Fighting Weather

The other day I walked down to farmers’ market to buy some vegetables. It was the kind of warm, beautiful day that California uses to seduce us into continuing to pay our absurd rents to live here. Between the avocados and the lettuce, I ran into a friend who surfs.

We got to talking about the forecast, because what else are surfers going to talk about. We talk about waves. How were the waves today? When are there more waves coming? Single-minded, focused, that’s what we are. Too bad we aren’t focused on something slightly more productive, but I like us just fine the way we are.

There were waves that day, and more on the way. The weather promised to be perfect, which also meant that lineups would inevitably be crowded. “It’s fighting weather,” I said to my friend, and he knew exactly what I meant.

It’s true that it’s been a while since I last saw an actual surf fight. The ubiquity of cell phones and Surfline cams has made these things much less common, and that’s almost certainly for the best. But if I’m honest, I’m forced to confess that it is fucking hilarious to see men fighting over waves, of all things.

The last time I saw one of these fandangos unfold, I didn’t see what started it. I’m sure it was something stupid. It usually is. Oh no! Someone stole the wave that totally belonged to me! Now I must yell loudly!

I heard some guy yelling, which isn’t that unusual in a crowded lineup. But then the yelling dude started chasing the other guy through the inside. Then they were on the beach. There they were, standing there in neoprene, and one guy was yelling and throwing absurdly ineffectual punches. It looked super silly.

I confess I couldn’t look away, and in fact, I’m glad I did not, because the finale was pure perfection. The fight-starter grabbed the other dude’s board, threw it on the ground, and jumped up and down on it like a toddler throwing a tantrum. I’m pretty sure I laughed out loud. I may have even pointed.

The board proved surprisingly resilient. I did not really know that a surfboard could take this kind of abuse. After much effort, the jumping man managed to break off one fin. The poor, hapless board started with three fins.

About halfway through this ritual, the man seemed to realize how stupid he looked. Stepping off the board that he couldn’t actually break, he switched to yelling and gesturing until he ran out of steam. Then the other dude picked up his much-maligned board and walked off.

I definitely felt like this whole interaction solved many problems. Which problems, it’s was not at all clear. But for sure it was a good solution to whatever happened out there. Good talk, dudes, good talk.

There is, each January, a brief period of false summer here in California. Bright sun sends sparks across the water’s surface. A warm wind winds through the canyon, kisses the breaking waves, and sends spray flying to the sky. We discard hoodies and beanies, and walk down to the beach in t-shirts and shorts.

For an hour or two, we try to pretend that the world isn’t burning around us, but it is, and we can never entirely escape that reality. For one thing, the smoke-filled skies and burned out houses are hard to miss. The things we love are more fragile and ephemeral than ever. The losses keep coming. All we can do is hold on.

And on the warmest days of winter, you would expect that good weather and perfect waves would make people very happy. You would think that this would be an ideal combination. You would be very wrong.

The weather brings out the crowds and somehow that collision between too many people and too perfect weather makes tempers flair. Everyone just wants a wave so badly, and there’s never enough to go around. So, the shouting starts.

It’s easy to imagine surfing as idyllic floating around in the ocean. And sometimes, it is. But too often we paddle out, and all hell breaks loose. It’s like driving the 405, if driving the 405 happened in water with pointy fiberglass sticks. Just me, over here, paddling around, people all around me, pointing their boards at my head, while I’m getting smashed by set waves. Good times.

I like to say that surfing has taught me patience, and it’s true that it has. I can stare at the horizon and wait for that tell-tale bump of a coming wave to appear. I can paddle out in the wind, and keep paddling and keep looking until I find a wave that works. And mostly, I can handle the crowds. After all, I am the crowd, too.

So, when fighting weather comes around, I know what I’m going to get. I still go down to the beach, because it’s not like I’m going to stop surfing. But I show up ready to appreciate whatever absurdities I happen to see. When the frustration starts to kick in, I paddle out to sea and look for dolphins. Or, I go in, lie on the beach, and take a nap in the sun. There are worse ways to waste an hour or several.

And there’s always a chance a good one will come my way. When it does, I feel that beautiful rush of falling down the face and the joyful speed off the bottom. I lean hard into a turn and watch the spray fly up around me.

The wave walls up in front me, and taking the invitation, I push the board harder. The breaking wave roars behind me and yet I can somehow still hear the soft snick of my board on the water’s surface. I feel the soft brush of the wind on my face as everything dissolves into color and speed. It feels like forever and no time at all.

All the hassling and fighting falls away in this one beautiful moment. Is it worth it? Fuck yeah, it is. And nothing will keep me from coming back for more. California, you earned that rent today.