CLEANING UP SLOWLY

Celebrating surfing's healing powers

You don't hear much about surfing's good side. Skipping school. Fistfights. Sexism. Smuggling. These are the tales and attributes that score both major headlines on the outside -- remember Andrew Cunanan's Surfer subscription? -- and the most discussion on the inside. Sure, we applaud Christian Surfers' efforts to clothe orphans in Nicaragua from a distance, but we'll line up to follow Kem Nunn down a Tijuana alley, do time with Jay Adams or watch Flea tweak his way through triple-story Maverick's. So while positive deeds earn our respect -- it's shady figures and risky habits that capture our imaginations.

Yea, though our light sabers may glow brightest for the dark side, I would testify surfing is innately a force for good. For love. It even has the power to heal -- heal, I say. In fact, I just witnessed such a transformation. So lay hands on your flat screen and let our sport's miraculous powers flow through your laptop. (Or whatever body part feels best.)

Surf Dianetics. Photo: Burkardphoto.com

It was during last week's run of good surf. A close friend came to visit, a childhood pal turned Val, who was feeling the weight of the past couple decades -- literally. Far from, huge, maybe 30 pounds heavy, but that little extra was still plenty to push him over the handlebars time and again, giving the strict vegetarian a new diet of all-you-can-eat donuts. Halfway home, he upchucked his disgust with a taste of epiphany.

"That's it," he spouted out of nowhere. "I'm gonna stop drinking beer...during the week."

And there it was. In one two-hour session, surfing did something his wife couldn't with 10 years of nagging. Hell, it even took a chunk out of his alcohol problem. In other words: blowing waves was a greater motivating force than family bliss. Whether the reasoning was good or bad, I'll leave to you. But you can't argue with results. I know: it helped me silence my own personal demons.

I first sniffed coke during theology school. (You think a 'have you read it?' quiz is tough; try memorizing the whole freakin' Qur'an.) But what started as a study buddy became my recreational life-partner. Locked down in my college's mountain retreat with no coast in sight, I towed in to XXL-sized mounds. By the end of school, not one class was scheduled before 3pm; not one attendance policy was ever perfected. Surprisingly, I graduated. And after doing my Bolivian march across stage to grab my diploma, I skipped my way back to the coast, surfboard in hand.

I still partied. A lot. (Beach towns see a surprising amount of summer snowfall.) But -- after four years on the slopes -- sandbars suddenly seemed like a more novel rush and, once again, I dove in with abandon. Except the more I stuck my head under water in the water, the harder it was to keep my face in the bag. I even found myself just saying no, and it was always when there was a chance for surf. Before long, "seeing 6am," took on a whole new perspective. As a result, I got better waves, better jobs, healthier relationships. In other words: the more successful I became at surfing, the better I got at life. And, to this day, I credit my recovery to the ocean's intervention.

Not that there aren't temptations. I remember standing at the carpark at J-Bay one midnight. Watching the moon light the surface, seven white stripes roped into Supers, exploding like piles of powder dropped from heaven.

"Where's a set of giant stripper tits when you need 'em?" I joked.

"Back at San-O," my travel mate replied.

Still, it was more a reflection than a request. And had someone walked up with an eight ball and an alarm clock, I'd like to think I'd take the alarm clock -- if nothing else as a symbol of finally waking up to what really matters.

That was years ago. And I'm still clean. And I get cleaner with each new session in more ways than one. I pick up trash on the beach. Encourage kooks to keep their legs together when they paddle. Haven't waxed a windshield since I don't know when. I can get angry and bitter -- but something always blows in to cheer me up. And, generally, all it takes is a pile of waves. Glorious waves. Hallelujah.