What up Barns (is there no consistency to this blog?) and I hope that you enjoyed the last run of swell (if you live in California). If you are living in an area that has been flat for a bit, I hope the ocean brings you some gold!
Captain Zoots!!
I didn’t write last week (did you miss me?) because I was relaxing on a piece of floating volcanic rock, more than 2,000 miles away, in the middle of the Pacific. I was visiting J. Hodad, Pasa-Dana, and my old friend Zoots, who traveled all the way from the kingdom of Tom Brady to celebrate his b-day with a couple of barns. We definitely enjoyed our time—Maui is so sick and full of enchanting places and extraordinarily chill people!! The island itself is mythical—on one drive, the terrain can morph to resemble 10 different countries, as well as outer-atmospheric celestial beings; from Baja to Ireland to Mars (trippyyy) in a quick drive up a volcano. As much as I want to brag about the trip, nothing kook-related happened, and I have a very interesting topic to discuss today—localism!!
We all know what localism is right? It is a concept that’s allowed surfers to have a bad rap for the better half of the last century. Waves are a resource, and localism is founded on the premise of guarding that resource from an outside invasion—think gangs claiming their territory; surfers operated in the same way. Imagine: the beaches used to be run by a gang of board-wielding, sun-bleached 25-year-olds, who used to bark at tourists when they tried to sunbathe in their territory (beach dogs). Those were exhilarating and scary times, yet pretty interesting! We’ve all heard stories of older generations taking their discrepancies to the beach with flying, frustrated fists of fury. We also know the countless tactics: slashing tires, rocks through the windshield, the classic war cry, “Locals only!!” That’s become somewhat of a satirical term in the modern era. However, it was once heard around the world—from Santa Monica, to Sydney, to the North Shore, to right outside of my house when someone tries to walk on MY sidewalk (beat it! Go back to HB, and walk on your own sidewalk).
Does localism still exist? Absolutely. Now when I say localism, I’m talking about an entire surf community guarding a wave by using uncomfortable strategies; not merely the local grumpikins yelling at everyone on a crowded day at the beachy. In my experience, true localism exists—for the most part—in small beachside communities that are somewhat remote or off the beaten path. Still, there are some exceptions to this rule. Localism still exists amongst us, hidden beneath the shadows of a cliff, in one of the most populated counties in California. A lost civilization of 50-year-olds lurks within suburbia, grunting and ignoring all of those who dare to enter the forbidden waters.
I won’t mention the name of this specific break; my more informed audience will know exactly where this Southern California gem is situated—if you don’t, some quick Google searches will put you in the know. Let’s just call it, “the wave.” Anyways, I am always up for a challenge, and love to learn about different types of cultures and communities. Last Sunday, the south wind was on it early, so I had to look for a spot to surf elsewhere. This I thought, would be the perfect moment to ruffle some medieval feathers—respectfully of course—and see if true localism still exists within a short drive of my apartment.
My surfing buddy came to pick me up in his van; we loaded the boards, wetsuits, some Modelo Negra’s for afterwards, and began our Sunday afternoon quest for lighter winds, and surfable waves. On the way to “the wave” we checked a couple of spots, but the building south swell just wasn’t wrapping around the headlands into these specific coves. We drove around for a bit, and then landed on “the wave.” We stood on the cliff looking down at a perfect right jacking up and folding over onto the point and then steamrolling through to the inside of the cove. There were only two guys out—lucky us!
Frothing and drooling with excitement, we grabbed our boards and beer, and scaled down the cliffside like two starving mountain goats running toward a bountiful, grassy oasis. We then had to rock-hop all the way to the paddle-out spot. The two guys were still there, and one more was about to paddle out. The water looked clear, the sun was vibrant, and the waves were reeling—what more could you ask for? We knew the history of “the wave” so we were very calculated and respectful. My friend, wasting no time, asked the surfer on the rocks where the best place to paddle out would be. He was an older man with a pale face overtaken by sunscreen. With a friendly smile and a foreshadowing smirk he replied, “Here is good, they might let you get some waves on the inside; I’m just an old man, but don’t paddle around them, and maybe they won’t yell at you—enjoy!” Hmmmm, maybe the old mythology surrounding “the wave” was still true to this day. Well, whatever. . . Outside invasion coming up. We paddled out to the point and heeded the older gentleman’s warning. We patiently waited for our turn. Unfortunately, our turn never came (so surprising). One surfer was actually knee-boarding, and he took off and raced down the line 5 times in 15 minutes. He was making every drop and thrashing every section—he had that place dialed! When he paddled back from his first wave, my buddy—who’s been surfing for 25 years—said hi and thanked the man for letting us share the lineup. The knee-boarder didn’t waver; his gaze was fixated toward the horizon as he didn’t acknowledge us, nor did he even look in our direction as he paddled back out to catch another set-wave. Locals, right?
The second surfer was of the same mindset. Here was the difference however: the knee-boarder would catch a set-wave, and the other surfer wouldn’t (maybe every once in a while, but yikes). When the knee-boarder would stroke into a peak, it would leave the other surfer in position, who would then miss about 5 set-waves—let’s give him a 1-out-of-6 make ratio (16.67% ?). We noticed this pattern and while the knee-boarder was paddling back we would hop on the peak with the other surfer. Bad decision? Yep! We decided to push just a little bit and within a minute we heard, “Don’t you think you guys are a little too far out for your first time? Go surf the inside. . . and show some respect for the spot!!” I’m just a Barn, what do I know; but isn’t that a bit much from someone who can’t surf very well (not that I can; but just sayin’)? We were very polite as my friend explained that we hadn’t even looked at a wave yet, and it’s been 45 minutes and there were plenty of waves to go around—like PLENTY!
“Ok, I’m after Gill, but before Bruce!”
In the next two and half hours we both got some super fun, rippable peelers between the local’s shifts. We wondered if there was some kind of timesheet on their clubhouse wall that listed the day and hour that they could surf. They came out in twos and left in twos, and there were never more than three locals on the peak at a time—it was actually kind of rad. What wasn’t rad was the ominous, get-the-f***-out-of-here vibe that resonated throughout the lineup. Were we not humans? If we showed respect, waited our turn, and acted politely, could we not be treated with respect and maybe get one wave? I know, I know, this happens—and it’s happened several times to me during my world travels—but they didn’t even seem like they were even having fun. What’s the point? Was that all an act to make us feel uncomfortable? Do they usually laugh, smile and enjoy the ocean when it’s just them? Couldn’t tell you (someone should do a study on this lost tribe of California and get to the root of their habits and sacred rituals).
Fast forward: we were yelled at by a beefy dad who was teaching his son to surf on the inside. He was pushing his son into every wave. I heard him yelling, “Just go; go whenever you want.” He was influencing his 8-year-old son to burn us whenever possible. What will happen when that kid starts surfing other spots? Poor little guy. I got on a wave that was missed by the peak patrol and surfed it down the line; the dad—who resembled Tommy Boy—started yelling, “Do something! do Something!” I guess he didn’t like my style and didn’t think my approach was getting the job done (I wonder what he ended up scoring my wave). Whatever, probs a 5.3 (I couldn’t concentrate).
We eventually paddled in, sat on the rocks, and drank some beers. Those dudes were trying to break our spirit, but we played by the rules and got some fun waves—so nothing was broken yet. As we sat there we noticed that the locals were starting to congregate on the rocks about 50 yards from where we were chillin’. I would say that there were 6-8 of them. They were waiting in anticipation for us to walk by. One 50-year-old was even standing there and staring at us with hawk-like focus—did they want a piece of the Barn? We finished our beers and snacks, and started rock-hopping once again toward the cliffside. I could see the lost tribe sitting in war formation with their boards on the rocks, eyeing us our entire walk down. As we got closer I was starting to feel like I was in some kind of ‘60s musical—West Side Story perhaps. The Jets were trying to intimidate us as we walked by—they were even snapping in synchronicity to get their point across. My buddy walked by first and once again thanked them for letting us share some waves. As I walked by, I looked up to see six old, shirtless men, and my own reflection through all of their cool surfer-dude sunglasses (think of six old cyclops-looking characters from X-Men). Their parting words were directed at me as I shuffled by: “Cute, anklet!” This was paired with some nice-one-dude laughs from his friends. I turned around, looked him in the eyes and said, “Thank you” (my anklet is very cute, what can I say). Once we finally passed the varsity football team, we climbed the hill and made it back to the van—luckily all of the tires and windows were intact.
I don’t know. If I really think about it, that was a delightful wave with only 4 people on it (including us)—maybe they’re on to something. On the other hand, they don’t own that spot (they just feel entitled to it for some reason)—Gill’s dad is probably from Iowa anyway. I guess my question would be this (for you, informed reader!): in a world that is becoming more populated, with an ever-increasing number of surfers, is localism a necessary evil? Is there another way to keep the masses from surfing a certain wave? Also, if you keep missing set-waves, should you be allowed to keep barking and hogging the peak? Answer in the comments, I would love to know your thoughts! I’m looking at it from an outside lens perhaps, but those folks seemed hateful (that doesn’t seem like a pleasant way to live). Now, for my Barn community (leave your answers in the comments as well), what is the worst localism you’ve ever experienced, and how did you deal with it?
I hope you enjoyed yet another Barney Tale; stayed tuned for more posts, and hope you guys enjoy your weekend!
-Barney Beadette