A Real Man, De-Pantsed by the Surf

Alright, this is directed to all you real men, real surfers, real watermen out there. I once stood proudly among your ranks---strong, unaffected, immortal, a genius even. "You shoulda' been here fifteen minutes ago," you'd proclaim. "It was a lot bigger and the wind was still offshore. You really missed it." You just knew you were the man.

I had this shell cracked wide open two particular times and countless other times. (I'm sure you've had your dose as well. Confessions can be left in the "Comments" section following this blog post. We'd love to hear your story.) I wasn't and still am not the untouchable shredder I may have thought I was from time to time those years ago. Yeah there were specific rides memorable for a lifetime. I've talked about this with a few friends before.

That night after the tube ride of the year, you can close your eyes as your head touches the pillow, and play it back, crystal clear, moment-to-moment as if it were all happening again. It's all there: everything you saw and even heard from the takeoff into the barrel, and the kickout over the wave back, both arms raised to the sky, body clenched. Seems all our efforts in our sport aim at havin' some of that, again and again.

But then there are all the other things that happen---the ones that bring us down from our self-anointed lofty platitudes. I thought wives and girlfriends were the only agents put on earth to pop our bubbles of self-impressiveness, just to watch us fly around the room and land deflated. The surf can do it too---to us all.

Years ago, about 1978, I was surfing in South Nags Head at Domes. My girlfriend sat on the beach reading and sometimes watching us surf. I took a very clean little chest-high right from the first sandbar all the way to the reform inside over the first slough. (I'm goofy-foot, so I was backside to the wave face.)It then wound up spinning itself into an intense little barrel at the shorebreak. I couldn't resist riding all the way to dry sand. I got a bit too high in the wave face. My inside rail lifted, spinning my board up with the tube. As I fell off the tail, the surfboard's (single) fin cut my boardshorts from the leg seam to the waistband in the back, leaving my whole ass completely exposed. I sure knew how to impress the women on the beach and anybody else who got an eye full. I hobbled in humility back to the truck, clutching the fabric together for the benefit of my fellow men and women of course.

A few years before that, around 1973 in Kaneohe, Hawaii, was a similar impressive moment in my surfer's resume. This incident revealed the deepest depths of my modesty possibly residing one notch above resisting death even. I was surfing at North Beach on the Kaneohe Marine Corps Air Station, a spot I loved to surf as it filtered out the crowds by it being on base.

The surf was solid 12-foot+ faces with stepladder sets every so often. I got caught inside by one of these sets and paddled swiftly outside all the while knowing I was done. The whole horizon seemed to lift up and transform into a wave face. I took off my leash as the wave marking me homed in on the very spot I paddled. As I slid into the water beside my board, pushing it away all in one fluid movement, I saw the wave's nasty-thick lip pitch up and then out. It would land directly on me.

I dove downward when the impact came. In one micro-instant my whole body shuddered and my white Kanvas By Katin's came unsnapped and untied. I don't know what happens in your mind in such a micro-instant, but in mine, as I felt the boardshorts blow down my legs, I actually had the presence of mind to think, "If I lose them, I must return to the beach without my board and with only my manhood before me." All this passed through my brain as my boardshorts flashed from my waist to my ankles, at which point I spread my legs thus holding my pants at my ankles so as not to lose them. I might die. But I would not die naked.

I came to the surface eventually, pulling my boardshorts up and re-securing them as I broke the water's surface gasping for air. Miraculously, my board floated right behind my head. I pulled myself back up, continued paddling outside to the lineup, and re-took my rightful place among the other overly dignified immortals surfing that day. I was shaken up, glad I had saved my britches, but still not finished pondering why I had while under such duress. I love our sport. Get more waves.