Thursday, August 31, 2006

Zen and the Art of Making Peace with Your Inner Good Surfer


If ‘it’ has to be explained, you don’t have ‘it’ – Anonymous



“How long have you been surfing?”

“For years now.”

“You must be a good surfer, then.”

I am not a Good Surfer. San Francisco’s Ocean Beach and Santa Cruz’s Pleasure Point are home, I have surfed Baja, Tahiti, Hawaii and Europe, taken surf trips to surreal places worthy of features and spreads in magazines, and even lost women in part because of the sport’s influence. At first glance, I certainly am a surfer. I catch waves, have as much fun as anybody and respect the beauty of it. But I am not a Good Surfer. And now that I’ve relocated about as far from a surfable wave as you can get in America, my legacy back home will remain that of not a Good Surfer.

Every surfer, from the guy paddling into an ankle-high easy ride to the Water God getting towed into Jaws at 30 miles an hour, has at least a few commonalities: ambition, motivation, and the ability to stand on top of a moving board. But Good Surfers? They have more. They have patience. They have effortless balance, faith, understanding, a little luck and most importantly, they have The Glide.

I didn't know what the difference was or what I was doing "wrong." I was persistent in my surfing. I remained dedicated to the effort and amazed by its control over my psyche. I was constantly observing, analyzing my own actions in comparison, and very often ended up wondering where the disconnect was that led to my constantly “unsuccessful” undertakings. Things this difficult and frustrating normally get tossed to the “tried it and it never took” wayside within a few tries. But I remained vigil in my intense attack on attaining the surf pinnacle – The Glide.

I never attained it, never knew why, and given my new geographic location, resigned myself to the nagging reality that I never would.

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Unexpectedly, I returned home to the ocean for a week. Of course, a return to the line up excited me, but there was something different about my sense of this opportunity to surf. Because my return felt like a gift, a bonus, there was no intended approach, no self-applied pressure to improve. There was only a subtle and new urge to ignore the short boards I had spent so much time trying to master, dust off “Shorty,” the ironically named 8’3” funboard I caught my first wave on, paddle out to the 3rd peak of the Point, and have a few easy rides on my old buddy.

And as I sat inside at a break that is no longer “mine” on an otherwise unimpressive summer day, knowing that the countless sessions I toiled to become a Good Surfer were behind me due to my current landlocked residence, that my goal was not going to be met, I let it all go. The years of slamming down the faces of whiplash K-mart closeout specials, shivering in the shark-infested unknown of dark dawn patrols at empty, eerie breaks, flailing like a dishrag in the dryer trying to master boards made for people smaller than me, the naturally-evolved group pressure to become as good as my surfing cohorts. My grip on trying to master the ocean loose, my surf lobotomy in full effect, I lost it all, and got EVERYTHING. I finally began receiving the liquid frequency the ocean’s been broadcasting to me for years. Relaxed and dumb, I casually pointed my large non-shredding float machine down the line, and let the astounding physics take control.

Like a hawk suspended in a thermal uprising, with the weightless balance of a floating hangglider, the wave lifted me to my own surf joy, I was completely alone, and only after I had turned my back on the ocean and returned with an empty mind, did I begin the process of harnessing The Glide.

I’ve been raked across a reef in Raitaia, slammed into the sand and held by an Ocean Beach A-frame monster, stranded outside of a Rockaway wall with no reasonable way back in, yelled at and threatened by locals in Santa Cruz, and yet all it took was an unremarkable, waist high sunny summer day slow roller for me to begin my endless ride as a Good Surfer.

Maybe you’re a surfer. Maybe you have no idea what the real difference is between yourself and a Good Surfer. If that’s the case, I can only tell you not to care, because I certainly can’t explain it to you.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Manifest Destiny Rebound: Pointless Endeavors-Denver Established


A year short of 30, I decided to drop most everything in my beloved West Coast Wonderland to chase a girl half way across the country.

Family, a tribe of friends, a movie set city and quick access to every single one of my self-indulgent outdoor and indoor vices couldn’t, against every logical synapse firing in my head, hold me back from going after her and landing here in Denver, CO.

Because of love. Because I have no idea what’s going to happen: adventure defined in simplest terms. And a life ruled by aversion to adventure doesn’t allow for the reward inherent in the risk. Because in life there is no exchange policy, and at least once you’ve got to relax, slack the shoulders, and yell ‘Ah, fuck it’ in the direction of a major purchase and watch your own private chaos theory unfold.

Yes, it’s one of the most Pointless Endeavors to date.

And you, Kiddies, are all privy to the leap. Thanks to the miracle of Al Gore’s modern technology, the uniting folks at blogger.com, and my boundless flair for the creative license, I’ll be reporting the Pointless Endeavors of Colorado in this space. If I’m lucky, it’ll document an extension of the many ridiculous (-ly f*ckin cool) stunts, pickles, thoughts and acts of ‘endearing’ alienation in which we found ourselves pantless or hurt back in California. Maybe it’ll be pictures, videos or stories of new ski gear and how it was broken, Bora Bora, jumping out of airplanes, travel do’s (bring your passport) and don’ts (if it’s been expired for 20 years), the art of wearing a fake mustache, suffering through a triathlon for the first time, the zen of large auto parts landing on your head, getting yelled at by local surfers, Vegas baby, black furry apres-ski boots, a guy named Dirty who’s a veterinarian in Manhattan, cooking show therapy, the value of a good stuntman, the joy of having so many best friends that you have to hold a two day, ten person contest to see who will be your best man, the best excuses for ditching work, the miracle of tequila, sand, foam, WHATEVER. I promise it’ll be pointless and I also promise at the very least you’ll find perspective. Because if anything else, you’ll be glad it wasn’t you who was lifted off a river, via rescue helicopter, for essentially no reason at all.

The West Coast was home – I know how much ass it kicks and I’m sure I’ll be back. But for now, I’ll ride this Manifest Destiny Rebound and stake the Rockies as my new frontier, preaching Pointless Endeavor gospel to fellow skiers, climbers, bar patrons and embracers of the silly.

Cheers.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Pointless Endeavors Defined


Pointless Endeavor:

An earnest and conscientious effort towards a goal devoid of meaning; to work with set purpose to achieve absolutely nothing.

A regressive yet highly entertaining approach to life unconsciously developed by a debilitatingly tight-knit tribe of friends in Northern California. Normally used in reference to reasons for skiing, getting naked, rock climbing, air guitaring, surfing or drunkenly “tagging” others in their crotch region. Also used in reference to their dating potential, seemingly irrational decision-making, and mission to rid the world of self-importance and pretense through public displays of stupidity and humiliation.

Usually results in injury; ALWAYS results in fun.

For more on the Pointless Endeavors, check out the (fittingly) unregularly-updated blog, pointlessendeavors.blogspot.com.