…So you don’t have to.
For my eleventh birthday, my father took me to the Dave Sweet Surfboards shop on Olympic Boulevard, in Santa Monica. From the rack of used boards, I chose a solid, sunbrowned 9’0″ with blue-green paneled rails and a fin built with at least eight different types of wood.
Source: California Street
Sterilising the waves: taking the majesty of nature and turning it into a Disneyland attraction. This is a terrible idea and further indication of what is wrong about the Olympic Games.
Surfing needs the ocean. Without it, it’s just riding waves.
Once upon a time, this was my favourite song and I memorised it as best a preschooler could. At that young age, even though I didn’t get all the words right, I knew that the Boys were name-dropping various surf spots on the southern California coast. Names like “Redondo Beach” and “San Onofre” were exotic, faraway places that might as well have been Kathmandu or Casablanca to an awkward redheaded child living in what was still mostly rural Georgia.
A quarter-century later, I listen to these tunes when they come on and I smile as I’m reminded of those carefree times in my early youth, but even more because those exotic, faraway surf spots are now just down the street.
Up until World War II, surfing had not traveled far beyond its ancient birthplace, Hawaii, and, in particular, Waikiki. Small enclaves could be found along the California coast and in Australia, in large part due to the efforts of Duke Kahanamoku, the Olympic swimming champ whose exhibitions spread surfing like an aquatic Johnny Appleseed (Applesurf?).