I was locked into the I-5 parking lot this morning, observing fine new cars operated by frustrated old drivers. The freeway is again under construction, one lane is closed, and a Caltrans sign boasts: “Keeping San Diego Moving.” (Anyone who has lived in SoCal a while realizes that by the time construction is completed, new lanes will be required.)
In my lifetime, California and Californians have been moving toward a vague promise of a better future. What we got instead was more cement, more asphalt and less open space. Raise your hand if you love urban sprawl. Yes, this is the future we worked so hard to arrive at, California. Now, smile, swallow your anti-depressants and enjoy the ride.
At the same time transportation ramped up, so did surfing. Since the year I began, 1962, until now, surfboards have gone from 30-pound, three-stringered longboards to 30-pound three-stringered longboards. That irony only exists in the longboarding world, however.
Shortboards have gone from 10 feet to 6 feet, shed many pounds, lost a layer of glass, sprouted fins, grown leashes and sell for five times as much. Softboards, leashes and surf schools, which are also fairly new, widen the fun funnel by making surfing safe for beginners.
Another change is surf reports. No need to drive to the beach and see what the waves are doing. With the press of a button, you can track the swell for the next 10 days. They even tell you which board to ride once you get there.
In the future, they may even tell you which waves you rode before you even get there. Either that, or your AI assistant will ride the waves for you. Guesswork is gone, and so is mystery. And without mystery, surfing is just another fun and healthy game played for points and Instagram likes.
One of the biggest changes in surfing over the decades is it becoming a career choice where a few pro surfers can earn a solid adult wage simply by wearing the uniform and riding waves. Now, that does sound like a future I could live with. If only.
I know I am going to be accused of being a nostalgic old man, but I’ll take that risk and say that with all these improvements, the old days were better.
In 1965, my friend David Zerr bought a 1954 Ford Wagon for $100. Gas was 25 cents a gallon and with five bucks and a packed lunch between us, we drove that car north to Rincon, where we scored the point alone for the afternoon.
At other times we drove south to San Miguel, where empty waves were on tap most any day of the week. A surfboard cost about $125. Rent for a two-bedroom beach house was less than that. Abalone sandwiches at Fish House West were a buck and a quarter. Empty waves could be found at places now paved solid in fiberglass and foam rubber.
Okay, so you are being offered a time machine. Before you blast off, however, you are asked if you want to move forward to a time when AI does all the work, fights all the wars and thinks for you, or backward to a time of $100 clunkers with sleek Hobie Phil Edwards Models strapped to the rusty roof.
If you make that choice, you will find a thin two-lane highway connecting the coast from San Clemente to Oceanside where you are welcomed by the sign, “Oceanside, California’s Best Kept Secret.” In the future such signs won’t exist, and neither will the word secret. Even now, surf spots from Rincon to Baja are being sold by those who don’t own them, like slumber parties at the White House.
I think you know which choice I would make. And, while I don’t find the future as being all bad, I do hope this hyperactive world reserves some of the old ways for old dreamers like me.
