The Glamour of Surfing
The beach, the waves, the wax, the boards—it’s all glorious and sexy—but last year, the glamour of surfing really hit me on one particularly big day in York.
No one was surfing just north of the restaurant and I couldn’t figure out why. The waves looked fabulous and long, and areas north of there were starting to get crowded with fellow surfers, so I paddled south from where I was and popped up on a bomb of a right.
I rode it far in and my error of judgement became apparent quickly: as the wave ended, I was stuck in a swampy seaweed salad. The seaweed had taken over the beach that summer—the marine plants stank in the sun, leaving the tourists with nauseous delirium.
And here it was, clumped on my leash, in my hair, and clawing at me from all around, squishy like some life-sized tactile Halloween exhibit.
Somehow—and not gracefully—I was able to paddle back out, after unclumping the seaweed from around my neck and leash, feeling faint and somewhat claustrophobic. When I got beyond the break, I went about unclumping the last of the tangled mess of seaweed that had tied bowknots on the leash.
The next waves I rode, I ducked off early, managing to avoid the sloppy mess. When I finally rode one in, upon landing on the beach, I saw amidst the debris, a baby seal, dead, and some sort of fatty tissue from her body nearby.
It was a pickling moment, and I still grimace even now, remembering I’d just been swimming in the foul mess.
When I hopped in my car, I took one look at my hair and for the first time ever felt that Sinead O’Connor had been on to something. Every lock of hair was throttled by the red seaweed
How the hell am I going to get this out, I wondered.
The answer was: Patiently, with a wide tooth comb and lots of deep conditioner. Three hours later, I began to recognize myself in the mirror. I feared for the state of the pipes.
My car has never fully recovered from shuttling me home that day. There is still an eau de mer that won’t be quelled with the strongest essential oil blend, coffee grounds and baking soda. And occasionally, when I swing my hair too fast, I catch a whiff of ancient crustaceans, kelp and the ghost lives of baby seals and I am reminded once more of the glamour of surfing.
Facial expression: Concern, general malaise and a confidence that I’d be bowing out of any plans that afternoon, in order to work with this hair. (C) Sara Dyer
