WORDS BY MEGAN THOMAS
IF YOU EVER QUESTIONED WITH ONES THEY WERE in the line
up you just had to wait until they caught a wave.
You’ve seen the one kind of surfer. The graceful one that goes
from paddling to floating atop a wave in one fluid motion. A
motion so seamless that you believe they and the wave have
some hidden unsaid understanding that if he acts flawlessly the
wave will do it’s job.
These kids are not those type of surfers.
These surfers charge waves as hard as they charged tequila
after every session. These kids were something I had never
quite seen. They could flawlessly pop into any wave but they
didn’t take the zen bullshit of wave understanding or any of that
nonsense into consideration. They pumped and cut on every
wave until the wave exhausted with their energy crumbled and
gave up it’s fight collapsing on shore.
The savage surfers.
The energy was vivacious. They loved what they did and they
did it everyday. Squeezing every ounce out of each wave like
they did to life each day. They could each go from dancing
around each other killing a 5th of tequila while chanting
Spanglish bullshit and laughing their asses off until 3am then
wake up at 6 and be in the water again. They were fish that were
only sustained on booze, tacos and Atlantic saltwater. These kids
thrived for the next wave, the next big one in the set, the next
surf trip when the swell and party inevitably dies. They lived for
exactly what they wanted to live for – and they killed it.
S U R F
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P A R T Y
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