Nouveau Rip: Don't Be That Guy

The sport of surfing is said to be thousands of years old. Conventional wisdom in surf publications says that the “sport of kings” originated in Hawaii hundreds of years ago. However, as the economist who coined the phrase, John Maynard Keynes, intended, conventional wisdom is not to be treated as fact. Newer evidence points to waves being ridden in Peru thousands of years ago in canoe-like vessels.

Until the 1970’s, much of the sport developed in Hawaii, likely as a by-product of the fact that it conditions were too adverse in many other parts of the world for surfing to take shape. Duke Kahanamoku was the first surfer to receive international surf fame in the early 20th century, introducing the sport to Australia and even competing in the Olympics for swimming.

The rest of surfing history is well documented, especially in the wordy pages and soft-focused photos of The Surfer’s Journal and in great new films such as Bustin’ Down The Door, which chronicles the conception, germination, birth and terrible twos of professional surfing. The sport experienced a boom in the nineties and into the oughts by virtue of certain nameless and ignominious Hollywood surf films.

This brief and severely revised history of the sport of surfing brings us to today. The surf is often crowded partially as a result of the allure of the lifestyle of the sport and the accessibility brought forth by surfboard and wetsuit technology. In the meantime, a new proto-surfer has spawned. He is far from a beginner and far from a pro. He is cultured, but not in surf culture. He is athletic, good-looking, and has the physical ability to speak loudly. He belongs to the class of surfers known as the Nouveau Rip.

“Locals” around the world stake claims on particular spots and attempt to make outsiders feel unwelcome. The throw rocks, cast glares, slash tired, and snake waves. They aren’t very nice, but they are also part of the Nouveau Rip.
In Hamlet, the eponymous character tells his adversary, “Methinks thou dost protest too loudly.” Such is the case with “locals.” Just like the guy who tries to fight you is probably the guy who you can most easily beat down, a surfer who runs his mouth is generally trying to compensate for shortcomings.

Not long ago I was enjoying a session at a “localized” surf break in Los Angeles County. A man in his late-twenties dropped in on a man in his fifties. The wave was well overhead so I couldn’t see their respective skill levels (I would later realize that the older gent was the typical older cruiser and had probably been surfing for a long time, in my estimation; the younger guy was not very good at all), but the younger guy started to yell at the older guy after they kicked out. Apparently the older guy had kicked his board in the direction of the young guy. The young guy, asserting his status as a “local,” said, “Where were you when the waves were shitty?!”

I thought the waves were shitty that day, but that is beside the point. This anecdotal illustration points to an infantile thought process possessed by those who call themselves “locals” and the reason why they belong to the Nouveau Rip. They have yet to understand that there is an international code of respect that transcends surf breaks. Beginners are happily oblivious to this, and experienced surfers understand this intimately. There is no need to claim you are a local if you know how to integrate yourself into a lineup.

So what is the Nouveau Rip? And more importantly, who the fuck am I to critique these people? I’ll start with the second question. I started surfing at age 11, thirteen years ago. I did contests until I realized I sucked at them and began surfing just for fun. I have worked in surf shops and in the industry. I have also traveled to many parts of the world to surf and I still get the same thrill from riding waves that I got Day One – maybe even more so.

I don’t really fear I will have a problem getting waves if this system of surf hierarchy continues; there is always an empty beach somewhere in the world should any of us choose to go find it. I realize this whole thing comes off as self-righteous and it may be. In truth, the main purpose of this essay if the point to the elephant in the room with hope we can all act more civilly in the water. Surfing in meant to be enjoyable and can be enjoyed by all.

Back to the Nouveau Ripper. You have seen him, and if you haven’t, you are him. He paddles out at well-known surf spots (especially during swells, as long as they aren’t too big), he can generally drop into waves and do top turns here and there and has been surfing for at least a few years. He is well versed in what is going on in the world of professional surfing, but if he is of the granola-twin-fin variety, he pretends he doesn’t know what’s up and just watches Glass Love over and over.

Surfline is his best friend because it tells him when to surf. He pumps hard down the line and will call you off waves if you look at paddling into them. He is indignant if you drop in on him, especially at his spot in front of his friends. He has a group of guys he knows at a surf spot and they drink coffee in the parking lot, waiting for the tide to be right, then surf together and talk in a level audible to all about how good is was last week and how good it is going to be next week. His car has roof racks attached and soft racks always on so people know he shreds. He is not a good surfer, but plays the part well, because he thinks there is a part to be played by good surfers.

Ok, so “your friend” is a member of the Nouveau Rip and “he” wants to know how “he” can exit this state of pernicious Samsara and attain surf enlightenment. Follow the path:

Step 1: Be realistic about “his” ability. Just because some smart-ass 24 year old kid (me??) can get a ton of waves at a peaky beach break or empty left point doesn’t mean he should paddle out to the peak at Mavs and bro-down with Grant Washburn. If he wants to surf there (he really, really doesn’t), he is best off paddling out and sitting in the channel for a few hours and hoping that a decent one swings his way.

Step 2: Shut up. People are really not very interested in how you scored Spot X (oh, how convenient, Surfline ran a feature on that swell at that spot yesterday). “Your friend,” the recovering Nouveau Ripper, sounds like the guy at the bar telling people how many chicks he fucks. If you need to spill the beans do it on land, in private, with just that special bro around.

Step 3: Learn about what makes spots work. The information is even available on Surfline! This will allow you to move quickly into Step 4.

Step 4: Change spots. Really? 56th Street/ El Porto/ La Jolla Shores goes off every day? No need to surf anywhere else? Surfing new spots will improve “your friend’s” surfing immensely and give “your friend” some perspective on how badass of a local “your friend” is.

Step 5: Do some homework. Maybe not Sam George-level homework, after all, studies show that PhD’s make less than MA’s, so too much studying may not be so good for the surf soul. However, learn about the history of the sport and check out some surf videos from the last couple decades. They may give you the inspiration you need to gain more ability to be realistic about.

Step 6: Tell “your friend” to remember why “he” started. Was it for the neck tan? Sick! Was it for a workout? Rad! Was it for the lifestyle and the thrill and the feeling of being in the water? Awesome! Surfing is very very very fun, but can be easily be ruined by random cockheads. Don’t let “your friend” be that cockhead. We know “your friend” doesn’t enjoy being that guy anyway.

Step 7: I can't believe I forgot this one, but how about giving a brother some space in the lineup. There is no need to paddle out on top of another shredder, nor is is necessary to move into his close proximity after he catches a wave. Figure out a spot of your own. That's what he just did.

After Apple-Picking

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.

And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.

-Robert Frost

One Surf Stand: Volume 2

This installment of what is already the number one grossing box office hit blog series, One Surf Stand, centers around one man, me, and one very strange and clueless man, call him Ryan because he looks a little like my friend Ryan.

I pulled up to a notoriously localized surf spot in Los Angeles County after realizing the beachbreaks were too closed out to surf and there was plenty of swell. I slyly checked the waves, they looked fun, and I crept back to my car to change and get my froth on. Into the spot next to me pulled a silver VW beetle, model year circa 2005. Out stepped Ryan in full wetsuit with attached hood, booties and gloves. He was wet and clearly stoned. He had somehow fit a 7'6" egg into said car and began to remove it.

"Is it good out there?" Ryan asked as I turned my dry wetsuit right side out.
"I'm just about to paddle out," I replied before returning to my state of psyche.
"Ah yeah I heard it's good. Hey bro, can you back my bowl for me?" He said, handing me his weed and pipe, unable to pack his own pipe due to his unnecessary wetsuit gloves.
"Uh, sure."
"Don't worry, I have a card (allowing him to legally purchase, possess and smoke marijuana in California)."

I performed the duty, quite well I might add. He offered me a hit and I declined. The nug I had broken off to pack the bowl would have been a nice gesture though. He made sure I put it back in his prescription case.

"So it's cool to surf out here right?" he said.
"Yeah, just stay under the radar."
"Oh yeah...(stony laugh) what do you mean by that?"
"Just stay out of people's way and don't drop in, you should be cool."
He replied with stony laugh.

The waves were excellent and I was achieving full tail release at will. Ryan, with his egg, hooded suit with green trim and lack of WASPyness stood out like a sore thumb. He was clearly a beginner. He proceeded to do precisely what I suggested he didn't do. He dropped in on me, the guy who was the gatekeeper to his crispyness in the parking lot, three times. He was also generally oblivious and hazardous to other surfers. When I finally was ready to leave I looked out and saw Ryan right in the middle of one of the most contentious lineups for miles.

I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and fear Ryan may have received a beating at the hands of the locals at a spot such as this one. I certainly wouldn't do so, but I have seen some bad things happen for less. Please Ryan, lose the gloves unless it's sub-50 Fahrenheit and stay under the radar. And learn what an analogy is. And offer a nug if someone packs your bowl and declines a rip.