Kooks Only, No Locals

A few years back, I was surfing a wonky reefbreak in Santa Cruz, California, on the kind of overcast, mediocre day I’d normally have forgotten the moment I left the water, except this time an enraged fellow surfer was threatening to beat me up for the crime of laughing.

I was surfing an ugly, dull-green, soft-topped surfboard, six feet long and shaped like a carrot. Looks aside, my ride, spongy and incredibly buoyant, made surfing those weak waves effortless and hilariously fun. I’d spent the previous hour slipping wildly around gray faces as they lurched over the reef, riding some standing up, a few from my knees, and one sitting on my butt, feet stretched out in front of me, having a blast. The angry dude was riding a standard high-performance fiberglass surfboard, state of the art but an absolute slug in the gutless conditions. He was having no fun at all.

I know this because I watched him catch a tiny wave and