Surf Rage

He’d been waiting on the beach for almost an hour by the time I left, hunched over on the balls of his feet, tattered board lying by his side with his gaze fixed firmly on the sea out in front of him. I had been watching him all morning, watching as he mixed powerful turns with flowing arcs as he flew along the walls of the rising swells. He was an old fellow, pushing 60, with long matted grey hair and a sun-weathered complexion. He was graceful and fluid in his surfing but there was something about him, and the way he carried himself, that belied his cool and gentle style: head bowed, brow furrowed and eyes fixed in stern concentration. There was a steely purpose to his surfing, a silent aggression as he sought to impose himself at the top of the pecking order.

The waves were perfect, 4-6ft and breaking with power and consistency. The crowd was present but small, there were waves to go round and the atmosphere was relaxed in the morning sunshine. But rather than share in the moment and engage with his fellow surfers, the old man wore a jaded, protective and territorial scowl as he prowled through the line-up.

The set that sparked the incident was a good one, 4 waves deep and considerably bigger than the others that morning. Two paddled for the first wave, the old man and a young travelling surfer who held the priority. They disappear behind a curtain of spray before their boards emerge in the white water, leashes tangled and fighting in the eddying currents. Surfacing at the same time, a harsh word is exchanged before the old man launches at the younger. Fists fly as the remaining waves wash through, battering them both onto the rocks. Boards are forgotten about as the anger takes hold, both men struggle to stay above water and flail wildly in an effort to land their punches; it’s an ugly scene. Finally the old man’s leash snaps, his board washes off and he swims in. The young man paddles back out, his swollen left eye and grazed forehead haunt the line-up as the rest of us attempt to banish what we have just seen from our minds. The upbeat mood vanishes, the beginning of the new day is tainted. The old man gathers his board, paces the beach gesturing to the young traveller and takes up his position by the keyhole, waiting.

For an activity that promotes a peaceful existence, of living in symbiosis with nature and enjoying what is ours by the grace of god, surfing also has a habit of bringing out the very worst in human kind. Selfishness, territorialism and an acceptance of force and intimidation to maintain order, are all accepted within surfing culture. So much so that it commands its own name: Localism.

This man was old enough to be my father, in his time he must have surfed far and wide, sharing and taking his fair share of waves as a traveller himself. And yet in that moment, as he paddled for a wave that he was in no position to take, he acted in spite of his years or experience and succumbed to the most base of human emotions. Selfishness: claiming the wave as his by right, robbing the visiting surfer of his moment and tainting the morning with his callous interference. But in the eyes of surfing lore, he did no wrong.

Surf rage is an ugly and totally unnecessary vice, an affliction to an otherwise beautiful and peaceful pastime. Every surf spot has its history, every local their reason and every surfer their own story to tell. And yes, as more people take to the waves so the tensions will mount. Irrespective, surf rage is rife and too often glorified by the surfing press as an integral part at the core of surfing’s cult. It’s time to rise above it, to enjoy the waves for what they are and remember why we surf in the first place: to have fun.