In this weekly column series, Bernie Shelly explores the strange, funny rituals of everyday surf life — from awkward line-up conversations and endless paddle-outs to bruised egos and near-collisions in the surf. At the centre is Ichabod: intense, stubborn and fiercely focused, the perfect foil for Bernie’s dry humour and sharp observations about friendship, etiquette and the absurd beauty of sharing waves with other people.
10. Care of Wetsuits
Ichabod shows me his new wetsuit, with pride. His previous one had come apart in shreds. Macerated, wide open. With no cozzy underneath. In the carpark. The crowded carpark.
However, we don’t speak about that.
Then again, pride requires an explanation about cold, you know — anatomical bits shrivelling, withdrawing. It would be uncharitable to laugh, so I don’t.
But I do note that the waves seem to be getting smaller. The swell. Small swell. I think I clarified the semantics tactfully enough.
So — back to his new suit: “This time remember, no rinsing. Salt is a good preservative,” I say. “For your suit. Like making biltong.”
“ Au contraire, I find they last longer if you rinse them well, after every use. Also. Never hang your suit by the shoulders. Always drape it over a hanger or railing or washing line, at the waist.”
“That will take twice as long to dry. The sun can’t get at the areas on the inside. If you hang it from the shoulders the weight of the water helps the water run down and out faster.”
He tries to unravel my supreme logic.
“Sun?” he says at last. “You don’t hang a suit in the sun!”
Me: “Okay then. Use the tumble drier.”
Ichabod: “Rap the wetsuit in a towel. Roll it up.”
Me: “ Secure it to the roof of your car. The rush of air will do the trick before you even reach home.”
That’s crazy.” I think he means me.
“Well then, turn on the car heater and place your suit on floor in front of outlet.”
His shallow little intakes of breath warn me to cork it. But I’m on a roll. “Lie the wetsuit on the floor. Turn on the underfloor heating.”
Ichabod has indignation down pat. “I paid a small fortune for this suit.”
“Blow dry. There’s an idea. Or hang it in the kitchen after cooking.”
By now the swell has dropped. Drastically. Nothing left out there.
“When you talk you don’t surf, literally,” he says, looking aggrievedly at his spanking new wetsuit. Unused. Bone Dry.
“We’re not in the line-up,” I point out. “But here’s a thought. Bath Fido with your wetsuit on. You, not the dog — you wear your wetsuit, Fido doesn’t. In the shower. With Fido.” I hope I made that clear.
Nope. He’s off, with a flourish. Not talking to me.
Check in next week for more lessons with Ichabod.