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Dave Sparkes casts a sage’s eye over some of surfing’s bigger questions. |
JOB has wings. Redbull must’ve given them to him.
In a series of blogs aptly titled ‘Bright Sparkes’ and ‘Dark Sparkes’ Tracks veteran photo/journalist, Dave Sparkes casts a sage’s eye over some of surfing’s bigger questions. Sparkes is often wise, frequently witty and never afraid to venture into the darker side of our pleasurable past time. In this first installment, he examines the often underestimated complexity of surfing intelligence. LK.
Bruce Irons belongs deep in the barrel.
Words and Photos by Dave Sparkes
Surfers. A definite sub-species of Homo-sapiens, bubbled in a definite sub-culture. Oh sure, surfing has gone mainstream in a superficial sort of way, but at the core it is still only really understood by the core – the hard core, the inner sanctum. The non surfing world at large is still looking in through a tempered glass window, and whilst they may think they get it, we know better.
In many circles, surfers are considered raw, heathen, primal, and this failure to see between the lines (or should that be between the sets?) gives away the outsider at a glance. The surfer’s instinctive, lateral intelligence for reading the ocean is simply unfathomable to the landlubber. Those dusty denizens of dirt don’t even realise there is anything complex about waves to actually need reading; the classic case of not knowing enough to know that they know fuck all. I’m sure some surfers don’t even realise themselves how much knowledge they are actually applying whenever they scan and assess the ocean, even the humble 30 second surf check through the car window. A purely Homo sapien type might see the Homo-surfer-sapien perform a brief mental line up summation and think: “Dopey lay about, nothing better to do than stare listlessly at the horizon!” They have no idea what is going on, and I love that secret joke on the world, one that only hardcore surfers share.
Kolohe twisting.
Speaking of sharing, and further to the theory of our secret unintelligible intelligence, I give you the Self Regulating Lineup Syndrome. The generally orderly way surf line ups all over the world operate is a truly wondrous thing to behold. With very few exceptions, line ups – sometimes significantly crowded line ups – run like clockwork, with no written rules, instructions, or guidelines. There are no referees nor any policing systems in place, and with nothing other than sheer common decency (from surfers – go figure!) waves at packed breaks are surfed hour after hour and day after day with fights occurring more rarely than tsunamis. Imagine a game of football without a referee or umpire! It would be a debacle within seconds, the field would turn into an Ultimate Fighting arena almost from the kick off. Even cricket, that sedate gentlemen’s sport, would degenerate into a mob of admittedly courteously quarrelling gentlemen. LBW appeals would start the rot and unrestrained delivery of bouncers would complete the rout.
Adriano De Souza, pre knee tweak.
Of course, there is an X factor involved in the surfing realm that really seals the deal, something that will ensure that line ups will remain, hopefully in perpetuity, the last bastion of civilsed self governing free will – pecking order. It works well for birds, having been tried and tested in avian society over millions of years. Thankfully, surfers were and are innately smart enough to realise that pecking order is just the ticket to maintain peace and, well, order out in the water. It is only rarely that a surfer gets his own place in the pecking order out of whack, and when this happens the other birds, ah, I mean surfers, quickly sort him out. Of course this is usually done via non-violent means, such as ruthless snaking or blunt dropping in, but only very infrequently using real violence.
Oney Anwar represnting for Indonesia.
More often than not, the order settles itself very quickly and without fuss. The better surfers get the best of a lineup simply because of their superior awareness of the conditions; they are just in the right spot more often. They also have a vibe of confidence and competence that is unmistakable to the weaker birds (oh fuck it I’m not going to correct that to surfers anymore, let ’em all just be birds). Funnily enough, the lesser birds rarely get the shits about getting crumbs while the big red roosters get gold, they accept their lot in life and are happy to just get a peck at smaller waves or leftovers. Maybe, in a way, they are just happy to be accepted by the flock. After all, we’re all in it together, and we must look out for each other, and have each other’s backs, lest the homo sapiens ever dare to attempt to infiltrate our world. Call it cultural differences, but hey, we can’t just let any old species in to our world, now can we?
