The Gods of Newport
The Gods of Newport Beach are young, lithe, school boys with perfectly messy hair, little rascal faces, loud voices, and bad attitudes. They catch waves effortlessly, even on the smallest day or in the worst of conditions. They produce speed from nothingness. They find barrels in impossibly small waves. They whip screaming turns atop chest high waves, spraying water from below their fins. They gain enough speed to shoot up and out of waves in aerial dismounts.
I spent a morning with one of the Gods of Newport. The rest of the Gods were off at a high school surf contest, leaving just he and I to play in some Thursday morning lefts breaking away from the rock pile jetty. He was small and thin, with blond hair and a freckled cherub face. His nimble body, shrink wrapped in neoprene, moved quickly and effortlessly over the water. He couldn't have been a day over fourteen.
When I tried to make conversation, the God hesitantly acknowledged my existence with a grunt of disapproval. Single word responses would be the extent of our conversations. I would have had a better chance at dialogue had I been a prying parent or a junior high school guidance counselor.
I felt out of place and obsolete. The god sat hunched on his tiny shortboard, only his shoulders and head protruding from his liquid chair. I was sitting on my funboard, back straight, with my entire torso above the surface of the water like a tall tree in a forest of shrubbery. The god paddled around me on his wafer thin, incomprehensibly short, sticker adorned, high performance board. Normally, I would laugh at someone riding a board like this in small surf. Unfortunately, the skill with which he surfed denied me any excuse for such mockery, leaving my ego miserably soggy like the fur on a wet cat.
Sharing the same peak, we divided up the share of waves according to the standard "one wave, one rider" rules, wherein the surfer closest to the curl has the right of way. The god's inexhaustible and superior paddling often put in the right place at the right time, leaving me to watch as he carved mincemeat of the best waves the morning had to offer.
On one wave, I came close to violating the rules, getting all the way to my feet before making the hard turn back over the lip to get out of his way. When he paddled back out, I apologized profusely in humble gyrations. He grunted his minimal acknowledgement.
On another wave, I paddled in close to the curl and dropped down into a clean section. The god dropped in front of me, halfway down the face, then turned back up out of my way. I smugly paddled back out to accept the apology owed me, an apology the god managed to condense into a single syllable which he nearly belched at me in mock courtesy.
Highest on my list of sins was the wave I missed. Again in position, I paddled lazily for a very clean looking wave that spoke of great possibilities. As the wave began to pick up my momentum, I found myself too far forward on the surfboard, the nose of which began to sink into the wave. I made an attempt to rescue my balance, grabbing the sides of the board and pushing forward to compensate. But, my attempt was unsuccessful. The wave passed. The god, sitting in prime position where he could have caught the wave had it not been for my failed effort, glared at me for my incompetence.
I smiled weakly - the smile of a grade school boy who just farted in a classroom full of girls.
The following day brought better surf at low tide. The Gods of Newport came out in force. The battle for position in the line up was discouraging. It seemed like every good looking wave that came in, there was a quick kid paddling into position to claim the right of way.
I missed a wave and got yelled at by a brown haired, round faced rascal. "C'mon, man." he groaned loudly "you gotta GO!" I considered giving the god an explanation of some of life's intricacies with which he was not yet familiar, but decided against it. This was their world. The Gods of Newport owned this beach. I was just visiting.
I caught my last wave and ride to shore, looking back at the Gods of Newport, and grateful for a moment that the following day would be Saturday. I was looking forward to getting back to Huntington Beach, where us incompetents could mix with the surfing elite and retain a modicum of pride.
More Later.
-Travis
copyright 2004 Travis R. English
I spent a morning with one of the Gods of Newport. The rest of the Gods were off at a high school surf contest, leaving just he and I to play in some Thursday morning lefts breaking away from the rock pile jetty. He was small and thin, with blond hair and a freckled cherub face. His nimble body, shrink wrapped in neoprene, moved quickly and effortlessly over the water. He couldn't have been a day over fourteen.
When I tried to make conversation, the God hesitantly acknowledged my existence with a grunt of disapproval. Single word responses would be the extent of our conversations. I would have had a better chance at dialogue had I been a prying parent or a junior high school guidance counselor.
I felt out of place and obsolete. The god sat hunched on his tiny shortboard, only his shoulders and head protruding from his liquid chair. I was sitting on my funboard, back straight, with my entire torso above the surface of the water like a tall tree in a forest of shrubbery. The god paddled around me on his wafer thin, incomprehensibly short, sticker adorned, high performance board. Normally, I would laugh at someone riding a board like this in small surf. Unfortunately, the skill with which he surfed denied me any excuse for such mockery, leaving my ego miserably soggy like the fur on a wet cat.
Sharing the same peak, we divided up the share of waves according to the standard "one wave, one rider" rules, wherein the surfer closest to the curl has the right of way. The god's inexhaustible and superior paddling often put in the right place at the right time, leaving me to watch as he carved mincemeat of the best waves the morning had to offer.
On one wave, I came close to violating the rules, getting all the way to my feet before making the hard turn back over the lip to get out of his way. When he paddled back out, I apologized profusely in humble gyrations. He grunted his minimal acknowledgement.
On another wave, I paddled in close to the curl and dropped down into a clean section. The god dropped in front of me, halfway down the face, then turned back up out of my way. I smugly paddled back out to accept the apology owed me, an apology the god managed to condense into a single syllable which he nearly belched at me in mock courtesy.
Highest on my list of sins was the wave I missed. Again in position, I paddled lazily for a very clean looking wave that spoke of great possibilities. As the wave began to pick up my momentum, I found myself too far forward on the surfboard, the nose of which began to sink into the wave. I made an attempt to rescue my balance, grabbing the sides of the board and pushing forward to compensate. But, my attempt was unsuccessful. The wave passed. The god, sitting in prime position where he could have caught the wave had it not been for my failed effort, glared at me for my incompetence.
I smiled weakly - the smile of a grade school boy who just farted in a classroom full of girls.
The following day brought better surf at low tide. The Gods of Newport came out in force. The battle for position in the line up was discouraging. It seemed like every good looking wave that came in, there was a quick kid paddling into position to claim the right of way.
I missed a wave and got yelled at by a brown haired, round faced rascal. "C'mon, man." he groaned loudly "you gotta GO!" I considered giving the god an explanation of some of life's intricacies with which he was not yet familiar, but decided against it. This was their world. The Gods of Newport owned this beach. I was just visiting.
I caught my last wave and ride to shore, looking back at the Gods of Newport, and grateful for a moment that the following day would be Saturday. I was looking forward to getting back to Huntington Beach, where us incompetents could mix with the surfing elite and retain a modicum of pride.
More Later.
-Travis
copyright 2004 Travis R. English
posted by travinator @ 1:28 PM
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