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It’s a surf spot not a park, stupid

June 6, 2017

I went to my surf spot yesterday. The hardest part is being surrounded by these soulless, wel–meaning, happy-faced people who have gotten better at getting waves but are still horrible surfers in every possible way. The spot was where the cool people once hung, who had a passion, and who knew stoke. All this crowd knows is getting a healthy work-out, talking to each other so they can validate themselves at what they think is cool, and in the water it’s like being surrounded by a boring mix of social media stew.

So I got past that. But I’m still so weak from neuropathy and that draining battle with esophageal cancer. It has taken me away from the ocean, So I paddled around hoping to score a scrap, but nothing came my way, but with each paddle I felt a strength trying to crawl back into me, and it would be slow in coming. I felt like I was crawling on the water.

But I came in. There was my surf buddy John Stone who offered to help carry my board up the stairs.

“Thanks for helping me, I’m kinda tired,” I said.

“It’s okay, Fred. You’re keeping me stoked knowing you doing this.”

He walked away and I leaned against the car, trying to compose myself. Thinking back on how surfing this spot and all the people changed by life, perspective, and hardened my individual spirit with a resolve that could never be reduced. Their stoke was a re-bar within my foundation–and it has lead me to improve my life in so many ways. The crew is so rock solid–and none of us have ever had a harsh word.

Then he comes this family, carrying their beach chairs, Costco boards, smiling after their beach day. It was recreation. The husband says, “I bet I could get better at surfing if there were waves every day.” And I ignored them–they wouldn’t be here if the city didn’t improve access. And most of the others the same. When it was difficult, and you had to care, and not just consume the place, these people were at other beaches–and that’s where they should have stayed, and all they do is contaminate a surf spot. They remain outside of me. They would never sacrifice anything to be here, or anywhere else, They are the world that just goes along, and they reproduce, and become reruns. And they can only find this world, after others discovered it first. I don;t care for people who say the ocean is for everyone–who wants to be everyone. Everyone are the ones who try to stop you with the rules that favor them, but ones they can break. They’re everyone else. I’ve run against their world, just trying to express myself. They can be everyone they want to be–these every ones.

I hang with originals.

My guess is they went for ice cream.

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