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.
13. The Question of Locals.
Ichabod found crocheting deleterious to his squint. Or visa versa. So he has returned to the fold. And to celebrate, we’re off to Jbay.
Lower Point seemed doable. In fact it looked really good. But my friend decided on Supers. On his longboard. Which was not fully waxed. And which he’d never ridden.
He flung himself off the rocks and half an hour later he made it to the line-up, which I think was quite an achievement. But a chap they call The Viking told him he was not welcome. (He used a different turn of phrase, of course.) Perhaps he could tell by Ichabod’s flailing and spluttering and wide eyes that he would destroy the ambiance specific to the break.
So Ichabod made his way across to the Point, rather than hobnobbing with Supers’ upper echelons. Whether through self preservation or driven by moral clarity — don’t surf a break that’s patently beyond your ability — it was the right decision.
He waited at the outside edge of Lower Point line-up and gradually gained ascendency in the queue. Admirable, I thought, as he sat tight a long time before he took his first wave.
Sitting wide and far down the line, nowhere near the line-up, a SUP person drops in on Ichabod. Twice.
“Aaw shoot,” I hear my friend say.
As they paddle back after the second shared wave, the SUP cuts across the front of Ichabod, blocking the horizon, just as a sizeable set launches itself into the fray.
The SUP makes it over.
Ichabod executes that over-the-falls thing he does so well. He comes back up and emits a wet little death rattle.
As we make our way up the beach Ichabod tells me the gargoyle on the SUP was a local of four years. “He said I snaked him. ‘You have no right to another wave if you paddle past me,’ he said. Guh.”
I detect his indignation rising. That little brow furrow is a dead give away.
“He sat wide — halfway to Albatross,” Ichabod croaked. “If he sat waiting for a wave two metres from the shore would I have to wait in the shore-break not to paddle past him? Or on the beach?”
A valid assertion, I think.
“Then again, locals are entitled to some privilege,” I venture.
He snorts. “Does local justify being offensive?”
“Oh comaan.”
“He called me a Rick head.”
“A what?”
“A Richard head.”
“As in Tom, Richard and Harry?”
He glares at me.
“What the dickens!Trying to dictate, was he?” Many more dicks spring to mind but I contain my mirth. For a while.
“That was ridiculously radical. It indicates he’s addicted to being acidic.”
I really want to discuss what constitutes snaking — by how far down the line is it fair to pass. Or from how wide would constitute a drop-in. But instead I go through my Spotify playlist. The journey home will be a long one with Ichabod not talking to me.
Check in next week for more lessons with Ichabod.