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.
17. Trying New Moves.
Ichabod’s revelation yesterday was this: In order to improve your surfing it is necessary to put yourself out there. Try new manoeuvres. Venture forth, and so on.
He’s spot on.
But get the basics right first, I suggested. Improve your take-off. And your pop-up. Trimming. And cutting out neatly. Especially cutting out— not flailing, jumping off, erratically. Especially near other water users.
We’ve chosen to surf at a spot which we share with a few other surfers. A few hundred. So calamities are possible.
I list a dozen skills in Ichabod’s present repertoire that could be improved.
Like drop knee turns. Any turns for that matter.
Cutbacks are helpful in a crowd. Less chance of bashing into stragglers paddling back out.
Parallel stance glides, arching bottom turns. Any bottom turns.
Hanging five, hanging ten, while still on the board.
Cross stepping is cool. Barrels in the whitewash — not so much.
Any of those would be an improvement on going straight. In a boskak stance.
However, he chooses to bolster his artistry by trying a fin-first take-off. Of course.
His first attempt is comparable to a disturbed daddy-long-legs spinning.
The finale is vaguely reminiscent of an arabesque, upside-down.
The entire thing is more cringe than Aunt Maud in a mini, flirting with your buddy.
Not unexpectedly, on his next attempt his board smashes into someone. Resoundingly. Cataclysmically. And his beatific smiling attempt at appeasement is as pathetic as a drunk friend’s life history on repeat.
The victim tells Ichabod — in terms not fit for print —- that he was of low intelligence. And should go elsewhere. Far away. Where there were no other surfers. Preferably Antarctica. Or the hot place.
As mulish as a slow car in the fast lane, is my friend. He got right back at it. This time he face-planted on the deck of his board.
His nose bleed rather messed the pretty design. The colours clashed just as he had.
People begin saying something about us all being in mortal danger. Someone asks the shark spotters to raise the flag.
Ichabod’s acquiescence was as heartwarming as a piglet’s grunt. He left the water, heading towards Antarctica or hell. Holding his nose to staunch the flow.
I realise it wasn’t compliance, but the sulks, born of indignation — his singular talent. His not speaking to me in the carpark is because he expects his friend (me) to stick up for him.
I will when he masters the fin first take-off without the spider impersonation.
Check in next week for more lessons with Ichabod.