What depresses you? The Islamification of Europe? A nuclear Iran? Being called a fag by tradies every time you wear a tight tee and
spraypainted jeans? If you’re of a stripe that values surfing
above all, it’ll be the act itself that kneecaps you.
Surf literature follows a simple pattern of loss
and redemption. Every story must conclude, by teen
publisher law, with a magical epiphany. Essential
factors in these epiphanies include dolphins or
rainbows, clear-water duckdives and a folding lip that
momentarily surrounds the writer.
However, once sold the dream by these
intellectually-stunted evangalists, you might begin
to feel a little short changed. Because surfing is not
always great; it’s not always even good. Sometimes
it’s fucked. And sometimes you’ll realise that far from
creating a pool of highly-evolved humans, surfing has
the habit of creating arrogant xenophobes.
I’ve ridden in the front seat of surfing’s
emotional rollercoaster from pre-teen to adult. And,
like an epileptic or a schizophrenic, I can recognise
the symptons that indicate the onset of a depressing
episode. Three factors.
- A bad surfboard. It’s always boards that are too thin, too narrow and too curved. Nearly all of us have been denied the athleticism, desire and natural balance to surf like a professional and therefore cannot ride a board designed for one. It’s a dreadful reality to face. Even when I wrote that last sentence, with its admission of failure, it was just about enough to make me want to bench my sleds. Bottom line: an unforgiving surfboard erodes confidence. Surfing is hard enough when you’re at your peak let alone when you’re of feeble mind. If you get a reliable sled, stick with it. There’ll come times when you still think you can ride a pro board, of course. And when you do? Dark days, my friend.
- A bad crowd. Euro crowds are the worst. Worse even than the Hawaiian, outer-island Tahitian and the Balinese who will bark, unprovoked, at you to go in, to fuck off or to die on the spot. Why are the Euro crowds so bad? Because you can’t work out where you fit in the pecking order or what’s going to happen when a set comes. In Hawaii, Bali, minute portions of California and great parts of Australia, the best surfers get the best waves and no one rocks the boat. In Europe, every beginner from Munich to Zurich stubbornly asserts his right to set waves. Got the best waves in the world, Hossegor? Not real good if there’s a dozen surfers falling out of the sky or that Swiss kook just paddled inside you after his last wave and he’s now screaming in one of his three gutteral tongues for you beat it.
- Alpha males. A man don’t wanna be a Beta, in surfing, life or in love. More talented surfers in abundance bring me down and shatter my sense of ID. I know, I know, it contradicts the previous point. I’m a mess!\
Apart from all that, the month
ended with an awesome spat with Surfing
magazine. To cut a mostly pointless intermagazine
story short, I described their
out-of-office editorial meeting in Baja (featured online)
on our website as gay. I also described all surf magazines,
including us by implication, as the lamest, dullest, most
pointless murderers of paper on the planet.
The response from the magazine was furious.
From the editor, Evan Slater, via email: We didn’t
murder any paper, you homo. It was an online story. Is this
a declaration of war? We love a good battle.
The photo editor chimed in with three phone
calls at two am: “That’s so…uh…ga…uh…lame. Isn’t that
the kettle calling the kettle black? I know you use the gay word
a lot and you were the first to have a gay surfer on the cover
but, dude, I’m just appalled that you’d say that, dude. If
you’re trying to stir us up or whatever, dude, guess what,
y’know, you did. Unbelievable. Fuck you, dude! Like, you
guys are the gay mag. But, uh, (kinda sputters here), WHAT
THE FUCK! I’m appalled! Fuck off.”
That voicemail was complimented by an email
that read, in part: If your done with me and my photos(like
a discarded male whore working Sunset Blvd.) then I guess
it’s war time. DEATH FROM ABOVE mother fucker..
WE are on top. It’s on... General Steve” Paper Murderer”
Sherman.
But just when a throwaway line on a website
threatened an amphibious invasion by war-hardened
US marines and their accompanying Halliburton
contractors, another email from the editor was
received. It featured an attached photo (inset) with
the conciliatory message: “Sherm and our art director,
Chato, wanted me to forward this to you. We still love Stab!
We still love you! Evan.
A surf mag with a sense of humour? There's still reason to hope - Derek Rielly. oxoxo
Posts: 1
Reply #1 on : Thu December 13, 2007, 18:32:06