You’re welcome

Surf Sacrifice, by Simon Mclean (

Surf Sacrifice, by Simon Mclean (

This isn’t about you. Not a whiff of altruism wafted through my decision to not surf. I’m doing it for me. (I’ll delve into the reasons later, but understand that my motives for NOT surfing are every bit as selfish as anyone’s motives FOR surfing, which is to say, really damn selfish.) That being said, you’re welcome.

Driving over the Rudee Inlet bridge the other day, I realized something. It was dusk, but I could still see clearly. My eyes left the road and zeroed in on the ocean, and…holy fuck, the waves were pumping.

I hauled ass down the bridge and peeled a turn towards the beach, driving like a cop tailing a fugitive. I’ve already missed so many waves this year that I wanted to pull up to the boardwalk and feel like a surfer. Or maybe I enjoy self-flagellation.

Head-high, glassy rights stacked to the horizon. My lingering former self started to ask, “Is my board in the car? There’s time to catch one or two.” Then, it hit me. First, that I’m not surfing. Then, that these waves, and all the others this year, are my fault.

I’m a human surf sacrifice.

No, I’m serious. I never believed in surf sacrifices either, mainly because I attended one in Virginia Beach in 1984, the night before an E.S.A. contest. The next morning, despite the charred remains of somebody’s dilapidated hunk-of-shit board staring out from the trashcan, the surf still sucked.

According to Australian mythology – where the gods are slightly less famous but far drunker and foul-mouthed than those on Mount Olympus – the surf is controlled by a god named Huey. And Huey, for some reason, hates America’s East Coast, not as much as he loathes the Gulf Coast or the Great Lakes, but pretty bad.

Ever since I stopped surfing, the waves here have been firing. I get the feeling that Huey has been reading my blog, and that he has decided, “Crikey, now that’s a sacrifice.” He has gone to his little interactive globe and wiped away the cobwebs camouflaging this long forgotten stretch of coast, and he has circled the proverbial wagons.

“Get ya suits on, boys,” he has called to his wavy troops. “You’re gonna need the 5 mils; it’s winter up there. We’re going to Virginia Beach, and we may be there a while.”

Mark my words. 2014 will go down as the best year of Mid-Atlantic surf in memory. If you aren’t here, I advise booking today. Forget the Central America or Indonesia as your surf destination; VB is the ticket.

So while I didn’t set out to do anyone any favors, I’m doing surfers a massive favor. As long as I stay out of the water, Huey will keep the waves coming.

The only thing left to answer, then, is what shall be my compensation? How do I want surfers to repay the favor? I mean, this level of sacrifice is unprecedented. I’m taking a King Kong dong for the old home team.

And all I ask in return is…nothing. Consider the waves my gift to you. But come 2015, if you see me paddling for a wave, don’t even think about it. I’m going.

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