“Everything revolves around da guy. Sol to the
other bodies orbiting around, drawn by subconscious social
gravity.”
The Australian summer swell doldrums broken, and the
masses have swarmed. I’m frustrated from a session trying to wading
through the energy of 40 other like beings all trying to get their
share of the first pulse topping over 2ft in months. It
was competitive and cut throat. It was unpleasant. I retreat to the
shore, then the car as I wait on a mate.
I’m resting the eyes in the drivers seat when the cacophony
approaches. I twist my head and squint. Two cars up a group having
just excited the surf has gathered and I’m thrust into the role of
amateur anthropologist.
Boards in bags, wetties striped, the car park hang post surf
banter begins.
These are fine young things. Cord caps, on trend T’s, Spider Web
elbow tats and booshey fringe brand style shorts. Shoeless.
Seemingly both time warp travelers from the 1998 Vans Warped tour
and the very essence of here and now surf cool.
These cunts are loud, crackling the carpark airwaves with loud
quips, claims and curses with the nievity, lack of social awareness
and confidence that only youth gives you.
Their time is now.
At the centre of the chicstorm is da guy.
Da guy is tanned, whippet skinny, shaped quisi mullet mane . His
low rocketed, flashily decedent twin fin rests on the tray of a
decidedly not tradesmanly used Ute. He’s surf famous-ish, you’d
know his face, you’ve seen him surf but he’s peripheral. A
noteworthy surfer, but not a surfer of note.
Everything revolves around da guy. Sol to the other bodies
orbiting around, drawn by subconscious social gravity.
Phone footage is offered to da guy. He squints in closer.
Laughs. Dissects the wave and physical mimics foot placement
stance. Someone offers him food tidbits. A Mandarin slice? Kettle
chips? Others feed him teed up questions on the waves he caught in
his session. The ingratiation dance.
A bloke in a Baja hoodie in 30 degree heat appears hefting a
tripod. Photographer. Photographer dude gets a hand grab pull in
hug from the da guy because photographer is your money shot man.
Keep him buttered up and feeling loved. Back of camera screen
puruesed, much laughing and gesticulation at shots of what I assume
to be da guy doing wave guy stuff.
Loud past and future surf plans vocalised continue to echo
through the carpark, keeping da guy in conversation.
But da guy is not the story. The story is outside of da guy. Da
guy is just our guy. There are da guys all across carparks and
beach zones around the globe all day every day. Da guy exists in
our history and the futures. Da guy is just da guy because he can
surf better than the other guys. NPC everydudes if their surfing
ability couldn’t be parleyed into selling the surfing dream by pick
your poison business interests, but they rip, so ergo status. They
ride on the blessed position afforded them in the surfing social
hierarchy by notoriety and stickers.
I feel smug and self-righteous as I watch.
“Fuckin’ idiots,” I mutter to myself, but deep down I know I’m
no better than these sycophantic others. I’ve been there. I’ve done
the same.
Simped to my surfing betters.
We’re all just chimps and chumps.
