http://www.theinertia.com/business-media/dear-pro-surfing-shes-just-not-that-into-you/
Sean Young: surfer / lifeguard / writer / musician
Dear Pro Surfing,
I recently read Sean Doherety’s excellent Surfer Magazine article about your shiny new plans for our “sport” and, frankly, I’m a touch concerned. Once again, you are attempting to woo the “girl of your dreams”–a dream girl that, frankly dude, is just not that into you. She really doesn’t get you. She’s a simpleton. She gets bored easily. She has a million other suitors constantly prostrating themselves at her feet for a minute of her attention. Yes, Pro Surfing, that fickle mistress known as Mainstream Media is never going to want to have a meaningful relationship with you. And, as your friend, I’m here to tell you that you are way too good for this callow hussy, and it’s high time you stopped embarrassing yourself in such a needy fashion.
Now, don’t get upset with me. I’ve had your back for a long time. I was around when that Grande Dame formerly known as Peter Drouyn introduced the concept of man-on-man heats and the original contest animal MP arose from his heroin-nod for a last hurrah at Burleigh Heads. I watched the “father of the thruster” massacre giant Bells and turn the backhand to an advantage at the Coke Surfabout in Sydney. I watched the OP riot from the safety of a restaurant roof. I’ve watched Kolohe’s dad do battle on the Bud Tour and countless packaged-for-television surf contests. And now, most wonderfully, these incredible webcasts from exotic surf locales around the globe. I’ve even had roommates who were pro surfers so please know that I get you. I’m with you, but I think it’s time for real talk.
First off, I am sick and tired of hearing you whine about how you want to grow surfing. Grow it? News for you, buddy: it’s full grown and busting out of its seams. You should see what we have going on down here in Venice. It’s morphed from a homegrown, underground scene of state-of-the-art surfing to Fallujah on Soft Tops. A hundred people crammed at the Breakwater committing egregious atrocities upon the waves, and one another, in the name of surfing. You can’t throw a rock in the Santa Monica Bay during the summer without hitting a surf camp instructor on his or her little trucker-hat-wearing head. That’s not just my neck of the woods. All across the world, neophytes are taking to the water in unprecedented numbers. “Alone with the surf and your thoughts?” Oh, Mr. Severson, not where I live.
What is it exactly that you want? Why are you so desperate to attract her attention? Why this need to constantly explain to her how incredible you are? “Hey, middle America, look how rad we all are over here!” We’re a legitimate sport. We are great athletes.
True, you are great athletes but, honestly, pro surfing is a scam, a hustle created by a bunch of surfers who figured out a way to get paid for doing what they loved. But we don’t care. We wish we were you. We wish we could surf like you do and wish we could get paid to do it as well. We will waste an entire day watching an event with three-foot surf and twenty-minute lulls. We don’t care. But that’s because we are surfers. We get you.
In order to sell yourself to a wider audience, you’ve hooked up with a new outfit called ZoSea. Your new stylist/hype-man Paul Speaker comes from the NFL, and he enjoys drawing ridiculous parallels between football and surfing. In fact, he loves to offer this fun fact as proof that surfing can be mass marketed: despite football’s massive popularity – 97% of the public has never played football. Okay. While 97% may have never strapped on pads and played an official game, EVERYONE has at least held a football in their hand, thrown it around the yard or played flag football back in Junior High. They know how fast they can run. They know how far they can or cannot throw a football, and they have a pretty good idea what it would feel like to be tackled by a six-foot, seven-inch, three-hundred pound man who can run a 4.6 second 40.
They do not, however, have any concept of what it’s like to ride a wave. They can’t fathom the courage and athletic ability it takes to turn around underneath a heaving South Pacific slab and pull into the barrel. Conceptually, it’s impossible for them to understand that the lip of that wave packs more of a violent impact than the entire defense of an NFL team. Oh, I’m sure you can throw together some wonderful packages designed to enlighten the uninitiated and your new teams of broadcasters can harp constantly about the thrilling danger involved but, ultimately, they just see pretty blue roller coaster rides.
As a lifeguard working in Venice, I have had a lot of firsthand experience with people unable to comprehend the power and danger of the ocean. You can warn them ’til you’re blue in the face, but until they go over the falls with the lip and have a “come to Jesus moment,” you are just wasting your breath. Maybe you could direct your desired new audience to stand in front of a fire hose while being beaten with sledgehammers to fully understand the Teahupo’o experience.
It seems Mr. Speaker has been whispering a lot of sweet nothings in your ear talking about a centralized Global Surf League and telling you that you are a “Premier Global Sport.” You have to know that’s a bunch of B.S. This is where that pesky thing called the ocean gets in the way. People like a hard start time for their sporting events. They expect the ball to be kicked off at specific time. They don’t want to park themselves down in front of the television with their beer and their chips ready for an afternoon of action only to find out the game isn’t going to be played because the grass isn’t green enough yet. Even a devout initiate like myself will spit the dummy after wasting an entire day waiting for an event not to run. How’s Joe six-pack going to take it?
Your other problem is your random subjectivity. People like a clear-cut winner. You know, who scores the most points, who crossed the finish line first. You fall into the same category as gymnastics and figure skating. You perform a routine. Maybe some compulsory maneuvers and then a little freestyle and then you are awarded a score from a panel of judges. What if one of the gymnasts performed her routine on the balance beam and then the next girl went to do her routine and the balance beam was gone? Maybe it finally shows up twenty minutes later. Or they give her some old bootleg balance beam that’s cracked and uneven. What’s the audience going to do while this girl is frantically running around looking for a freakin’ balance beam? Do they keep watching? Do they think it’s fair that she didn’t get to do her routine on a nice balance beam? If you surf, you get it. You understand the fickleness of the ocean, the subtleties of rhythm and wave selection. You can appreciate the stress and pressure of a slow, wave-starved heat like a hardcore baseball fan loves a low scoring pitcher’s duel. However, the casual fan wants to see home run derby every time they come to the park.
Please don’t hate me. I’m telling you this for your own good. We’ve been doing this for over thirty years. Remember P.T. and Kanga with their Bronzed Aussies and matching jumpsuits? All the mega events and neon of the 80s? Boardshorts on the runways of Milan in the 90s? For twenty plus years you’ve had Kelly Slater–the most transcendent charismatic surfer to ever put his feet in wax, and you still can’t develop a relationship with her?
So keep your head up and restrain from this incessant fawning over this disinterested and, quite frankly, unworthy beast. You’re not some nutty little game with a ball and a set of arbitrary rules created by some white dudes wearing knickers. You are the vanguard of our pursuit. Surfing is the sport of kings. It’s been around for thousands of years so quit acting so desperate. It’s like you’ve always told us, “Only a surfer knows the feeling.”