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.
9. Wetsuits
Ichabod has a gaping hole in his wetsuit. He’s had it patched once before already. Twice actually. Evidently he has a boney rear end. I point it out with a pinch and twist of his very white flesh.
After he calms down I suggest he buy a new suit. He dreads the thought of tossing the old one in the bin. The environment, you know. Also he’s skint.
And, he points out, there’s the matter of chloroprene.
“You mean neoprene,” I say.
“No. Chloroprene.”
When the inevitable oration comes I hum inside my head but some words penetrate: “Louisiana, cancer.” Hum.
“Autoimmune diseases, limestone or something from Japan.” Hum. “Colourless liquid.” Hum.
“Acetylene. “ Hum.
“Hydrochloric acid.” Hum.
Meaningless words to me.
“Polymerised to form neoprene.”
“So, neoprene, then.”
He quashed my gotcha with an intently focused glare: an equal mix of condescension and pity.
“Toxic pollution, Petrochemical plants, Cancer Alley. Look it up,” he says.”
We stroll down to the water.
As we paddle out through the Long Beach shore break, a mass of loose slimy seaweed attacks him. Annihilates him, really. A strand with a distinct phallic shape sticks out from The Hole in his suit. As his number one rule is no chit chat in the line-up, I don’t say anything. I do however join others in the occasional little chuckle.
His indignation, ultimately, is profound. And now he doesn’t talk to me.
But he does WhatsApp in all caps, to remind me to look up chloroprene.
Check in next week for more lessons with Ichabod.