Around 400 surfers crowded the break last night, converging on the occasional swell like it was the last beer at the party. Old guys, young guys, girls with powerful haunches, and me. I paddled the “Becker Board”, large enough for a family of Polynesian immigrants to comfortably commute the Pacific Ocean.
A tiny crest appears on the horizon and the water begins to churn with confident triceps and shoulders all chugging towards the same imaginary fixed position. There is not eye contact, no verbal communication, only getting there first or getting the fuck out of the way.
“Excuse me miss, were you planning to ride this wave to the shore this afternoon? If not, would you mind terribly if I attempt to do so?”
This approach got me nowhere.
I eventually settled on a strategy of picking up scraps, which is the strategy which has served weaker dogs well for thousands of years. A big wave would carry the talented twenty or thirty away, snapping and snarling at each other- then I would gleefully paddle for the next wave, or the one after that.
Snickering beta dogs have their fun too!