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If I had ten lives to live — which I don’t think I do but can’t be sure — I would live one of them as a chilled out surfer, all tan and sun-drenched with lotion whiter than the White House covering my nose from nostril to nostril, every day, all day.
I would want to rock the attitude that every surfer has who has ever lived. None of them care about taxes, retirement savings, social etiquette, shopping for discounts, and ballroom dancing.
They don’t worry about anything except making sure when the waves get big they rush into the sea, paddle out, lay on their boards waiting for the Wally Waves, and stand up on those Whopping Wallies then drop like rocks from the sky wondering not whether they’ll survive or any of what they’re doing makes sense – only if they catch the wave and feel good doing it.
Simple and pure, the height of non-complexity. Raw existence, bonding with nature in a tangible way, checking out from mainstream everything.
I fantasize now about the sublime sensations of surfing as I cogitate over what one guy from Germany did two months ago off the coast of Portugal. Sabastian Steudtner rode a 93-foot wave – that’s the length of an NBA basketball court from one baseline to the other. He imprinted his name in the record books for riding the biggest wave any surfer ever has.
Picture this scene an hour afterward at a picnic table beside some boardwalk burger joint. Some other surfer comes up to Sabastian and asks: “Yo, dude, catch any swells today?”
“Rode a 93 footer.”
It gets quiet for 93 seconds except for the seagulls chirping.
Is there anything else to say after that? Doesn’t that pretty much end the conversation, put an exclamation point on all things life related?
“Dude, 93 feet? No way,” the other surfer says.
“Dude, 93 feet. All-time record in surfing history which goes back a few million years since oceans were formed or whenever that happened.”
“Were you scared?”
“Nah, dude, surfing isn’t scary. It’s the ultimate buzz. Felt as high as the Moon. 93 big ones. Shoulda seen me shred 93, dude. It was rude.”
Ninety-three dude from Germany chomps into his burger all caked with ketchup, mustard, bacon and relish, gazing out into the ocean where he did something no one ever has. He orders a funnel cake and grape snow cone to wash down his day.
What a badass.
I’m thinking about this surfing feat as I dive deep into the oceans of information about the upcoming Summer Olympics in Paris. Surfing will be a real competition at these games.
Competitors will travel to Teahupo off the coast of Tahiti in the South Pacific Ocean to shred wicked waves. Let’s hope a massive storm rages in and we get to see surfers do 93 or, even better, 103.
Dudes risking everything.
Theatre we all want to see.
I hear your question. Why would it make sense for this event to be held 9,000 miles from Paris, the epicenter of most events at the upcoming summer games?
Something historical, it seems, a geographical tidbit. Tahiti is an island in French Polynesia, which is a French overseas territory. Kind of like the British Virgin Islands which are about a billion miles from London.
To lather up for this competition, buy a surfboard at East of Maui in Dewey Beach or some joint like that. Surf the surfing sites to find where the 93 footers are crashing down like Mount Everest avalanches.
Go get those 93s wherever they are.
Hang 93.
Or 300 – the length of a football field.
Go big or get out of the ocean.
If you survive, tell us all about it.
If not, don’t worry about it.
We’ll read about you on Twitter.
And you’ll be Tik Tok famous.
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Sammy Sportface, a sports blogger, galvanizes, inspires, and amuses The Baby Boomer Brotherhood. And you can learn about his vision and join this group's Facebook page here:
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