Is surfing the new motorcycle, 2021's remedy for midlife crisis?
Or is it simply a global religion whose converts are being sent to Santa Cruz to plumb the debt of their weary souls? It's got to be the water, the holy fluid that absolves sin, invigorates the spirit and requires a wetsuit for baptism.
COVID has certainly sent many a seeker -- young, old and in-between -- to immerse themselves into the sacred, icy waters of Monterey Bay. Surely it's the plethora of good surf breaks that brings them, but one must give a nod to the bay's designation as a National Marine Sanctuary.
There are no oil rigs or five-star resorts.
"I want to learn to surf," says Joseph, a septuagenarian and recent arrival to Surf City. He's a big man with white hair whose speech is salted with an accent that could be middle eastern. He's retired and came to town to be near his adult children who have settled here.
You can picture Joseph lying on his belly on a 12-foot surf board.
Marcel, a younger man, sits on his board in the lineup at Cowell's, a premier bunny-slope break and once a neighborhood hangout for local families.
"I am from Marseille," says Marcel with a clever grin and French accent. "I come to Santa Cruz to surf: it's Mecca. I had to make the pilgrimage."
He is surrounded by surf-school groups, many who are 8-12 years old and come from the greater San Francisco Bay Area. Their parents watch from the shore, thrilled that their children are experiencing this uber popular California pastime.
In his 2010 book, Kook, adventure writer Peter Heller tells his own story of taking up the challenge of surfing at age 48 with the intension of going from kook to shredder in a single year.
Heller defines kook: Although it means "beginner surfer," he says, "it's not a neutral term; it carries a slug of derision, a brand for the clueless, for those without hope, without grace, without rhythm. To be a kook," he says, "is to be consigned to a kind of beginner's hell."
He yells when he catches his first waves, the call of the kook.
Soon, as is the case with most wannabe and practiced surfers, he becomes obsessed. There is an undeniable allure to being one with the natural liquid environment of the ocean, its beat and pulse, ebb and flow, and with the ultimately grand sensation of riding a wave, the peeling rush and exquisite silence.
But that does not come without some hard knocks including being yelled at and trying to figure out the fineries of a variety of surf breaks and the formula for going from his stomach to his feet on a sliding wave.
Early on, he assumes the self-mocking stereotype, outfitting a VW bus with a quiver of boards, his girlfriend and a map of Baja, California.
He breaks down common myths about surfing and he introduces the reader to a few unique characters whose old-school savvy and eccentricity will soon be the stuff of legend as they fade into the sunset. You will not find these dudes in most lineups today.
As an accomplished outdoorsman and environmentalist, Heller approaches surfing with the unique and mostly overlooked perspective that "the ocean is dying." He laments the many resorts that have spoiled way too many natural coastlines and reefs. He notes the diminishing sea life, particularly the whales and dolphins whose sophisticated intelligence has been exploited.
The book is about more than simply surfing yet the subtitle -- "What surfing taught me about love, life, and catching the perfect wave" -- seems forced, cliche, and does not do the book justice. But who would purchase a book about surfing with the title: The Ocean is Dying. Surf now while you can?
From a total kook flailing in the soup at Huntington Beach to paddling out on an overhead day at Puerto Escondido -- the Mexican Pipeline -- is an impressive one-year journey. He does marry his girlfriend along the way with a new realization of the meaning of love.
Heller proves it's okay to be a kook.
