|A couple Summers ago, during a more blessed time. Mastastico in the foreground, EBNY in the background|
Foto by Johnny Panessa
Hurricane Danny. You jerk. The recent troubles that have beset my surfing life have become the stuff of legend (in my own mind.) So much so that I've taken to unfollowing my Instagram friends who post too many images of themselves surfing or enjoying the waves in any way. I can't tell if this is an adolescent reaction to a nonexistent dilemma or whether it's a nonexistent dilemma created by an adolescent reaction. Unpack that. Anyhow, Danny swirls and swirls, pasting the shore with perfectly little lumps of aquatic gold. Just my size, just my temperature. And here I am, finally on vacation, a couple weeks stretching in front of me, at least one of which will be spent staring at a placid, riderless sea (rocks and sheep.) Certainly not the generously unfurling lines in full blossom of early Autumnal fun.
And this all makes me think of the triple bind that is surfing:
1. Embracing the hurricane swells we take the most enjoyment from things that cause devastation and misery.
2. Partaking in this most arch of climatic activities, we often employ some of the most environmentally hurtful processes.
3. This bliss inducing activity is the bane of our peace of mind.
I'm not sure how I feel about Beach Grit. I like Derek Reilly's hip stuff well enough. I enjoyed that Chas Smith book where he talks about smoking all the time. But I also feel like that whole endeavor could be weirder. It has this fringe/mainstream mode it runs in, almost to the point of being very, succinctly straight. It's the insider's club making insider's jokes. Where's the weird?
Well, here is something lovely they posted not to long ago courtesy of Rory Parker:
The question is, when do they get the cease and desist letter from the Frenchies?