localswell

Uh oh, here come the grownups.

 They’ve already ruined baseball. They’ve sucked the fun out of soccer. And now they’re after our boardsports.

The Star-Ledger reports today on a Point Pleasant dad who is launching the Action Sports Association, described as a non-profit that will organize skateboarding, BMX and in-line skating, creating a “federation of school and community X-treme sports programs.” The Rutgers business school is involved.

“I’m trying to create an awakening in the citizenry of New Jersey to the upside of the industry of action sports,” the creator, a father of two from of Point Pleasant told the paper.

There you have it: Little League for skateboarders. Oh, brother. The entire premise is entirely anathema to the true essence of skateboarding, a sport which thrives without structure, without rules, without a field or boundaries or coaches.

In fact, one of the reasons so many kids have flocked to skateboarding, surfing and other sports like them over the past decade is to get AWAY from their parents, from coaches, from adults. They cling to something adults can’t understand, or better yet, something they decry and shun. To organize it, to set rules, to form leagues, to have parents hovering over young groms and putting on the pressure, is to suck the marrow out of the sport.

The ASA founder says kids need a proper place and organization that allows them to practice and compete.

But even that runs counter to all that makes skateboarding, BMX, and other extreme sports great. The greatest force pushing skateboarders’ performance has been its dismissal by the mainstream.

Pushed into  the most unwanted crevices of the landscape – empty swimming pools, sewer drains, parking lots -skateboarders got creative, reinventing the landscape and the sport itself. Imagine if the Dogtown crew had parents who built them a playing field, drew up a set of rules and hired coaches to teach them what skateboarding was supposed to be back in the 70’s. The sport would be ten years behind where it is now.

Why can’t the grown ups just stay out of it?

We’ve already seen this in other sports. I have long held the start of  Little League baseball in the 50’s marked the beginning of the end of US dominance in our national pastime. If it weren’t for imported talent from Latin America, the Major Leagues wouldn’t be nearly what it is today. The United States simply doesn’t produce the baseball talent it once did. And one of the main reasons is that kids simply don’t play baseball on their own any more. They only play in leagues, with games played in front of screaming coaches and hovering parents.

I spent a summer in Cuba, where, like the Dominican Republic, there’s a baseball game on every corner. Kids grow up loving the game, unpressured by hovering parents. And that love fuels their work ethic and their drive later when they enter organized competition.

Before the parents took over, baseball in the US used to be like skateboarding.  Kids invented their own games, playing stickball with a broomstick and a Spaldeen or wall ball or halfball. It’s how Wiffleball was invented.

 It was still that way in the 70’s, when I spent my summers playing stickball on a schoolyard so packed you had to wait for a game. When I go back to the playground where I used to play stickball, there’s no one there. They’re all at practice, getting yelled at by coaches and parents.  

Soccer proponents wonder why so many kids play soccer at a young age, then drop the sport. It’s because the entire sport in the US is organized, from age 3 on up. Soccer never went through a stage when kids just played, on their own, without their parents. So kids never learned to love the game. And as soon as they’re old enough, they quit.

Today, in the US, the only kids I see playing on their own, doing their own thing are the skaters, the surfers, the BMX kids.  Man, how my heart leaps those days when I see a group of kids skating in a supermarket parking lot, taking turns, trying to outdo one another, trying to hone new tricks.

And those afternoon days in the fall when I paddle out in Bay Head and see groups of young groms who rode their bikes over from Brick, talking trash, dropping in on one another, pushing themselves without even knowing it.

I fear for the day when I pull up to the beach and that scene is replaced by “surfing practice” led by a middle aged coach leading kids in wavecatching drills or some other parent-concocted nonsense, practicing for the big match.

 I fear for that day. But I think it’s coming soon.

 Peace, BD.

    As I sat at my computer on a flat day looking at all the regular surf websites I found myself becoming more and more frustrated. I was was becoming angry, tense and irritated. Three of the main reasons I surf are to clear those feelings, so why when I am trying to relax was I feeling like this? Then it hit me. As I was trying to look at surfing, I was being force fed “SURFING”. It was making me nauseous. I stepped away from the computer and tried to recognize what had just happened. My surfing, was not the “SURFING” that I was finding.

“SURFING” for the rest of this article will refer to one quote taken from Out of Order. The simple statement was “I surf!” At the time I heard it I thought it was just a funny quote on how everyone these days claims they “surf.” But looking more and more at those simple two words I have come to find that the reason I got so tense on the computer was that the surf industry is catering to the “I surf” crowd. Don’t believe me? Next time you are on the beach look how many people are wearing the Andy Irons boardshorts, or Parko’s or the New Fanning Lighting Bolt shorts. Then take a look to see how many of them have any interest in surfing. Still not convinced? How many people at your local break do you think are actually skilled enough to ride a Fire Wire board because they need the added flex of the parabolic rail? Probably the same amount that needed the new $300 dollar sneakers to be a better basketball player. No? Still not convinced? Then tell me why the most popular selling boards are soft tops or plastic molded style boards? Easy answer…because they allow the “I surfs” to cheaply afford a board they can drag around and strap onto their cars the wrong direction. (for those of you who don’t know it’s tail first)

“SURFING” has become Nike’ized! What do I mean? Look at footwear and sports clothing up until about the early 80’s. Cheap only a few choices (black or white converse) but they served their purpose. Then we got the Air Jordan’s, of which I myself was a victim. All of a sudden sneakers became $100+. Did they jump for you? Did they make you faster? No. The people who wore them were the best athletes in the world regardless of what shoes they wore. But masses of people saw them wearing these shoes and needed them so they could ” “Be Like Mike.” Sports gear became common everyday attire. It spawned sub-cultures (wiggers, hip-hops) and also became status symbols. If you could afford the two hundred dollar shoes you must be good at sports!

Flash forward 25 years and here it is happening in our sport! We went from pure sport to pure sport culture. A sport that was wrapped up in itself and its way of life has turned into the modern day whore of the sports world. We have our subcultures too. Come on how many people dress like “surfers”? That is a subculture, the people who wear it but have nothing to do with the actual sport. What is so amazing about skate shoes that they cost $80? Why do flip flops cost $45? Because they have a bottle opener in them? Here is a hint. Buy the twenty dollar flip flops and a $.99 sent opener, save twenty five dollars and fill up your gas tank and enjoy a beer that wasn’t opened by a flip flop that may have stepped in dog S@#T! Why has so much of our once close knit surf culture become so far out of reach. Because we are popular now! The Fanning’s, Taj’s, Parko’s, Irons’s and Slater are our Jordan and LeBron. I guess what sent me over the top was after seeing all of this stuff on the computer I turned around and my brother was wearing Volcom basketball shorts. The meshing, literally, of our sport and sports culture had become complete.

I guess the point of my massive rant is that I love surfing. I love going surfing, I love photographing people surfing and I love to talk about people surfing. I hate seeing surfing whored out to the highest bidder. I respect people who surf for the pure love of it and I am envious of anyone who can make a living doing it. Just keep in mind what you are representing when you sign your soul and the sport of surfing’s soul on the dotted line.

I hope in the upcoming months I will share more of the many positive sides of surfing that I live for. But it is hard to ignore the worlds’ ugliest boardshorts constantly being thrust into my face on the computer and in the magazines. Does surfing need “Air Jordan’s”? No but “SURFING” does! Which one do you do?

(please feel free to respond even if it is just to tell me i suck because i dont care! No i like feedback, negative or positive)

Going to college in Florida was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. A 3/2 is the most you’ll be wearing, there’s always plenty of chicks in bikinis, there’s always somewhere to go drink, and there’s also some damn good fishing. Upon returning to Florida after four months of starting anew in California, things picked up right where they left off, and it was like I never even left. And with that comes the one nuisance of being in Florida: the surf ‘picks up.’

While Florida is being ‘graced’ with two-three foot mushburgers, a thousand miles up the coast New Jersey is seeing a solid swell. Then the phone calls start from the boys at home: “Hey Ry, it’s been pretty fun up here. Chest to head with some little barrels here and there. What’s it like down there? Any fun ones?” As friends inform me about their current sessions, down here the wind has got a lot of north in it and the current is whipping down the beach, while the surf is dribbling in. Damn it.

Then the photos come and it’s frustration and despair all over again. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my years spent in Florida it’s that, unless you’re at some of the primo spots down there, when Florida gets swell it’s ok, and when Jersey gets swell it gets good. I’ve probably just nixed any chance for myself of getting any waves while I’m in New Jersey for only a week this spring, but so be it. And while I’m back I bet Florida will be seeing the swell of a lifetime. I guess that’s just how it goes sometimes.

Why ragdolling? I feel compelled to explain the name of this blog.

Riptionary, the online surf dictionary, defines the term as “to get drilled, rolled and tumbled by a breaking wave.” It’s a bit more than that - it’s that time when you’re bouncing around underwater, hitting the bottom, unsure which direction is up or down, literally tossed like a helpless pile of rags. 

I want this blog to be about surfing, and life, and the intersection of the two. More often than not, it’s not the perfect rides that are really analogous to anything we experience outside the water. It’s ragdolling. It’s being tossed around by some force a million times greater than yourself, unsure where you’ll end up.
Life is not a long, glassy wall. More often than not, it’s the soup.

I remember a crucial point in the process of learning to surf. It was the point at which I started actually finding pleasure in ragdolling. I would simply marvel at what the ocean was doing to me, and grew to like it.

And it came after I learned that the secret to getting through it, to saving your oxygen and making it to the surface, is in becoming a true ragdoll - going limp, not fighting, not swimming, not trying to get to the surface. Just relax, let the wave go on and roll past and expend its energy.

The lesson tranfers well to real life - one of a zillion lessons surfing has taught me about life. The older I get, the more I find there’s lots of things you can’t fight.  Lots of things bigger than you than can toss you around and make you feel small, like a ragdoll. You need to know when to let go, relax, and wait til you float to the surface. You will, eventually, float back to the surface, but only if you know how to ragdoll.

   

I consider myself an honest guy. I don’t cheat on my taxes. I don’t cheat on my wife. My career as a journalist, my very livelihood, depends on sources and people being able to trust me. But when it comes to surfing, I’m a lyin,’ cheatin’ cad.

People will read this, obviously, so I can’t recount all the fibs I’ve told to bosses to sneak in a few waves when I should have been at work. All the little lines I’ve used to skirt out of some stuffy inland social event that would keep me out of the water. Heck, sometimes I tell stories, not even sure it’ll allow me to surf, but just because I know the waves MIGHT be good that day.

Recently, though, I had one event that may have been my low point. If surfing were drinking, or drugs, or some other unhealthy addiction, it would have been intervention time. It was, you see, the day of my father-in-law’s wake.

We had spent the year shuttling back and forth to my wife’s parents’ house in Pennsylvania while her dad battled brain cancer. He passed away one Saturday in late January and I returned solo to NJ for two days of work with plans to return  for the wake Wednesday evening. But there was surf that day. Good surf. Good, empty, offshore New Jersey winter south swell surf. So I had to sneak in a session before heading to PA. I needed it – I craved the peace and quiet, the energy I get from surfing. Some people pray. I surf.

But still there’s no way in hell I should have gone. But I did. And of course, time kind of got away from me. It was one of those great, late morning, mid winter, mid week sessions. One other guy out, he and I trading wave after wave, barrel after barrel. All ours. And of course, time got away from me.

Hours later, there I was, hurtling in my Hyundai down the Pennsy Turnpike, late for my father-in-law’s wake. “You’re late for your wife’s dad’s wake because you went surfing?’ I said to myself. “You need some f-in help.” When I finally arrived at the house, my wife was there, in tears of course. “My god,’’ she said. “I was waiting to see you and thought you’d be earlier.” I said nothing, just hugged her, ashamed. 

What is it about surfing that makes me put so much at risk? There are sick days I’ve taken where, at that moment when I’m calling work from my cell phone on the boardwalk, I really, truly couldn’t care less if I got caught and lost my job, my home, whatever. So long as I didn’t miss that day in the water.  That session the day of my father in law’s wake was probably the only time I’ve ever gone surfing and not told a soul where I was, or that I had gone surfing at all. An utterly secret session, until now. I’m coming clean.  

Later, that night at the funeral home, we were standing in a group; my wife and I, a few friends, family, laughing and crying and remembering mi suegro (father in law). I was carrying a tissue to keep the post-surf nose drain from soiling my black suit or gushing out as I shook hands of the guests arriving to pay their respects. My buddy JG, a surfer, walked up beside me and asked, “Did you get out this morning?”“No, way,” I said, loud enough for the group to hear. “I couldn’t. Had to get up and come here.”

 Aaaay. Forgive me, Suegro, for telling lies at your wake. Forgive me, D-bomb, my beautiful wife, for being late in your greatest hour of need. I am, after all, a liar. A cad. A cheat. A surfer. 

(there’s a comment function here – would love to hear some other stories of scams people have pulled in the name of surfing) 

 Peace, BD.