I Don’t Surf

I don’t surf.

I tried. Odin knows that I tried. When I first moved to San Diego back in 2005, I lived just a couple of blocks from the beach at Windansea — a storied surf paradise in La Jolla, made famous by Tom Wolfe’s 1968 anthology, The Pump House Gang. Though known for its breathtaking coastline and stylish homes propped up by generations of old money, the community also boasts a gnarly heroin epidemic and institutionalized surf gangs that ensure that “locals only” get to feast upon Windansea’s sumptuous A-frame waves. I was smart enough to understand that, after I picked up my first board — a glistening white, 9’2” monstrosity — I would not be surfing anywhere in my neighborhood for a very long time.

A friend suggested that some lessons might help and that one of the local fire departments offered them just a few miles up the coast. And so I trucked up to Carlsbad and paddled out with a chilled-out fireman who taught me how to pop up, how to time waves and how to dive under the waves that were too far to ride but too close to avoid. It took me a long time to get that last one. In fact, I still haven’t dialed that one in. But he pushed me into a few waves and eventually I rode a whole bunch of them. At one point, I popped up and looked across my wave and three actual dolphins leapt out in perfect synchronicity about ten meters down. Scared the shit out of me but it was spiritual as all hell. Little did I know that it would be a long time before I rode that many in a single session.

Back in La Jolla, I spent time at Tourmaline — a beginner-friendly break just south of my house. I’d like to say that, like a Johnny Utah montage, I persisted through an endless parade of failed pop ups, wipeouts and yard sales to emerge on the other side as a confident, capable surfer. I did not. The reality was that the failures discouraged me and I didn’t have a whole lot of fun going out by myself.

My friend Steve lived down the road and though he didn’t surf that frequently either, he’d done it longer and was much better than I was. One day he called to see if I wanted to paddle out, so I drove over to his place, we strapped our boards to the roof of my truck and we had a hell of a good time catching waves and talking shit outside the break. It was so much fun that the next day, we did the same thing. We repeated this routine a few times a week for a couple of months and then a whole week passed without us going out. Followed by another. I wouldn’t hop on a board for another five years and when I finally paddled back out, I was somehow worse than before I started surfing.

I’ve tried once or twice in the past 10 years but even when I catch the bug to give in another shot, I feel my right shoulder where my rotator cuff is torn and I know that paddling out over the waves would be an exercise in stabbing agony. Still, I hold out hope that I’ll get back out there at some point — some middle-aged, long-haired kook on his obnoxiously-wide longboard, riding two-footers and scouting early morning surf breaks with a mug of warm coffee. But for now, I’m happy photographing actual surfers.

Last weekend, a friend called to report that the waves at one of the local beaches were going all the way off. She knew that I enjoyed snapping the odd surf session and after hanging up, I promptly cancelled a Zoom call, grabbed my Canon 5D Mark iii and headed to the beach. I got some decent shots and had a nice chat with some of the other surf photographers who’d obviously received the same intel as I had. I enjoyed the editing as much as the shooting. It’s something I’d like to do more often. At least until I get back in the water myself.