I’ve heard them called “Hipster Longboarders,” and to be honest they bug me. Not because of their talent, which is obviously more than adequate with their left-go-right turns and dignified trips to the tip. All very impressive, but only in a karaoke sort of way.
Gosh this is going to sound curmudgeonly, but here goes: My generation made a go of surfing because they took from the previous generation, moved beyond it and invented something new. The old guard from my time consisting of surfers like Phil Edwards, Paul Strauch and Miki Dora were replaced by Nat Young, David Nuuhiwa and Gerry Lopez. That’s the way progress is supposed to work — Honor your elders, learn their ways and move beyond them.
The current generation is more often busy trying to imitate the past on what they call “logs,” a label I personally find offensive because of its primitive connotation. Fishes, mini Simmons, Eggs, Nuuhiwa-style noseriders, single fin semi guns with lollypop colored resin pin lines have been the rage now for some time. Nothing at all wrong with any of that being done as a fun romp into the past, but when ’60s longboarding is imitated right down to the rusty VW Van and the entire package becomes your identity, I consider it identity theft.
It’s been over half a century since the surfers I grew up with and I abandoned longboard dreams for something more. True, it was a baby and bathwater revolution that abandoned longboarding completely for a time, but it was all about moving forward. I still recall sitting on the beach at Rocky Point on the North Shore of Oahu, discussing the possibility of carving a 360-degree loop, something California surf star Mark Martinson would soon nearly accomplish and, I am told, Australian Wayne Lynch was about to pull off.
Maybe it’s a communal and deeply seeded fear of the future that keeps generation whatever locked into the past. If so, they are not responsible, but their teachers certainly are.
I try not to roll my eyes when I see them prance by: brightly colored nylon trunks, rubber beavertail with flap unbuttoned, flicking long hair, while carrying a 30-pound leashless longboard. Entering the water, the show is athletically impressive for at least a few minutes. Five, ten, heels. Perfect cutback, matador arms thrown back as a style move.
Of course, they’re not the only ones getting into the nostalgic act — even older surfers sometimes go post-WWII, riding shrunken down Simmons’ twinfins or ancient finless alias. And why not? There’s fun and lessons to be had in mining past performances. Even so, a balsawood world quickly evaporates in an electrified mountain of cell towers and self-driving cars once you hit dry land.
There are still a few surfers (North County’s Ryan Burch and Australian-born Daniel Thomson come to mind) who research ancient designs, take them to the extreme, ride them well, improve upon them vastly and build something barely recognizable.
Many more modern surfers, however, have their fingers glued to a time machine that lands them squarely in my generation. It’s really none of my business what they ride, but I kind of feel sorry for them and think they are missing out on the most creative and adventurous years of their lives.
