Surf trip a lesson on riding out life’s waves

This column is about the surf road trip, a rite like
circumcision in Judaism, baptism in Christianity, or paddling in
fraternities.

On tourist trips, one admires the architecture, takes pictures
of monuments and buys souvenirs. It’s a passive experience
during which the admirer, as the subject, draws a distinction
between the self and the object of admiration.

In the surf trip, however, the self is actively engaged within
the environment. Like the Japanese tea ceremony, every stage of the
surf road trip comes together as a cohesive whole, with one part
flowing to the next.

Roughly 97.3 percent of the surf trip is spent not surfing (e.g.
getting from one place to another and setting up shop). Once in the
water, you spend the time between sets talking. As a result, people
are the essence of the surf trip ““ the company determines the
discourse.

When my older brother and I take day trips to SoCo (South Orange
County), the conversations revolve around when I plan to quit being
a screwup and get my act together.

And last year, while on a 12-day surf expedition in Japan with
Englishwoman Sophie Crocker, Japanese natives Shinya Asano and
Hayato Chingchong, and Asian-Australian Thomas “Tom”
Baer, the five of us really opened up to each other. For instance,
Baer, who’s usually afraid of letting people in, realized
that we have to risk being hurt if we want to be loved. Your
surfing buddies, known as “bras,” are the drawbridges
across the “too-cool-for-school” moat. A surf trip
isn’t complete until you’ve had a good cry.

This past spring break, I took a trip to SanDo (San Diego) and
B. JaCa (Baja, California) with associate Brandon Tripp. Brandon
was the perfect surf mate, since we’ve had 14 years of
history that we could discuss during the lulls, like that time in
high school after senior prom when he made out with my date (dude,
Brando, did you have to go at it while I was asleep … in the same
room?) or that time in college when I threw a rager at my Saxon
dorm and the RAs rolled me for alcohol possession as Brandon tried
to sneak out the back window until he got caught by another RA
(dude, Brando, way to get my back).

Since the roof racks got stolen, we lay the boards across the
passenger seat.

Because the tape player in Brandon’s maroon ’89
Cutlass Calais didn’t technically work, we listened to FM
radio.

The song of the trip was Kelly Clarkson’s “Since U
Been Gone.” Though it played every hour (thank you, Clear
Channel Communications, Inc.), we sang it out loud every time. We
were youthful, rebellious and angst-ridden, and Clarkson
understood. It was like 1990’s “Pump Up the
Volume,” in which Christian Slater runs a pirate radio
station that speaks to the teenagers while enflaming parents and
squares alike.

Out on the ocean, the waves were average but fun. We got hassled
at the border coming back because the border patrol thought two
unkempt college surfers coming back from Baja were the perfect
front for drug running. I wanted to tell the Five-O to back off
because our “high” was on the straight, but I sat
submissively in the backseat while they searched the trunk.

But the trip was a success. There was a lot of whining from me
… about waves, women, the past, the future, and the recent dearth
of Christian Slater movies. But Brandon listened like he had a
thousand times before ““ my bra lends support.

But our respective responsibilities waited for us back home. The
surf road trip is a recess from the world, a chance to think and
talk without having to act. An eternal vacation is suspended
animation. As much as I complain, I want to keep moving forward,
but I need these moments to take stock.

As Brandon dropped me off at home, I gave the man a firm
handshake. We’d get a drink with the crew next weekend or
something.

For now, I’ve got to quit being a screwup and get my act
together.

When I grow up, I’ll be an astronaut-fireman and shoot
machine guns. Pump up the Christian Slater at
[email protected].