Two idiots bobbing in the ocean. The other idiot might take exception to that, but I’m the one writing the column, and the truth is the truth.
You might remember a while back I went to a Flagler alumni event where more coordinated alumni who know how to surf taught bottom-feeders like me how to ride the waves. Or for accuracy sake: be crushed by waves and dragged out to sea as shark bait.
Well, since then I’ve bought myself a longboard, convinced myself that “dude” should be a word worked into every sentence and religiously read surf reports online, at all hours of the day … and sometimes dream about them.
I surf whenever I can. I listen to conch shells hoping to get wave-riding advice. I drive around with a board attached to my roof.
And yet … two idiots bobbing in the ocean.
I’ve come to the realization that there’s surfing and knowing how to surf. I can go out surfing, but it sure doesn’t mean I know what the heck I’m doing.
Knowing how to surf, I’m hoping, comes with time and a lot of waves. And hopefully it causes your body to produce new teeth because I’m taking a lot of shots to the mouth area.
The other idiot in the duo is my buddy Brian Washburn, another Flagler alum who I like because we share a first name. We’ve become surfing buddies, and we make a good combination because neither of us have any common sense.
We go out on the kind of days when surf reports say things like, “Not if a howitzer was pointed at my head” or “Call funeral home before heading out.”
He will send me e-mails that say, “Surf looks pretty good today. You up for it?” Ten minutes earlier I will have seen how the National Weather Service just issued a typhoon warning for the coast, and part of Jacksonville was swept out to sea.
“Uh, Brian,” I write back. “Isn’t it a little rough out there?”
“Rough?” he replies. “Naw, looked fine to me. One-foot waves, tops, and real glassy. Looks nice and easy.”
And, because I’m an idiot, I strap a board to the top of my Jeep and head out to our rendezvous.
Imagine my surprise when the ocean looks like war has erupted. At first I think a nuclear bomb has been dropped in the sea. Waves crash in every direction, mountainous buggers that rip and curl, biting down on the world below with massive fangs. Salt spray and sea spit fills the air.
“Huh,” Brian says, and it’s kind of a quizzical thing to say. “Didn’t look like that before. It’s a little rougher now.”
“A LITTLE rougher!” I say. “An avalanche falling down an erupting volcano is a little rough. We’re gonna’ die out there. They’ll write a tribute song and call it, ‘Two idiots bobbing in the ocean.’”
“I think it will be OK,” he says with a laugh.
And then we head out. We actually head out!
The other day we went out and when I looked over, he was bobbing along.
“Hey,” he called out, hanging on to his board kind of funny. I grew a little worried. You’re supposed to be on the board.
He was yelling something, and when I got close enough, I made it out: “That wave snapped my board in two.”
“Your back?” I called out.
“No,” he yelled. “The board!”
Snapped right in two. By the time he floated it ashore, it had broken into three pieces.
We laid it on the beach and stared at it. There were bite marks — big, ocean bite marks — all over it. The board’s fin must have caught him on the shin because a little blood trickled from a small wound.
And so I did what any surfer who doesn’t know how to surf does — I said something profound (“Dude, that sucks!”) and headed back in.
That’s what idiots do.