Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Surfing ruined what?
As a certifiable surf sliding super fan I've been weighing in on all there is to see and do in the world and how it is that surfing slyly embeds itself in all my dimensions of thought and intent while I glide through this swell of life. Having been swiftly displaced from my ocean playground like some sort of political refugee, I've been watching one of the best winters in the decade peel by me on a computer screen while I numbly mind surf for hours and hours in my landlocked high desert sick house. There is a common phrase I like to use, at least it's common amongst my surfing cohort and that is "Surfing ruined my life". Now this obviously has sarcasm written all over it but... when I think about the choices I want to make; where I want to live, the people I want to travel with,the things I get most stoked to read or watch, and just what heck I'm going to do with my life, they all have that one pining, itching, commonality of surfing attached. And as the experience grows and the understanding and expectations of what surfing and I together have come to be, it just becomes that much more wonderfully inconvenient. The giddy yearnings for stoke and epic slide time are routinely shut in my face, turning the disappointment and anger into a deeper loathing to surf, "It'll be good tomorrow, I'll go home and read the new Journal or something". The days that slip by that go unsurfed only exercise the brain more and more as it glitches and spazzes like an unleashed dog, wandering off somewhere into a perfect line up. The fire burns hotter the longer it goes without fuel, and it most certainly burns brighter when it's doused with a good clean session. Unlike many other experiences out there where you can go and attain your stoke indefinitely and the resources are not limited, the tightly configured windows of tide, swell, wind, parking spaces,and swelling crowd make surfing most definitely like gambling. And guess what, it's exactly the same elements of adrenaline that we pine for in the gamble for surf. The cringing, butt cheek clinching hope for the best as we march down the trail rounding the bend envisioning perfect conditions is as envisioning those dice tumbling into rest in the money position, screaming "surfs up"! The unknowns in surfing are the magically romantic dynamics that keep the finger surf off the lips at the dinner table and the scattered scraps of perfect wave doodles all over the house a constant reminder that it's inescapable. I personally torture myself by working and breathing surf for a living, I'm a masochist for the slide. Sanity would say you don't shit where you eat, I say "But what if I miss something?" a conversation, a new photo or overhear someone spraying about how there might be a little something for the LEGO.(late evening glass-off)
I've been done since the start, since I saw that first green wall revealing itself in front of me as I slyly avoided it's impending ferocity while feeling the purest flow of energy that I had ever harnessed. Yep, that's usually what does it for most. And I as one more surfisticated sucker for the cause professes my addiction, there way over a million of other people just like me that have discovered the treasure of the ocean slide. And maybe one day surfing too will ruin their lives if it hasn't already.
I wake up in this foreign place these days to a couple of bars of Sex Wax on the table next to my lamp. I'll give them some strong, eyes rolling back to the head wiffs while I lay in my bed and stare at the Tide calender hanging on the wall with a David Pu'u photo of a full golden tube shot. I meander through the spots I would go check if I could and I think about who is out there at that moment doing what fade, and about what the inside sand bars are doing up north. I simmer for a couple moments usually, letting the ride last as long as I can before I get up. A surf check on the web over my coffee is status quo as has always been, and as of late I just can't turn off that ingeniously crass and perfectly scored pirate surf movie. Like other mornings in the past I'll go grab my stick and wetsuit and load em' in the van outside, but these mornings the boards don't go to the beach they just make it to the front lawn for a loathing inspection for the two hundredth time. I've inspected and mind surfed my sticks in the front yard over coffee many o times. Yeah, it doesn't help too much but it reminds me of where I am and how lucky I am, and that I'm going to be able to put those things back under my feet and in the water again very soon. I've seen some dark days over the last few months and seen some things that would even make Mickey Mouse bummed out. I cried and laughed and slept and I even thought I might die once or twice. In the midst of this I'd have to say my motto has changed a little bit since I've battled this thing. I'd have to say "Surfing saved my Life" because If I couldn't have dreamed what I dreamt, and found the life and optimism that surfing gave me I would have succumb to the things you don't ever want to feel or dream. Thanks for Listening, Kenny Bloggins
Posted by Mitch's North at 10:06 AM 4 comments:
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