People who don’t surf won’t understand this. Even some of those who have surfed for six decades as I have won’t understand it. Heck, I’m not sure I understand it myself. But, for better or worse, surfing in my youth had something of a gang mentality.
By that I don’t mean I ever saw drive-by shootings or people knifed in the parking lot. It was more subtle than that, more threat than action as evidenced by the soul surfing mantra of once upon a time, “If you don’t live here, don’t surf here.”
I understand that such unwelcoming slogans seem threatening to outsiders. What an outsider might not understand, however, is that to some locals who have watched the lineups become increasingly crowded over the years, they make perfect sense.
I have been on both sides of the localism fence. As an inlander in the early ’60s, we were not locals anywhere and we were often made to feel less than welcome. “Kooks, go Home” was once waxed across my windshield by someone who didn’t want me at “their” beach.
Sadly, when I became a local at a certain break, I repaid the favor. Now, I was never mean for meanness’ sake, but I would scold someone who broke the rules by littering or dropping in on a local friend of mine. Mea maxima culpa.
I know I am opening myself up to all sorts of criticism through this admission and I feel bad about my past actions. Sort of. I mean, who am I to tell anyone to leave the water? On the other hand, that attitude helped keep order and crowds down.
Localism died the day the cellphone was born. Somebody makes a scene, and the cops are on their way. This is basically a good thing.
I say basically because I have some reservations. You see, surfing up to that time was good at policing itself. There was very little violence, and people learned unwritten rules that most city council members, as well intending as they may be, would not understand.
If you broke the rules, you were penalized — or maybe shunned is a better word.
The method seemed to work in North County where most surfers are mellow, but there were corners of our coast where localism went too far and uncivil unrest ensued. Tires were slashed, windshields broken, and people physically assaulted.
The worst places on our coast until recently were Palos Verdes, Oxnard, and a few secret spots up north that I dare not name for fear of retaliation by protective locals.
There are currently more beginners (what we once called kooks) in the lineup. Nobody will argue that kooks have every right to be there, and I for one and glad they are. Everyone reading this was once a beginner.
That said, it would be nice if the surf schools they graduated from taught them some etiquette. Dropping in on someone riding a wave is not only rude, but it can also be dangerous. You may get yelled at, but more likely you will simply not be welcomed into the pack until you learn to share.
The rules are simple and few, maybe best summed up by the old “Love your neighbor as yourself.” I confess to being a hypocrite at times and not doing a good job of obeying this golden rule.
Now that I am old and reliving my kook years, all I can do is ask for grace. If I yelled at you in my youth, I am sorry — unless, that is, it helped you become more considerate in the lineup.