Deep down in the raw part of his soul, the driver of a new Rolls Royce Phantom knows that he’s a wanker. He cruises past the hoi polloi — this vehicle the heavy metal proof of his wealth — aware that behind every flicker of admiration lies resentment, contempt. This is a very heavy and expensive car. It’s not at all nimble.
I know how he feels because it’s how I felt when I trimmed yet another wave that you could have caught on my two-thousand dollar log. You see, I was sick. The worst part was, I stopped feeling shame. It’s a slippery slope. I needed help.
Blew my knee out a while back. When it started healing, I bought a beat-up longboard – the cheapest possible. All I wanted was to go in the water and catch some waves until I got better. I could stand there and enjoy the view. I encouraged people to drop in on me — this was a necessary and temporary evil.
When I was a kid, I was lead to believe long boarders were second class citizens, only a few rungs above bodysurfers who try to call people off waves (this actually happened the other day and was quite shocking). Whether this is right or wrong is besides the point. It’s just the way it was — I was a child caught in another of the world’s sticky moral webs, robbed of youthful innocence and an open mind.
But I became addicted to the smooth and heavy weight of the board as it moved across the wave.
It felt good and I was happy. This is where my problem really began.
At first it was all a lark. I would accept the dirty looks that skinny little twelve-year-old grommets gave me as I paddled out, because they were on the right side of decency. Small children with rich parents are everywhere at my local beach and they are not scared in the way we were scared when we were young. The world has changed and this is neither good nor bad.
In the bleakness of ‘tradies’ hour’ — 3.30pm onwards — I accepted the scowls and unkind words from the big-gutted and blue-collared. I knew what I was doing was ugly and cruel.
As the months wore on, the sickness cinched its talons into my heart.
I spent a lot of money on a newer, better log. I doubled down a few weeks later, and got a second.
I began to call people off waves.
I sat at the top of the peak and had my fill because I was the king!
I broke the small potato chip boards with my 08 oz Volan rails. Try to burn me and that’s what you get!
Those in the shore break ran and screamed when my board washed in, and when I came to collect it I would laugh because I did not care and I was very ill.
It has been said that to be good at long boarding is like being good at roller-blading: No one cares. But I couldn’t hear you scream and moan. You were nothing to me! I was a degenerate.
Soon enough my knee was fine, and with the first big swell of autumn I was coaxed by concerned friends and family into taking out a shortboard. The first wave — the first bottom-turn that fit into the curve of the wave — was like a cold shower that washed the filth away.
The logs have been sold and I am very sorry. My only hope is that this can be taken as a cautionary tale on the addictive properties of 10 foot surf craft. I will always be an addict. It’s there somewhere deep down in my DNA. Thankfully, I’m now a recovering one, ready to relapse if I make it past 50.
