Grandma and Grandpa go surfing

So I’m down at my sweet Secret Southern Spot (SSS) just getting a cop of coffee at MacDonald’s before heading into the ocean on an absolutely glorious summer day (though it’s October). I’m looking to meet up with my southern surf buddy A., who I met here about this time last year and who I like for many reasons but not least because he’s not the your stereotypical surfer dude. And then this classic stereotypical surfer dude rolls into MacDonalds right behind me. I register that he’s tanned, blond, tall, sunglassed, and I think he had a Channel Islands shirt on---not unusual in these parts, we’re right at the entrance to the beach. It’s one minute past eleven and he’s like, “Oh, did I miss breakfast?” And that’s such a classic surfer dude line that I turn and see Jeff Spiccoli---only with a lot more years on him. (I don’t yet know how many.)

And in the parking lot there’s his car next to mine, two boards on top, and you couldn’t stage-manage a vehicle that would scream “surfer dude” any louder, from the stickers for just about every brand of surfboard down to the bumper sticker that says “Surfing is my religion.” And since there is also a surfboard on top of my car, and we’re obviously going to the same place for the same reason, we start talking. Then we drive to the same place.

We get there and there is not much in the way of waves, tide’s too high too. After checking it he says he’s gotta go down to the other parking lot to look for his friend. And I scan the beach for A., but there’s no sign of him. So, since there’s not much to ride either, I skip the wetsuit for a bikini and grab some rays. I think I’ll sit for a while enjoying what is sure to be the last day of summer weather.

Then who comes up to me on the beach but Spiccoli dude---whom I will henceforth call B., because that’s his name---and who is with him but A.---the friend he was looking for and also the friend I was looking for. So that makes B. and me friends too.

We chill on the beach for a while, it develops that A. and B. have known each other for like 14 years, and A. is dying to go in the water because he hasn’t been for so long, and then we decide that either the waves are better or we think they are because we want to go in. So they are and we do.

B. is grabbing rides. In a short while I will tell you how long he’s been surfing and it’s longer than many of you have been alive. I’m doing fair but not great (in truth I was a little spooked because the day earlier, surfing by myself, I’d gotten bonked on the head by my board, not bad but enough to sit out the rest of what started out a great session with ice on my head). A. is getting his groove on and loving it. I’m a little too hesitant on my takeoffs because of yesterday, but slowly I figure the waves out. We are almost the only people in the water.

It takes me a long time to realize something else. It takes me a long time because I have so much experience surfing with sullen people sitting three feet away from me and concentrating hard on pretending that I don’t exist. You know, whatever they do, it’s like they have to keep staring straight ahead and telling themselves, Don’t accidentally look at her, don’t speak to her.

This is not that. This is SSS and I am with friends. So I don’t have to drift down the line because of a chill in the water. I start to do that out of sheer habit and correct myself. We can talk about surfing or about nothing, cheer each other one, make comments or ask for advice. B. is as ready to offer advice as to exult over his own good rides---“I got covered up!” (In two foot waves.) I take the opportunity to get as much advice as I can. Alas, the news is not good, I’m not surfing as well as I thought. I entertain A. with my acrobatic wipeouts more than I get rides. But at least I don’t get bonked. (I got bonked, the day before, largely because of overconfidence from doing really well.) I learn a little. It’s all good.

When another surfer or two shows up, they give and get cordial greetings instead of stinkeyes.

In this manner two hours pass very quickly. We all decide to take a break.

That’s when I learn more about B. He is older than he looks. He is most definitely older than he acts. It develops that he is so old he’s older than me and has been surfing for 38 years. I no longer feel bad about surfing worse than him.

Later I learn that B. is, in actual fact, a real grandfather---many times over---which makes him the first verified case of an actual Grandpa gone surfing. (Hey, I’m a grandma only potentially, not in actuality. And A., though my age, is not yet a grandfather.) I also learn that he has (I think it was) 13 surfboards and is a veritable museum of surfology. B. could talk surfing from morning til night for a month and not be done talking.

We talk to other random surfers, like an old dude (oh, definitely a grandpa) who says he used to live in Staten Island, and spins tales of how much better this break was back in the sixties. It’s all oddly familiar, a story repeated by surfers everywhere from time immemorial, sort of boring because it follows a well worn script and sort of comforting because here in this place that’s not my home, the script is so well known to me. It turns, inevitably, to the universal theme song of surfers everywhere: Tomorrow. Has there ever been a discussion between surfers that didn’t? How much better it will be, tomorrow? No matter that today was that tomorrow that didn’t turn out better---the next one will!

The water break turns into a beer break, another surf cliche coming true (drinking beer in the parking lot!) We’re standing around talking the usual surfer crap about the wind---why is it it always turns around just when you’re either not doing well and/or don’t really feel like going back in? Does the wind really turn on you like that, or do you have to just say that to justify something else?

I have never, never drunk beer in the middle of a surf session. I never even drink beer in the middle of the day on land. All I can say is that Grandpa Spiccoli was a very bad influence on me. However, in his defense, he did not offer us any pot.

After a couple of beers, we no longer feel like going back in the water---except for A., who is clearly jonesing. Since I can barely surf even when I have not been drinking anything but coffee, I am reasonably afraid to try going out again. We let A. go out by himself, betting that he won’t get any waves. He does. He gets another, and another, and another, while it gets dark and all we get is eaten by mosquitoes.

We do have a wide ranging conversation which I believe could only have been had in a parking lot while drinking beer after surfing and which included B.’s account of how the Virgin Mary appeared to him in a bubble in time of trouble (speaking words of wisdom, let it be) and his opinion on whether Jesus was the Messiah and if not, who he was.

Finally A. comes out of the water and he need not say “You guys are wusses for not going back in.” He need not say anything, only emit a loud and obviously very satisfying beer belch.

The sun set, and with it the great summer of 2008. I’m left with the memory of something I barely knew existed: not just surfing with friends, but a surf break (largely) without localism, without attitude, with little to no aggression. Seems impossible, but I think I experienced it. I don’t know if it’s really true, or why. Maybe it’s because SSS is, at least in the summer, at least as much of a tourist spot as a local spot. Maybe that’s why a small local crew can’t dominate. (On the other hand, there’s Virginia Beach, a tourist spot where they do, as far as I can tell.) Maybe it’s because the beach is so long and it’s just endless beach break; there is no one surf spot when any one is as good as any other. Maybe it’s because relatively few people surf here compared to nearby breaks. Hell, maybe it’s because you have to pay to get to it. I don’t know. But I think I can almost believe that SSS is, as longtime surfer A. says, a surf spot that—while it does not lack stereotypical surf character and characters---is without localism.