Reviewed by Jemma van Breda
For as long as surfing has existed, it’s come with an unspoken hierarchy. With professional surfing reaching greater heights (literally), the everyday surfer grapples more and more with where the bar starts and ends and how they fit in, if at all.
Bernard Katz’s The Death of a Weekend Warrior offers a take on this from the perspective of the every day surfer and asks a question most of us have probably wrestled with at some point: what actually makes someone a surfer?
In an era where social media serves us endless highlight reels of airs, perfect Indonesian barrels and the seemingly unattainable standard of modern performance surfing, it’s easy to forget that most of us don’t surf every day. We have jobs, families, injuries, responsibilities and long stretches where life gets in the way of tides and swell charts. That’s the reality for the overwhelming majority of surfers, not just here in South Africa but around the world.
And that’s exactly why this book feels so relatable.
Rather than focusing on elite performance, Katz dives into something far more universal: the unspoken psychology of the everyday surfer. The self-doubt. The frustration of slow progression. The comparison trap. That nagging feeling that because you’re aren’t chasing QS points or picked up a board when you were 9 that, maybe you’re somehow not really “surfing properly.”
But what makes this book particularly enjoyable is the way Katz tells those stories. Whether he’s surf-tripping through New Zealand, chasing waves in Bali or reflecting on sessions at Glen Beach, his writing has a way of dropping you straight into the lineup alongside him. You can feel the combination of nerves and stoke before each paddle-out and instantly relate to his progression journey, no matter what phase it is at. His experiences never feel out of reach. In fact, they feel attainable and inspiring, reminding the reader that these adventures aren’t reserved for the surfing elite. They’re ready and waiting for anyone willing to chase them.
Unfolding alongside his travels throughout the book is something even more relatable, life itself. Relationships grow. Careers demand more. Kids come along. Time in the water becomes harder to find. Yet through every chapter, surfing remains the thread that ties it all together. It doesn’t disappear. It evolves. The obsession softens into something deeper, proving that progression isn’t always measured by manoeuvres or wave count, but by the way surfing continues to shape who we are through every stage of life.
One of the things Zigzag has always believed is that surfing isn’t reserved for a select few. It’s found in the 78-year-old granny dancing her log across Muizenberg just as much as it is in the nine-year-old grom throwing 360’s at New Pier. It’s in the dawn patrol before work, the quick lunchtime paddle, the once-a-month mission you’ve been looking forward to for weeks. Stoke has never cared about age, ability or how often you surf.
Katz understands that.
His message isn’t that progression stops when life gets busy. Quite the opposite. Progression simply changes shape. Sometimes it’s finally making that drop. Sometimes it’s paddling out at a break you’ve convinced yourself is above your pay grade. Sometimes it’s booking that trip to Indo you’ve talked yourself out of for years. Sometimes it’s simply getting back in the water after months away and remembering why you fell in love with surfing in the first place. As readers, we walk away with positive perspective, saying no to the same critical narrative that everyday surfers deal with internally for years (like Katz himself).
Having started surfing later in life, Katz finds himself in an unusual space, progressing alongside surfers half his age while many of his peers are naturally slowing down. It’s a lonely place to be, and one he describes with refreshing honesty. The irony though, is that in writing about the experience of feeling unsure of his surfing classification, he’s created something that does exactly the opposite. This is the kind of book you can pick up before a two-hour flight to Cape Town, tear through cover to cover, and step off the plane feeling like someone has finally put words to thoughts and cured self-doubts you’ve probably had for years. Somehow, by telling his own story, Katz ends up telling ours too.
Perhaps the greatest strength of The Death of a Weekend Warrior is that it quietly dismantles the idea that surfing has an entry requirement. You don’t need to surf every day. You don’t need a sponsorship. You don’t need to be the best surfer in the lineup or started in your pre-teens. If you’re still chasing that feeling, still learning and still smiling after a good wave, you’re already part of it.
For anyone who’s ever looked around the lineup and wondered if they belong, Katz’s answer is beautifully simple. You don’t earn the title of “surfer” through ability or status. You earn it every time you paddle out. And perhaps that’s the reminder many of us didn’t realise we needed.
Purchase Death of a Weekend Warrior here