally begin to retract from a culmination, enter into a decline and the last of the last will eventually be the only bums waisting their lives baking in the sun, lying on a plank, drifting into oblivion.
I felt depressed, like some huge guy had just kicked my dog and there was nothing I could do about it. I put the magazine back into the backpack and looked at my wetsuit bunched up in the sand. A logo ran along the right sleeve. The same logo was repeated across the back of the shoulders and along the right leg. I looked towards the beach and around the parking lot and everywhere my eyes opened, I saw logos: on surfboards, stuck to car windows, stickers on the bathroom door and pasted onto the outdoor shower. T-shirts, sweatshirts, sweats and hats all displayed some kind of logo. I had never really noticed before. I looked at myself. Flip flops, t-shirt, sweatshirt, hat, backpack, rash guard, booties and wax all with logos. I was pissed. What a dick for writing that crap. Why did he write that crap? Why did I read it? I sat down in the sand. People walked by. Cars pulled in and out of the parking lot and logos danced by attached to every surface. I love to surf. I don't do it just because it's cool. That's bullshit.
“Doode... watcha' doin'?” The voices approached from behind. I turned and saw five heads of shoulder-length blond hair bounce in the breeze. “Hey bro, you look all sad sack and shit, what's weighing you down?” They always spoke in unison, how did they do that?
“Nothing. Just getting ready to surf,” I said.
“Shred, that's what we said and will say again, offshores bra. Better stay out of our way.”
I stood up. “Yeah, totally, offshore.” I heard the words leave my mouth but they felt distant, like I wasn't really saying them. I stepped aside as they walked past. “Hey,” I said. They stopped and turned.
“Hey, watchew want kook?” Each of them spoke with a hint of Hawaiian pidgin. A rush of excitement raced through my body, nervous tension broke my words.
“Hey, uh, so, why do you guys surf?” An incredulous look overtook each face.
“Wha, are you kidding, kook? Did you hear this kook?” Each of them looked at the other, it must have had some sort of mirror effect, they all looked so similar. “Hey bra, if you don't know the answer to that then maybe you should give us that board you got and move inland, because you don't belong.”
“No, no,” I said. Blood pumped into my face, if I had whiskers they would have been standing at attention. Before I could say another word the surf bots were wading through the shorebreak and paddling out to the peak.
I sat for a long while. The words of the essay reeled through my mind. What was that guy really saying? Maybe he was just a bitter old longboarder, wishing for days long gone. Each time I paddle out it seems like at least one of those guys is patrolling the lineup, glaring, throwing stink eye as if a mere look would clear the water. Those guys can be such dicks, never have anything positive to say. Maybe that's how they get waves to themselves, just put out a negative vibe and no one wants to hang around them. That could be one explanation, but only on a sort of shallow level. What I read seemed to be saying more, what I wasn't sure.
The smell of salt and sea air pulled me from my head back to the waves out front. The wind had made a full recovery and now it was coming every so gently from the east. The tide was dropping just to make it one of those moments when all of the elements come together. I took a deep breath, the sea always smells so fresh and clean, and watched the waves. A set came through within a couple of minutes. The first wave of five wave set was about shoulder high, the face touched ever so lightly by the wind giving it that extra moment to pause at the peak, stand and fold over on itself and peel across the reef: perfect. I watched as one of the bots – this is probably the only time they are not in unison – drop in, drive hard off the bottom and obliterate the wave with a vertical hack off the top, reentering and repeating. As the wave continued peeling machine-like down the reef another hundred yards it opened up just enough for the bot to stall and allow the lip to drape over his body to stuff himself inside a small barrel. Considering the conditions and the way he attacked that wave I bet he would have scored at least a 9.67 out of 10 if we were witnessing a professional event. Four more waves came through, each just slightly bigger than the last, the other three bots took wave after wave riding just as the one before, possibly 9.67s all around. Finally, the last wave of the set came through and someone beside a bot dropped in, one of the older guys from town. He was probably in his forties and still riding a short board. Most of those guys move on to longboards by the time they're that old, but not this guy. I have to hand it to him though, he rode it like it should be ridden, not quite bot-like, but respectable.
The sight of those waves reeling across the reef were too much for me to sit idly by. I took off my t-shirt and wrapped a towel around my waist. My shorts dropped to the sand and I stood there in a towel. It's kind of a funny thing, the majority of humanity would not be caught dead standing in public with just a towel on. I wouldn't be caught dead in public with just a towel on except in this one instance, preparing to put on a wetsuit. Sometimes I catch a dawn patrol at a beach break that runs along the western edge of San Francisco. The air is often cold and damp, a fog sits along the coast before the sun rises many mornings and with just a towel on it's basically freezing. While I stand there preparing to don my gear cars line up along the highway carrying commuters to work. Some mornings cars will be parked along the edge of the beach, hatches and trunks open as guys stand in towels preparing for the cold paddle out, behind them commuters creeping along, only minutes earlier donning towels themselves but in the comfort of their private bathrooms.
I jumped into my wetsuit, waxed up my board and waded into the shorebreak. I felt a slight cooling of my legs and feet as the water rushed against the neoprene. My 4/3 was plenty of protection against the cold. Once the water level reached my waist I felt a rip begin to push me south along the beach, each step along the sandy bottom the rip pushed me further from my intended path. I was really excited to get to the lineup after watching the perfection of the last set, but what I failed to realize in my haste was the rip I was currently battling and the next set reeling up on the reef. A small pulse in the swell had increased the height of the waves to at least head high. As the water reached nipple level I hopped onto my board and started paddling hard towards the lineup. With each stroke I moved more south than west. When I finally made it out of the rip I was a good hundred and fifty yards down the beach. I relaxed my stroke and moved into a rhythm, long deep strokes smooth strokes. I could finally feel myself moving towards the lineup. I saw one of the bots drop in and tear into the wave as I had seen before, almost like a deja vu, the way he rode the wave. As he kicked out I brought my focus back to the task at hand. A small band of whitewater approached. I took a couple of more strokes and prepared to duck dive. I pushed the nose of my board towards the sand below, at the same time my upper body moved opposite and the toes of my right foot pushed against the tail. Just before the whitewater reached me I brought my body back to the board and I sank underwater. The duck dive was smooth, I felt the roiling mass of aerated water pass above and I popped up. But this was the first of another five wave set. I had about 15 seconds to catch my breath and continue paddling towards the lineup before the next row came. I rose up from my board, pushed towards the ocean floor and dipped under the energy. This time my duck dive was too shallow and the rush of millions of tiny air pockets caught my body and forced me down and sideways, the board nearly came loose from my hands. I popped to the surface facing down the beach. I righted myself and continued to paddle out. Rows of whitewater approached. The lineup seemed to be further and further away with each stroke. Daydreams passed through my mind. Perfection was waiting, I could see myself watching a set approach, turning, paddling towards shore, the wave rising up, my board catching with one last pull. The pop-up, the drop-in, setting my line and flying through space, embracing the energy of the wave. It's been said a million and one times, but it still holds true, 'only a surfer knows the feeling.'
I set up for another duck dive just as reality hit. I pushed for the floor of the sea, bobbled under the rush of water and popped up, just a little closer to shore than a moment ago. Fuck. My shoulders began to burn. I had been paddling for the last few minutes and I was back to where I had jumped onto my board just further down the beach. I sat up to rest for a moment. The water all around was disturbed with the turbulence of past waves, patches of stark white mingled with strokes of calm blue, the next moment switching blue to white and white to blue again, calm to disturbed and back and forth and back and forth. The ocean outside beyond the largest peaks was calm. I saw a break in the sets, I dropped prone to my board and made for the outside with all the strength I could muster. My chest hovered above the deck, my hands dug deep and strong against the water below. In moments I was beyond the space of my first duck dives. My heart raced, my shoulders burned, but with a bit of luck and work I could be outside before the next set. 'Go, go,' I said to my arms, my back. The surrounding water was calm, a brilliant blue. The light of the sun illuminated the rock reef below. I could see the shadows of sea grass dancing with the currents. I was close. My breathing felt easier, the burn in my arms tapered. My stroke was solid and rhythmic, without the desperation of beating forces I had no control over. I looked towards the crowd that had gathered near the peak. 'Not too many guys,' I said to myself. 'Should be enough waves for everyone.' As I said this I saw each head in the water perk up, look towards the horizon as if they were a tribe of prairie dogs noticing a threat all at once. One guy cried yelled, “Outside!” and I knew I was fucked. The group made a mad dash towards Japan as a large set warped the horizon. “Oh shit, Oh shit, oohhh shit!” The wave began to break on the outside edge of the reef. A massive lip rose up, as the energy hit the reef, the light onshores earlier in the day had increased to steady holding the face up just a little longer. The wave squared off as it folded upon itself. One of the surfers had turned to catch the first set but he was too deep. The wave picked him up and tossed him like a flea. He floated through the air and hit the water in front of the wave. Just seconds later I saw the shadow of a black wetsuit go over the falls. Other guys scratched to make it over the first wave, some penetrated through the face to the other side. Not a soul rode that wave.
I was down the line paddling furiously to make it over the first wave. The ocean steadily rose in front of me. Shadows in the face grew darker as it grew larger and larger. A perfectly formed wave, peeling from go, it was a marvel to witness with such intimacy. It was probably ten feet in the face, not big at all by big wave standards, but from the perspective of lying on a stick of foam, in the Pacific Ocean, the top of my head maybe 18 inches above sea level, with nothing to rely on but experience and the size of my testicles, the wave appeared massive.
As I drew closer my heart felt like it was going to blow out of my chest. Every fiber in my body flexed, I paddled with all my might. It was like a Mack truck was on its way and all I could do was lie there and wait to be steamrolled. The moment came, the lip heaved towards the heavens, I had a moment to decide, drive hard towards the bottom with my board and hope for an opening or bail and swim to the rocks below. I chose the duck dive. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and pushed with all my might and drove the board as deep as I could go. The force of the wave pushed momentarily against my momentum, I thought, 'SHIT! Its got me'. But the wave released its grip and I felt the lip explode just beyond my feet. I had snuck just beneath the lip as it folded upon itself. I passed through the energy and all the tension of being obliterated by the wave released, I floated gently towards the back and popped up on the other side: I had made it. I felt a big sigh of relief as I regained my breath and shook the water from my face. I opened my eyes as I as I took my next stroke towards the outside. A sense of calm quickly turned into panic as my eyes regained focus and I saw the next wave of the set, this one slightly bigger than the last. Immediately, my body flexed again, heart jumped to a thousand beats per second, any calm destroyed by the sight of the next wave of the set.
Bouncing between panic and calm and back again my body felt like it would seize at any moment, but I started paddling for all I was worth. Again the shadows grew deeper and larger as the next wave approached. This next was made scarier with the realization that one of the bots had caught the wave and he was screaming down the line. Quick turns were traded for deep pits and back again. As the wave broke behind him the lip would meet the calm of the water just inside and rebound from the collision throwing whitewater higher than the wave itself. I was mesmerized by the perfection of wave and rider and scared to death of what I had to face at the same time. The wave came closer. I paddled with every ounce of strength I could conjure up. All I could think was, 'me and that bot are on a direct collision course.' If I try and make it over this wave I will probably mess with his ride. An absolute NO! In the unwritten laws of surf etiquette. My stomach sank. I had to turn and make a line that would pass behind him. This was it, write the obit. Right now. Bot shreds again, I'm left in the dust bin.
Defeat and terror gripped all I was worth. A moment later the high-wire tension released just enough that my stroke evened out. In a moments notice I seemed to be moving more quickly through the water. Resigning myself to taking the beating of a lifetime had a much different effect than I would have ever thought. I was actually more relaxed. Maybe I could make it? The words quickly passed through my mind. I took a deep breath and decided 'I can make this.' I pushed harder than ever for the outside. The wave approached, the bot stood in the pocket, the lip squaring off and throwing towards the shore. The wave continued to rise up and at the moment I pushed against my board to duck dive I realized I was too late. I saw the look in the bots face as he realized I we were gonna' meet, pure elation to confused hallucination. Just at the moment of impact he jumped from his board and I ditched mine. He went over the falls, the ride of the month cut short by some fucking kook who had no business being in the water.
I swam for the bottom as total mayhem broke out all around me, water pushing from left to right, top to bottom. But as I took one last stroke towards safety the wave caught my board and pulled me by the leg back into the chaos. The force of the wave lifted me up and I followed the path of the water turning upside down as I was rushed over the falls. It felt like I had been tossed over the ledge at Niagara falls, I was absolutely punished, completely rag dolled as I was driven to the bottom. Twisting back and forth, upside down. By the time the energy subsided I didn't know which way was up. I began to swim once I felt the release. A few strokes and my head bumped against a rock, wrong direction. I turned, my lungs were burning from lack of oxygen, pushed off the reef and stroked desperately towards the surface. Finally, I burst through the turbulence and air rushed into my body. I saw stars and opened my eyes. I felt my stomach grimace and I puked. A few more desperate breaths and I realized the next wave was approaching. The same sense of defeat coursed through my body, only this time I did not experience the calm as before, simply dread. I prepared for the next wave but to my surprise I heard a voice, “...ing kook!” and immediately felt a solid fist upside my head. More stars appeared. I had just enough time to pull in one last breath and the next wave hit. I was driven straight to the rock reef below. A couple of bounces along the bottom and I felt the tug of the leash at my leg. I tried swimming to the light above but the wave drove the board towards the beach, me along with it making it very difficult to make it to the surface. Stars appeared. I felt my consciousness fading. Next thing I knew a voice was breaking through a confused silence.
“Hey bra, you there bra?” I opened my eyes and the bot I had cut off was holding my head above the water. “Fuck bra, you with me now?”
“Dude, what..?”
“Fuck bra, you cut me off and I have to rescue your sorry ass? What the fuck bra?”
I felt minuscule, almost non-existent, like a small turd lying discarded in the gutter, weak without smell or any sense of life. “Sorry...”
“Shit kook. What chew doin' out here? Tombstonin' so I got to rescue your ass.”
“Thanks.”
“Fuck it bra. You better swim in before next set hits...”
“Thanks.”
“And stay out of the water, kook.”
I reeled in what was left of my board, the tail, the nose probably traveling to Kamchatka by now. I watched the bot paddle back out. He made it to the lineup in minutes, one duck dive and that was it, he was ready for his next wave. I felt like a beetle turd. I swam for about thirty yards and I was able to stand on the sand and walk in the rest of the way. I let go of the tail and it floated out to sea until the leash ran taught. Four guys were standing at the water's edge watching the waves.
“Hey bro, how was it?”
“There's some sick ass waves out there,” I said. “But it's pretty heavy.” I tucked the board under my arm.
“No shit, snapped your stick I see.”
“Yeah, have you seen the other end?” I didn't really care about the nose. Frankly I wanted to throw all my gear into a dumpster and move to Iowa at that point.
“I saw some guy pull it out of the water. It's probably up near the seawall.”
Hanging out at my dad's gallery I've often heard the artists talk about having an existential crisis. I always thought they were just talking art speak for the sake of finding meaning to what they do. What is the point of sculpting, really? Or, maybe, what, really, is the point of buying a stick of foam, waxing it up and bobbing around the water waiting for waves that might not even come? Or worse, watch others catch the waves you see in the distance but have no chance of catching yourself? Maybe they had a point? What was I doing? I just got chewed up and spit out, why? What's the point? Is this an existential crisis? Shit, I don't even know what that means. Fucking artists. Fucking surfers. Fuck everyone.