It is today's laughably sad double bind of being a surfer (or a climber, hiker, angler or any other nature-immersed fanatic) so long taught to hoard our resources, sustain our secret spots and regulate our lineups, that after all these years of personal quasi-hypocrisy we must about-face in such dramatic fashion to sell our lifestyle and usher the hoi polloi into our already over-crowded breaks just to save our own skins, urgently pushing the people around to a sort of D Day of environmental collapse.
D standing for Dumbstruck, as hopefully a population finds itself so instantly aghast that everything they'd suddenly assumed they'd be able to enjoy is also suddenly already gone, that there is a collective, overwhelming moment of reckoning.
We've left the advertising to the despised few, the dreaded, bureaucratic commercializers, diligently consuming their product while brazenly sneering at its disreputable taint, the whole time knowing full well their dirty work is what makes things possible.
But now we all have to get our hands in the muck of sales. Go sing it to the hills. Get every one of your landlubbing, kook, hodad friends and push them into the water, pour them out into the lineup.
Get them hooked. Because then, and only then will they realize they share our pain.
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