Localism?

Out beyond the kelp beds, there’s a bunch of surfers. So tightly packed are they that you can only estimate their numbers. Black wetsuits morph into one and other as the pack bobs over the incoming swells. Occasionally one peels away, paddles hard as the swell draws off the reef and drops behind the emerald curtain, emerging some 20 metres down the line in a shower of spit and spray as the wave exhales the last of its energy into the cool morning air.

Standing in the car park, bare foot amongst the grit and glass and looking out onto the reef, I start to feel the burn in my stomach. I want one of those.

The pack are inseparable in their dark wetsuits but on occasion, it’s possible to pick the odd white face as they turn to shore, distinguishable beneath the veil of a neoprene hood. The minutes tick by and soon more faces turn shoreward, alerted by the presence of another somewhere on the beach, eager to paddle out and swell the ranks. Soon all eyes are on me and, standing some 100 metres away on the shore, I feel the weight of their gaze and wander if I really want to paddle out.

As another set approaches, the faces turn, the water recedes as the swells draw close and soon three perfect barrels peel off, each with a surfer perched eagerly at its mouth. My feet are no longer my own as they carry me over the rocks and into the channel. All the while, I remain transfixed by the perfect waves in front of me. My gaze follows each one from start to finish as I stroke onwards towards the pack.

The set passes and with it, I emerge from my trance and into the present. In my fixation, I forgot about the pack outside and soon I become intensely aware that at least 14 sets of eyes are following my every paddle, analysing and dissecting every last movement I make as they try to assess my place in their line-up. It’s uncomfortable and awkward but I can’t turn back. I made my decision and my actions from here will determine as to how successful this surf will be. My fate is my own.

The take off area is minute and we’re packed in tight. Rails bump, feet tangle, leashes snare. It’s uncomfortable, unnatural and the inconsistent sets exacerbate the problems as we jostle over the three waves that come our way every so often. Everyone knows each other. Nobody knows me. There’s little eye contact but plenty of sideways glances and half smiles. Jokes I don’t understand, everyone laughs as I smile awkwardly. These are a tight knit crew with even tighter cliques sewn into the already complex patchwork. The youngest can’t be more than 12; the oldest must be towards 50. There’s a history here and I’m not part of it. I shouldn’t be here. But then the set pulls through and I can’t bring myself to leave until I’ve had just one shot at that barrel.

Several sets and a little small talk pass. My confidence grows and a smaller set approaches.

“Go man, go!” someone says among the crowd.

I put my head down and paddle, eyes fixed on the water ahead of me as it begins to draw off the reef. The ocean begins to warp around the shallow rock, visible beneath the surface, covered in barnacles and disconcertingly close. I paddle hard as the wave begins to grow, down the line the wall stands up and horseshoes as the bottom begins to drop. I pop, grab my rail and pray, freefalling to the bottom and grasping for the wall with my free hand as I feel my fins bite and I guess at a line. The wave curls over my head and I’m enveloped by a soft roar. The light recedes and the moist air is thick with water droplets until suddenly I am in the channel. The crowd is now distant, I am alone in a moment of euphoria with a barrel under my belt at last. I paddle back slowly, with more confidence, enjoying the moment.

I approach the pack once more, once again their stares have followed me back but this time I am happy to meet them. But still something feels off. One by one they turn to face the horizon, all except one, who fixes me. Once more I feel awkward.

“A fun little one,” I offer.

“Yeah?” comes the reply.

There’s muffled laughter from the pack and I feel my face begin to flush.“Try that again and see what happens,” he follows up.

More laughter from the pack and once again, I feel the burn of their stares on my back as I lower my head and offer an apology. But before I finish talking, he’s looking back out to sea. I’d dropped in, and on my first wave. As I concentrated on catching the wave, I never even saw him. I drift slowly to the outside of the pack and gingerly paddle in.

Not long after that experience, I returned to the reef. It was mid-week, inconsistent as ever but a good size when the waves came. We were a small crew, no more than four and we surfed in rotation and shared plenty of waves. As the schools finished, the crowd grew so I decided to take one last wave and head in. I turned to paddle, popped, grabbed my rail and got dropped in on. The barrel engulfed me and sent me spinning over the reef, bouncing a couple of times before emerging in the wash with two fresh urchin spines in my foot and two more waves to negotiate on the dry shallow slab before I could make my way to the channel and safety. I never saw the perpetrator, only the certain folding on my head and the reef lurking hungrily beneath the shallow surface.

Propped against the car, wrapped in a towel and hoodie and waiting for the warmth to return to my bones, I gathered my thoughts and related this experience to my last. When I’d last left the water, I’d bemoaned the cliquey attitude of the locals, though perhaps more out of my own embarrassment and ignorance of the wave and its dedicated crew. But now, standing with urchins in my toe, I could understand.

When I dropped in, I was challenged, and rightly so. In a wave of consequence such as this, I’d put someone else in harms way as I escaped untouched. Though I’d broken the rules, I had, more importantly, put someone else at great danger. Luckily on that occasion, there were no further repercussions. We both escaped unscathed. And it soon became clear that his challenge was less an act of aggression than it was a simple warning. Localism of a sort I guess, but necessary none the less.

There are waves out there that can do more damage to you than the crowds that invade them. And these waves need marshalling to avoid serious injuries or worse. That these marshalls are the ones that surf the wave day in and day out, that know the place inside out and that have put their time in, waited on the shoulder in the howling wind and rain, and deserve the good sets when they come, seems only natural.

Striking the right balance, however, between marshalling and intimidating is never easy. You could look at localism as just another simple analogy that can be extended far beyond surfing and into almost any realm of human existence. It’s a sad facet of human nature that power corrupts, and we see it on a daily basis. Simple tales of those that fought the long hard road to the top and once there used their influence to plunder their own for all they could, to the benefit of themselves and their immediate entourage.

As surfers though, and more specifically as locals, there is an opportunity to set the right example on our own doorsteps and practice what we preach. On a small scale, through the local surfers associations and organisations across the world, it’s possible to enforce the rules evenly and fairly. It’s possible to succeed in governing without corruption where others have failed.

It’s a minute step but it’s got to start somewhere. All you can do is try.