New Column View From The Hill
Go Surfing marisa breyer
Column by Ryan A. Smith
Ryan A. Smith is a Southern California native who has been surfing since the‘ 80s and writing for surf mags since the‘ 90s. Now a resident of Ojai, Smith scours the shores of the 805 and 310 seeking fascinating waves and ruler-edge stories.
The odds-on bet is you are a surfer. And, if you are a surfer, a real surfer, you literally need to surf. You have to do it. If you go without it for too long, undoubtedly, bad things will happen. There are no two ways about it.
Surfing provides a strange, otherworldly cynosure that we require to survive; it’ s a sanity pill, if you will, a shower for the mind, a semblance of rightness in this backward life. Surfing is necessary to help wash away the daily stress and madness that weigh down the shoulders of a 21st century, post-post-modern existence, even if only for a few, ephemeral, precious seconds.
I am pretty sure you do not think about work or bills or house repairs or the grocery list when you are riding a wave. I know I don’ t. In fact, I do not believe it is even possible to worry about anything while surfing; you are forced to focus on the wave ahead of you, behind you, or atop you and, perhaps, give thought to your surfboard’ s capacities. Go ahead: Try to fill your mind with nonsense next time you drop in to a wave and ride along. Then try sneezing while keeping your eyes open. Nope.
It’ s funny how a sometimes cutand-dry fundamental such as this can get lost in the monotonous shuffle, and also when seemingly obvious, steel-toe boot epiphanies( duh) kick you in the arse. A few weeks ago, for example, a lawyer friend of mine drove up to Ventura from Los Angeles so we could surf a good day
together at a little spot I like to call“ Cecrets.” He was late to arrive, appearing with an appendant Bluetooth pinned to his ear with firm and case babble chirping nonstop.
I stretched my wetsuit on, waxed up, and paddled out, knowing the late-morning glassy condition was fleeting. He sat in the parking lot for an hour, working inside his Tundra cab on a gorgeous winter Sunday as a three-diamond swell was pulsing. When he finally did make it to the beach, I caught up with him along the point— he was irate, rapidly spewing jargon referencing barely decipherable law projects, names, deadlines, two-faced jerks in his office, and the fact he’ d clocked almost three ceaseless weeks of suit-and-tie work. He was clearly disturbed.
There he stood, fullsuit on, log under arm, ocean lapping at his ankles, waves peeling at pace for hundreds of uninterrupted yards, yet no smile shown, no excitement evident at all.
Sideways, quickly, during one of his thin, breath-long pauses, I offered:“ When’ s the last time you surfed?”
He didn’ t know. Maybe since summer. He continued with his diatribe; I looked out toward a large stack building at the indicator.
We waded into chest-deep water, thick eelgrass covering the rocks as we stepped forth, launching ourselves outward. Still, he was gabbing on and on, until he actually raised his gaze and noticed the sizeable, outside set rolling into our cove. He put his chin down and paddled, silently and with purpose.
The bumper sticker says it all.“ A bad day of surfing, is better then a good day at work.”
A few minutes later, floating in the lineup, I urged him into a nice right-hander. Backside, he made the drop and bottom-turned; the long wall ahead stood up and flaunted its curves at him. Admittedly very out of surfing shape and having not paddled for a few months, he surprisingly and perhaps purely instinctively cross-stepped, touched the nose five, backpedaled, drew high and low lines with his heavy singlefin pintail, grabbed a rail to push through a crashing section and repeated his moves all the way to the sand, a good 300 yards from where I sat.
As I watched him casually walk
Ryan A. Smith
back up the point’ s sandy path, I thought to myself,“ He probably doesn’ t even realize what just happened.”
Once back in the takeoff zone with me, he saddled onto his noserider and wiped the ocean from his face, reticently staring out to sea.
“ I bet you weren’ t thinking about work on that wave,” I said.
“ Ha, ha,” he smiled as his shoulders loosened, head bowed, and hands skimmed the cold ocean surface.“ Nope.”
He swung around and paddled into another one.
22 DEEP SURF MAGAZINE March / April 2012