Party Time

Surfing can be a highly individualistic thing to do. We focus on the wave we are going to ride, all our attention narrowly brought to bear on one thing only, the movement of the water, and how we are going to synchronise with it. The wind, the tide, the swell, the current, the shape, size and type of the board, all these things are important factors that contribute to our engagement with the living water of the ocean, but that engagement itself, that ultimate result of the harmonisation of all those contributing elements, happens between the ocean and one person only. As a broad general rule, not discounting such things as tow-ins. We might paddle out with our mates, and share time in between waves, and debrief afterwards; and, certainly, help each other pick up the pieces and deal with emergencies if and when required. But when push comes to shove, at the very heart of the matter, in the crux of the moment, by and large we are alone with the ocean, for the duration of that ride, however long or short it may be.

     It does not appear to have always been that way. Old movies from the fifties and sixties show party waves with five people or more all sharing the ride, without any apparent concerns about snaking or dropping in, the scourge of our contemporary line-ups. Without legropes, either. One account I have read of “the olden days”, those semi-mythological days of the sixties when surfing morphed from a sport or a leisure activity into a lifestyle, a passion, a culture and, almost for some, a religion, related how during the old days of longboards it was perfectly common and acceptable to share waves with stacks of other people. And how this came to an end with the advent of shortboards. It has been speculated that the highly increased mobility and manoeuvrability of shortboards dictated the demand or requirement that everyone else back off the wave and leave it to the first person on, and this may well be true. Either way the perception shifted, and the norm became one person per wave. And that norm has led, over the years and decades, to plenty of unsavoury incidents of bullying and fighting in what should be, and is, the most exhilarating environment on Earth.

     For myself personally, it is the company that is the most important element of a good surfing session. Sharing good times and great rides with mates, making new friends, spending quality time on and off the water. Surfing for me is an intensely social engagement, and if the people weren’t there it wouldn’t be the same, at all. I can completely and utterly lose myself in the beauty of an unfurling wave, can become mesmerised by the spectacle of colour, movement and living water, and can be totally absorbed by the unfolding drama of a challenging ride and my response to it, as in tune to the eternally shifting patterns of water as I can possibly be, blocking out and forgetting everything else in the world with single-minded obsession. But it’s the people there that make it a glorious experience for me. The laughs and kicks and jokes and challenges and near-misses and encouragement and companionship is what makes surfing an irreplaceable experience for me. Put me out on the most glorious, pure, perfect wave in the middle of paradise by myself with no-one else there at all to share it with, and the world’s greatest wave will lose some of its lustre and appeal. Without anyone to talk to and to share it with it would become hollow and devoid of life. On the other hand, give me an ordinary common break somewhere unremarkable, with a handful of good mates to rip it up with, and I will have the time of my life. There may well be millions of people out there who will disagree violently on this, and so be it. This is just how I feel it.

     It is no surprise therefore that I love party waves. I get the greatest kicks out of sharing a ride with a good mate. Sometimes even with people I’ve never laid eyes on in my life. It has been diplomatically pointed out that potentially quite a lot of those people in actual fact had no desire or intention to share their wave with anyone, least of all me, until I dropped in on them, but that’s just nay-saying and baseless slander, I’m sure.

     On this day the party waves were in plentiful supply. The waves came through at a steady pace, the sky was blue, the sun, when it eventually did come up, shone brightly and warmly, and life was beautiful. The vibe out on the water was fantastic, relaxed and easygoing, with smiles on everyone’s faces. It’s not a given. We get our fair share of dropping-in, snaking, wave-stealing, aggro and shit-fights, down to punch-ons on bad days. This day, none of it. We called each other on to waves, cut back and bottom turned in sync, went high and low and reversed around each other as best we could, and generally speaking had a great time. I shared a wave with the Snake Catcher, uncharacteristically unoccupied with chasing snakes and drop-ins from the line-up, who called me onto his wave. In turn I called onto my wave Full On, who does everything at 200 % intensity compared to everyone else, and she ripped it up in front of me, all the way to woop-woop. I shared a ride and had a great time with a bloke known as the Sleeper, on account of his ability to fall asleep standing up anywhere anytime. People frequently have to wake him up to tell him it’s his turn in the queue at the Post Office. I got the Shredder, mighty Lord Of The Shortboard, to jump in front of me, and he carved that thing into a million pieces. The fact that I actually stacked it, almost took him out and dinged his board in the process is a minor detail and of no significance, or so I have been assured.

     Things had been going very amicably like this for several hours, and it was just about time for the next shift to come in and take over. There was only a few of us crew left in the water. There was myself, the Sleeper, and his brother the Gnome, so-called because he spends his life with his head at waist height, eyeballing, and, occasionally, headbutting, other people in the crotch, from the strategic vantage point of his kneeboard.

     We were sitting there peacefully bobbing up and down, shooting the breeze, when a newcomer paddled up. I caught him out of the corner of my eye, and whipped my head around in a double take. There was this fella on a longboard, long hair, beard. And on his back, arms firmly clenched around his neck, was a baby. I blinked in disbelief. This kid was no more than two years old, a toddler. I leaned forward for a closer look. He was wearing a loose-fitting rashie and tiny board shorts. Nothing else. No lifejacket, no floatie, no life-saving device of any description whatsoever. My mouth dropped open. We were at a pointbreak and not miles away from land, but we were still in the middle of the open water. I couldn’t believe it. I could only assume that bloke was pretty sure he knew what he was doing. Either that, or he was a terminally sleep-deprived new parent that had devised a clever ruse to get some permanent peace and quiet back into his life. We nudged each other and pointed it out, shaking our heads in awe and trepidation.

     Just then a beautiful wave announced its presence. And there was only one thing for it. We spun around and started calling out.

     ‘Everyone, move back! Get out of the way! This wave is for that bloke! Let that bloke get this wave!’

     All around people looked up, saw the situation, smiled. And moved out of the way. Paddled sideways. Most of them strangers, unknown to us by this stage of the session, the Next Shift, no one complained or frowned or argued, no-one insisted on priority or right of way. To a man, woman and child people cleared a wide area around this mad bastard with his two-year old hanging off the back of him like a koala joey, giving him thumbs up, shakas and encouraging grins.

     We turned to the bloke and shouted ‘Go mate! This one’s all yours, go for your life!’

     He nodded and smiled, turned around, and started paddling. The wave passed underneath myself, the Sleeper and the Gnome, momentarily blocking the father and child from our view. I held my breath. I calculated how hard it would be to find a drowning toddler in the line-up, and how long we’d have before he drowned.

     Until, with all the glory of the sun rising from behind the horizon, effortlessly and confidently the back of the bloke’s head appeared from behind the wall of foam, slowly climbed higher and higher, and then finally showed first the two tiny arms clenched solidly around his neck, and eventually the head and shoulders of the baby. Unbelievable. And they rode of into the distance, while everyone around broke out in spontaneous applause, clapping and cheering and shouting with amazement at such a fantastic thing.

     I turned around to the two others, grinning from ear to ear, knowing for a fact that I had witnessed something very special indeed, and looked straight into the brightly beaming face of the Sleeper. We laughed and exchanged thumbs-ups. Then I looked around for the Gnome to check with him.

     And couldn’t find him anywhere.

     Looked left. Looked right. In front, behind. Nowhere to be seen.

     Finally we looked down the line.

     And there, on his knees, trailing mere metres behind the bloke-and-baby tandem that the whole entire line-up had made room for and had cleared out for, was the Gnome, on his kneeboard, carving that wave in the pocket just behind the father. He hadn’t been able to help himself, and had taken advantage of the huge wide area cleared around the dad to snake him and his toddler, and had dropped in behind them. Snaking a two-year old.

     My mouth dropped open again. I shut it with a snap, and shook my head.

     There’s always one, isn’t there.