Finding A Way
A Philosophical Rant in Four Acts

Act I: Bobbing for Grommets

I picked up a grommet the other day. I was lining up the inside section at my local beach break when I spied a kid, perhaps eight years old and sixty pounds, dropping in late. On a sponge. Right in front of me. Me and my 10’ tanker, combined weight around 280.

Of course I was too deep to exit in the usual way. Straightening out or bailing presented its own problems, mostly bathers and adventurous waders too close for comfort. The kid’s line was going to deposit him on my deck, so I improvised: I plucked him and his sponge off the face like a cafeteria tray, tucked the whole package under my arm, and stepped forward into the section. It stacked up neatly, all drive, with a civilized exit.

I put him down gently, thinking he might be shaken. “Unreal!”, he said. “That was so cool!” He was shaken, alright - right down to the foundation. He wasn’t injured, but from the look of it, he definitely wasn’t going be the same. Ever.

Then Dad showed up. He wasn’t sure whether to be mad, and he didn’t know what to make of me. But his son’s enthusiasm polarized the issue: as it turned out, Junior had never beaten the section on his own, and had been quite happy for the guided tour. We chatted, Dad shook my hand and we all parted friends.

I still grin thinking of how things must have looked from grommet’s point of view, and I bet he still thinks of it, too. But for me something more profound took place that day than an averted collision. Something that might explain why, despite surfing’s crowds, hostility, and manifold hassles, I still bother to paddle out at all.

Act II: The End Times

My mind has of late been humming with morbid thoughts on surfing: about crowds, about hostility, about sordid changes to the face of the California coast due to development, pollution, global warming, El Nino, and wetsuits made in Indonesian sweatshops (or so I hear). About how the Old Days are gone. About how Malibu has become a point-breaking septic tank populated by transplanted, soulless financial professionals and slimy entertainment executives. About the Palos Verdes Fundamentalist Surf Jihad, coastal terrorists ready to commit acts of criminal mayhem to preserve the next set for the Faithful, or at least the local. About how impossible it must be for a newcomer to learn the ropes without suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous aggro. With such a legacy as this, what could still be good about surfing?

I began surfing in the early 70s, along Northern California’s frigid, rocky coast - the provinces, in those days. Lucky me. Being well out of the mainstream ensured I got my own sweet piece of surfing’s cake before the big crowds arrived. That, and being hardy enough to stand the frigid Northern California water before wetsuits were really effective and affordable.

Even then surfing’s necrosis was well-advanced; by the time I was making my first bottom turn, things were already getting desperate down in Malibu. Nevertheless, I was attracted by the tatters and remnants of surfing’s embattled culture: the loose, casual affect. The unabashed hedonism. The delicious tension of knowing your daily agenda could be obliterated at a moment’s notice with a simple, “surf’s up.” The easiness of beach life. The proposition that you could turn your back on society’s demands and expectations and things could still turn out alright, as long as you had sun and fresh air and open spaces and virgin surf. Who wouldn’t have wanted to participate? The surfing lifestyle had become a cultural touchstone, a bold semaphore for leisure, thrill, and libertinism.

This allure seems to have become surfing's demise; everyone did want to come along, and they wanted to stay, too. Which is how we arrived where we are today. Surfing, seemingly a victim of its own popularity, history and culture, is starting to look quite unsustainable in its present arc.

And things will stay this way - as long as we allow ourselves to be trapped by the icons and monoliths of surfing’s yesterdays. As long as we define surfing as the sum total of its established habiliments, there will be only so much to go around. As long as people are married to the canonical postures, official attitudes, and standard equipment, things will continue to decay as they’re decaying today.

Act III: Get Happy

So, is that it? Is surfing over? Is that all there is?

Not for me. Take away the superficial trappings, and the essence of surfing is still intact and still possible. Take away the foam and the resin, the barrels and the slop, and I still have something to call my own: an orientation, an approach to life. A way of addressing challenge. An culture of open-ended cheerfulness. A secret world where dedication, practice, and understanding of the ocean’s subtle language are rewarded with moments of pure fluid bliss. A kinetic conversation with the sea. An ongoing process of stylistic, technical, and cultural innovation to broaden and enlarge that conversation. Exploration of frontier. A relentless search for a relationship of joy to the ocean.

That’s what surfing has meant to me, anyway. And that’s the connection I made, with a little help from grommet: for a moment, I was able to break out of the one-man-one-wave, longboard/ shortboard/sponge balkanizations and - in my own insignificant and ephemeral way - improvise something stylish, new, and cheerful that brought joy to everyone involved, at least for a moment.

Please don’t think I’m suggesting that longboarders embark on a campaign of plucking spongers from the soup. But if my litany of meta-qualities has anything at all to do with the essence of surfing, then it seems to me that we board surfers aren’t holding up our end these days. In fact, I think we’re being passed up - trumped by others more adept at innovation, improvisation and frontier-bashing: windsurfers, wave-sailors, kite-surfers. Even spongers (!) who fit higher and tighter than two-footed types ever will and who continue to have fun in conditions far too marginal for the rest of us. It seems like these faux-surfing, non-purist, history-less arrivistes are doing what most traditional board-surfers have, of late, been failing to do: they have been finding a way - a way to connect with the ocean kinetically, joyfully, convivially, and sustainably. For me, those ethics have more to do with surfing than any commitment I’ve made to equipment or technique.

Act IV: Bon Voyage

It seems to me that for surfing to stay healthy, its practitioners might take a lesson from Buddhism: embrace change, but hang onto the spirit. Now more than ever - in surfing, as in the world at large - the pace of change is accelerating. Skeptical? Ten years ago I thought Gerry Lopez’s pioneering days were through. I’d never have guessed they’d be towing him onto a 60-foot face from a petroleum-powered water-rocket, with a wave-running orbital reentry/deep water rescue SWAT team standing by. Five years ago I’d never have guessed some guy in France would be jumping swells propelled by a stack of high-powered, steerable kites. Who knows what’s in store? Super-buoyant, structured wetsuits might bring bodysurfing back into the spotlight. Sponging might twist itself into a virulent new mutant strain of kneeboarding. Hell, I hear paddling is making a comeback.

Maybe in 50 years the foam-and-resin, paddle-and-standup set will have fossilized completely. Does that mean that surfing will be dead? I don’t think so - there aren’t many biplanes or dirigibles in the air these days, but that doesn’t mean aviation is dead, either. Does that mean that we’ll no longer be “surfers”? Perhaps. But as long as we’re stoked and we’re connected to the ocean, will it matter what other people call us?

The point, it seems to me, is that the history, culture, and practice of this thing we’ve all been calling “surfing” has a recognizable spirit which commands us to gather up the essentials and find a way to enjoy and connect. I would argue that if you’re not enjoying and connecting each time you get in the water, you need to ask yourself why. Maybe it’s time to find your way.

Finding your way is your own personal journey, and there are as many paths as there are surfers. Who knows what yours might be? Maybe it’s a tow-in. Maybe it’s finding the generosity within yourself to share a wave with a stranger. Either embraces the spirit. Either is revolutionary.