In this regular 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.
8. Warming up after a Surf.
Winter in Cape Town can be a pain in the butt. The ocean on both sides of the peninsula can be unbearably cold, the wind can be brutal and the rain can be intolerably vexing as you struggle to get your damp body clothed after a surf. You are freezing to death and your fingers won’t close and your wetsuit is stubborn about coming off; you can’t unlock your car or unclip your pink f**ing Gath (pink!) And you wonder what the hell you’re doing because this isn’t much fun.
Ichabod and I are both moderately scrawny. (He calls it lithesome, willowy, limber.) Not much blubber to cover the muscles, bones and organs beneath. So we feel the cold. A lot. He is convinced we’ll succumb to hypothermia. Any day now.
“Perhaps we should do some ice water submersion to condition our bodies,” I suggest.
Ichabod glares at me as if I had just asked to use his hybrid-something car as a lavatory. Perhaps in the console.
“We could join a surf shop club thingey and get to use their hot showers?”
“Too expensive,” he says.
“It’s not,” I protest. “Getting warmth back to your body is essential to existence. No price is too much.”
That look again. I’d never use his console for bodily relief, I tell him.
The following day I message my plan to Ichabod.
I fill a thick plastic jerrycan type water-bottle with boiling water. I wrap the scalding bottle in my changing cloak, drape my wetsuit around that and cover it all with my towel. And wallah! I have a life-changing hot shower to use after my surf. So hot I have to add cold water.
Easy to use, inexpensive, conveniently done right next to my car, beneath the open boot door. A winner. I’m chuffed. And warm. I pull on my puffer jacket and yellow crocheted beanie and sigh contentedly. And remember how good the surf was.
Ichabod meantime had brought his metal jerrycan of water— no way will he use plastic if there is an environmentally friendly alternative. He watches me wriggle happily, making ecstatic moaning sounds as I shower and, well, long story short, we are now sitting in the waiting room at Medicare Burns Unit and Ichabod is not talking to me. He’s too intently focused on whimpering.
Check in next week for more lessons with Ichabod.