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.
11. Keep Secret Spots Secret.
Ichabod sent me some numbers with tiny noughts at the top on the righthand side, and a fat red exclamation mark to indicate the spot. “There’s a new break, on the west side,” he messaged. “It’s one of those versatile waves for short or long, boogey or stand up. There are additional waves on the periphery as well.”
“Send me words, not those indecipherable numbers.”
And there it was. The Silly Wreck Won. It was ugly and rusty and derelict and it reeked of diesel or something. Dangerous too, if pieces of metal were to tear off and sweep towards shore.
“Could take your head off,” said Ichabod. I touched my pink Gath fondly.
Some friendly uniformed people on the beach shouted and waved to us. I waved back but Ichabod thought they wanted us out, even though it was obvious we were having fun. Ichabod was focusing intently so I knew he was happy. Even though I spoke to him in the lineup (of two).
Swell heaved up around the dead ship in a pincher action, like a Genghis Khan combat tactic. The main wave was an A frame which jacked suddenly, then opened into a short steep section before becoming a mellow wall. It was perfect.
And, perhaps because of the diesel pong or the danger of flying bits, we had it all to ourselves. All. To. Ourselves. No hordes. None at all.
Except for a real estate developer who sat on his SUP, very busy on his phone in a waterproof pouch. And someone with an injured elbow.
“We should fill the empty hull with rocks, like Kovalam in Southern India, and make a permanent reef,” I suggest afterwards, as I wipe oil off my board.
“Just don’t even mention this spot. To anyone,” says Ichabod through his teeth.
“Of course not. This place is our secret spot. A treasure. I would never say anything to anyone. Never. Ever.”
The next day we’re back at the Silly Wreck. And it is crowded. Packed. Teeming. Carnage and mayhem.
Within a heartbeat Ichabod asks: “Did you tell anyone?”
“How can you even suggest that?” I lift my chin, roll my eyes.
He looks at me for a long time.
“Well, perhaps just a few people on the Head South group chat.”
His mouth drops open.
“ And perhaps on the Surf Seekers chat.”
A growl is building in his throat as he fixes me with his most intense librarian stare.
“Maybe one or two friends.” My voice comes out as a croaking whisper: “And my cousin on Facebook.”
“So, everyone you know on this f-ing side of the equator!”
In the end the authorities sank the wreck. Gone. Paradise lost. Which is a good thing because Ichabod started talking to me again.
Check in next week for more lessons with Ichabod.