LOCALS ONLY: Chaos, Absurdity, Sanctuary
Key Points:
- When it comes to conflicts arising from territorialism and exclusivity in a “zero trust” society, people remember the same events differently; as an outsider, your story will never align with the locals.
- Surfing has the elements of an elitist counterculture: you cannot try the better surf spots until you progress as a surfer. If you try to, you will almost assuredly be dealt with by those who surf that spot all the time. To them, you are an interloper.
- By the turn of the millennium, locals were being pushed out of their home breaks by new arrivals as surfing went full-tilt mainstream… hence today’s epidemic of drop-ins, snaking and wave rage.
- Social media, surf-spot geotagging, Surfline.com surveillance cams (you can’t vandalize them all) and mobile online chatter made it worse, ruining the ability to evade crowds.
- Crowds destroy the glow. Yet there we are, an integral component of the crowd, so we have no claim against paradox.
- Some of the most hardcore locals have been marginalized among the general population, which in turn hardens their loyalties and misdemeanors in the watery domain.
- The pecking order is strong; you cannot virtue-signal your way around the Darwinism.
- There exists an untamable renegade soul that enforces its own laws, the kind that existed before laws.
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[ “I could be the best friend you make all week” ]
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Welcome to Pepper Beach, now Go Home
Are you actually ready to fight for a wave?
The local surfers will see it as a theft of manna, and a few of the alphas have anger management issues… after breakfast, how about something prickly, and hard to eradicate? They’ve already secretly daydreamed about taking you out with a sniper rifle from the parking lot. Instead, they’ll administer the wave etiquette of the drop-in, the burn, and the asymmetrical “yard sale” as you’re faded into the pit, ass-over-teakettle. Good times.
They’re calling it an exchange; reciprocity. Some of them hassle way better than they can surf, but the kapu is posted: No Trespassing. They know you didn’t see the signs, didn’t read between the lines. It’s the arrogant nonchalance of a worst-case scenario called “locals versus kooks and transplants.” There’s a combative element that gets funnier when no one laughs, and our sport has always had an interesting relationship with violence. The locals will overshadow your terrestrial social skills and remind you that nothing in life is actually fair, free or equal. They resisted your meddling by imposing the diktat, instantly settling what you can and cannot do in “their” surf. You’ll have to tolerate intimidation from a resentful power structure—and being treated as though you are a virus. How does that make you feel?
Hey stranger, yes you—foam and plastic, soft-top Costco Wavestorm lover. Beyond this scene you may be psychologically well-adjusted, or oblivious to dehumanizing tests of willpower in a recreational setting. You propose—with a flair of sincerity, no less—that surfing should be a friendly time of kumbaya and interpersonal harmony… yeah, that’s real cute. “Spiritual unity”… OK, they’ll look into it, but for now their “hellos” sound a lot like “beat it.” A task force of crusty, rigid souls is about to descend upon you with a special heckling code in the line-up. It’s the ethos of preeminence, a higher rank beyond reach of the Nanny State. Get ready to take the “L.” Yep—the locals with the deepest roots detested you on sight. Have a great day.
They cryptically called you Chaka. That’s some sense of entitlement, isn’t it? The inconsistency leaves an aftertaste: are they in a reaction formation, in league with Faust? Who cares. You’re lucky if you didn’t get punched or choked out. See that Westsider in black shorts over there? He is on meth. Go try to bargain with that.
We all know surfing is ultimately selfish, and these people are not your friends. They’re making a video documentary called “Kooks”—starring you.
Now, this may sting a little at first. You’re respected on land, in your family, in your work. Marcellus Wallace dropped the rebuke: “That’s just pride, fuckin’ with you.” There’s a subplot—that you brought this trouble upon yourself “bro,” because you surfed Rad-Rad Reef without any sort of negotiation with the scene. They want to pound you down the pecking order if you don’t do it yourself. That wasn’t the kind of attention you expected for simply showing up with a surfboard, was it? Welcome to Pepper Beach!
See these chirpy delinquent schoolkids and fiery third-gen grommets over here? They admired how the local crew owned your steez, and they’ve grown emboldened by the Pepper Beach network effect. Their claims are of disputed origin. They put the “F U” in fun. Cringe-worthy unearned social power… into the B reel memory hole it goes. They do it because the territorialism formula works, and it is rich with irony, especially when the outsider is naïve and accustomed to pleasantries.
Localism is not just a young man’s game; some of the coldest stares and gnarliest encounters are driven by old, grizzled veterans who are past their glory days and peak ability. Dey gonna ‘splain something…
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Home Sweet Home, So Fuck Off
Dues were paid to an austere hierarchy around here, ingrained. Time is on their side, and some of these guys never left the area. An embittered fraction of the “lifer” sub-group has an overwhelming need to make up for something that’s not going well on land, and the sea is naturally lawless. The enforcers who belong to this sub-group are the last ones you want to see following you back to your car after a surf session. “Like cells interlinked…” they passed the cyborg baseline Voight-Kampff test.
Is there a healthier way to look at this “outsider’s standoff” while getting blockaded, back-paddled or otherwise vetted on every set wave? Would picturing a chess match help? Because if the water’s crowded enough, the local gangs aren’t just going to take the set waves… they will turn for every in-between wave on their way out to the peak, too. Often simply because they noticed you wanted it. You can try to salve your wound by applying Jungian analysis or diagnosing them with an inferiority complex, and perhaps your intuition is correct, but it is all for naught—they will capture the high wave count and you’ll get leftovers, dregs or nothing… and like it. Or else!
This is the ugly psychology of greed, mistrust and egotism. Bring an XL bag of “cope” to improve the view. Da Hui (a group of tough, but fair, native Hawaiian surfers who live on the North Shore of Oahu) dependably get automatic respect up front. Don’t try to win that battle. Let the moment happen, then paddle away and try to find your own spot. Most other tactics are destined to fail. Don’t bother to call them out on it or seek resolution; there is too much dissonance for them to calm down and meet you halfway.
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[ Where’s Bodhi? ]
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Zen Brinkmanship in the Zero-Courtesy Zone
You thought it was public access, free will, and the shared spirit of the commons. Nope. Keep that to yourself. Some rando is about to pounce and take his bad mood out on you, for no particular reason. You decried “nobody owns the sea or the sand or a reef”… painfully innocent and comedic, my dude. Prepare for hazing.
It goes darker. As “rude game” gets dialed up to 11 the dulcet tone of eloquent, virtuous rationality—no matter how sensible the sound—will only serve to make you more despised and easier to remember (for singling-out at a later date).
There’s a recurring early-morning nightmare where, despite your determination, you’re unable to pick a rainy, cold, gloomy-enough day to show up and magically get these precious waves all to yourself. Dear Sisyphus, there’s a donut shop around the corner for you.
Given how low the stakes usually are at most surf spots, you’d think you could catch a break. During summer flat spells, places like New Jersey and Florida still contain some of the most instantly pissed-off locals you’ll ever encounter. In meager lake-like conditions, they’re all keyed-up, warped and fiendish from wave starvation and epic multi-week stretches of miniscule NOAA buoy readings, allowing a sort of rabies to percolate in frustration. Their premeditated moves are utterly meaningless, but it’s going to happen anyway. Complain about it, or indulge any inkling of an indignant stance, and you’ll go directly to the top of the shit list; you can’t simply shake this Etch-A-Sketch and make the tension disappear.
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Surfing is a weird sport, and localism within surfing is weirder. The uninitiated are exposed to something that is unsafe and disrespectful. If you were a big shot on land, out here you’re suddenly Nobody. Don’t like it? Imagine a Tic-Tac being fed to a whale. You’re the Tic-Tac.
An intense rise in popularity naturally creates tension and more congested surf breaks in a short amount of time. Surf cams, Tik Tok, Instagram and YouTube have made it much worse.
It delves into the concept of “no-otherness” — amid the stress and conflicts of the FOMO’ed-out masses, you are “the masses.” When you’re stuck in traffic, you are traffic personified.
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[ When “Kapu” needs to be explained to Haole ]
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The locals are no longer obliged to heed your skills. Any attempt to ratify an ethical promise you privately made to yourself will be openly mocked. The locals thought themselves in possession of a larger truth, and they delight in rattling yours. You greeted their Dark Side Constitution with all its faults, and you have to admire how your complaint was administered, encircled, and disintegrated while they broke your will. Despotically administered.
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[ An ancient, sacred, spiritual way of saying “Fuck Off” ]
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It should be expected—you’re seeing the intricate benefits of a hive-mind, with consistency, all over the most desirable parts of our world. Lodge a protest with who, this salty congress of bastards? Out there in the zone, they’re incapable of any other government. They’re long past trying the rest, and this is the best. There is a collective wisdom with all of its passions, errors of opinions, and self-interested views.
One of the tragic ironies of local conformity is that many of the locals don’t even get along with each other, or have vague and unconvincing bonds. They’re otherwise here for the purpose of figuratively cutting each other’s throats. Expect no better and consign yourself to the banal predictability of it all, or expect yet more unpleasant encounters.
Depending on the break and the mood, the locals have a baiting method designed to ensure you will be efficiently trolled and coaxed into defiance. It’s a page right out of the original pre-internet social media squeeze play. Sometimes they send some pre-teen menace over to sneer and gauge your mockery threshold—well aware of which crimes they can get away with as sub-adults. There’s no fatherly governance to tame them… these kids will go full “Lord of the Flies” on your ass if it means they’ll be receiving style points and clout from the Lono Tribe and big brother at the peak.
If you’re not up to the job, there’s a dirty, dumping close-out wave over yonder, suitable for introverted whiners and perhaps more in step with your current crisis. Enjoy.
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[ Your typical Snapper Rocks local, and… ]
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Snapshot of a Classic, Heavily-Localized Surf Spot
Tight competition and tactical vibes emanate from Australia’s Snapper Rocks on a regular basis. Some can be heard saying “I never surfed at Greenmount for the surf but for the fights.” As the Bra Boys can tell you, there’s a defense system in place around here. Aside from the many videos on YouTube and Vimeo, you can observe it live if you turn on the Surfline cam feed when there’s 3’ to 6’ ground swell wrapping in, user-friendly, and peeling through multiple entry peaks. Blatant localism triggers exponentially under these conditions. World-class, almost theatrical drop-ins and clashes form in the aftermath of hasty decisions… when the vibe reaches a fever pitch you’ll witness the most consistent and carnival-like display of burns, robberies and territory-marking “fury turns,” and it is hilarious.
There’s the DGAF “didn’t see you” guys (they saw you, la-la-la) and those who signal a certain tunnel vision by lowering their antlers as the set approaches. In the midway are the young guns, slashing wildly at leftovers and sneaker waves as they try to break out to the next level. This is their watery Serengeti! The aforementioned “Pepper Beach” doesn’t actually exist, but if it did it would probably look a lot like Snappies.
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[ …his merry welcome wagon out the back. ]
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If you ask any of the top-tier locals (anywhere) why they regulate so mercilessly, some might tell you it’s for the greater good that they do not concede to outsiders, and will not allow any of them to potentially blow up the spot. These alphas revel in counterfeiting altruism to upset normative morality. They are entertained by crafting a smiling yet rotten vibe with a tweaked faux-friendliness, and dare to suggest this will all go toward your own betterment in life, in general. C.S. Lewis once cleverly explained such proclivities:
Of all tyrannies, a tyranny sincerely exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It would be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies. The robber baron’s cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end for they do so with the approval of their own conscience.
The whole time, mates are snickering on the beach because everybody’s in on the joke.
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[ semi-feral wharf and jetty locals only ]
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The “Good Local”
Nothing infuriates the locals more than non-locals confidently striding up to the peak and taking set waves like they own the place. This situation can escalate more rapidly at coveted secret spots. Such moves almost immediately lead to mouthing off, and occasionally to fisticuffs in the shorebreak. For some, Malibu caveman mode kicks in and goon squads coalesce around the low wave-count justifier at Lunada Bay: “If I don’t show some bravado I’m gonna miss out and spend the session just paddling around for nothing.”
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[ check out the cetacean side-eye; these OG’s never forget… ]
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Riding a nice wave is almost orgasmic, that’s why surfers are so pumped after a good session. Feeling the energy of the water and tuning into the vibration of that rising swell releases serotonin in your body… it’s a natural high! But the ratio of waves to surfers is too unbalanced nowadays. Commercialism + population growth = scene blown + hostility + surfer frustration. Surfing can be an almost spiritual experience at times, but not where surfers are jerks spreading tension. By default, they will cop-out and say you get what you deserve.
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[ …they know negotiation and power-sharing, too ]
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Beyond the madness, “cool” locals don’t necessarily follow every tenet of surf etiquette. But they also don’t flaunt their localism by yelling at people or dropping in or otherwise trying to dominate the lineup. These sorts of locals are easier to appreciate and deal with because they wait for the big sets, they know exactly what wave they want, and they make it known by turning and paddling earlier so everyone else can see it. With your own good surfing, conversation, or commitment to solid/tricky surf conditions, these locals can be won over to share the waves. Once you prove yourself, their tough exteriors dissolve and it can become quite easy.
This is a dominant part of surf culture that everyone seems to respect: Respect the lineup, respect the place, and respect the time that they put in at this lineup, and then you will understand what a “healthy barrier to entry” looks like.
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[ non-negotiable privileges ]
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A good local sets a strict but fair example, and is someone who can adapt to a suddenly crowded surf break with premium positioning and crowd negotiation strategy. The good local is also confident in knowing this is “their break” only in a metaphorical sense. It is their responsibility to make sure no one acts like a dick. They can set a very fine example in the “try not to be a dick” ethos by showing beginners and intermediate surfers how to behave in the lineup, and they make sure people don’t step all over the natural beauty of a place. And for that, they will take a few more waves than everybody else.
Now, we all have free will—you don’t have to pay respect to any of this, but you WILL be made to pay the consequences if you don’t.
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This is what I do if I get snaked by a local: As long as the dissonance level is low, paddle over and politely and calmly yet firmly explain that was my wave and why it was my wave.
This is what I do when I am the local: In crowded lineups I am also unforgiving and make sure I look after myself, but also try to be humble unless provoked.
Nothing new here—the path to “assertiveness derived from clarity” works in both cases.
That’s it.
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Ocean Beach Local Manifesto
Ocean Beach, San Francisco, despite being a shifty miles-long stretch of unpredictable sand-bottom peaks, has become a very busy line-up under good conditions. On those days, we often deal with people who paddle directly to the inside or are slightly better than everyone else and so they think they deserve the best waves. I’m generally pretty nice and approachable but I’ll happily drop in on people who do this, not because I’m ripping or spent 28 years on these sandbars or ex-SF NorCal, but because I give the same as I get. If you think you’re going to get away with being a jackass, then you’ll probably get the same treatment no matter where you surf. If I don’t know you and you snake me, gonna drop in—simple as that. Unless you’re the sun-damaged, drug-addled berserker everyone down Santa Cruz way calls the “Four Mile Psycho,” then go ahead, burn me and I’ll paddle away. I need my right eye.
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[ “If you don’t live here, don’t surf here #14,308” ]
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If you surfed SF in the 1990s or early 2000s, you might’ve found the following “locals manifesto” stuck to your windshield. When I saw it on my car (October 1996), I wasn’t angry about the letter, but about being under surveillance or potentially retaliated against, or having my car vandalized. OB is a big-city surf break, I’ve been surfing year-round since age 13 in multiple states, and I come from a family that loves the sea, so it just crystallized old common knowledge. New faces at breaks like Kelly’s Cove, Fort Point or their beloved “Redacted-by-the-Sea” would be received by decree — especially if you had the temerity to pull up on a negative tide… and this note is recreated from the original word for word, including spacing, font selections, any grammar errors, and their use of bold typeface:
Surfer: Welcome to San Francisco Waters.
It is naturally known that localism is as much a part of surfing as a surf board is, and with this in mind, we want to communicate to all of you a few pointers that are extremely important to us locals, and that if properly acknowledged by those of you visiting our shores, it will ensure you a nice experience while in this area.
1. We, the locals, have priority on the waves. We welcome you to our area, and share our waters, but our surfing sessions are extremely important to us, and we will not concede our waves to outsiders. We practice the rules of surfing among ourselves (locals), and we expect you to practice them among yourselves always keeping in mind that the local has priority at all times. Surely you feel the same way in your own surfing grounds.
2. Do not compete with a local; do not hassle a local; do not drop in on a local; do not vibe-out a local; do not play local on a local or on others, for these are sure ways to fall out of grace.
3. While in San Francisco greet the locals and other surfers as well, do not come here to ignore us, or we will treat you likewise… this is home-sweet-home, you know?
4. From our oldest to our youngest, we know who we are and we also know who you are, and we the locals will acknowledge, support, and back up one another any time, any place, and under any circumstances.
5. Those of you who travel together—be aware of your group’s psychology in or out of the water. Remember vibrations are louder and clearer than words.
6. And PLEASE!!! Do not pollute our areas and take special effort to pick up your dog’s excrement and place it in a garbage can (no exceptions). If you happen to walk across a bottle, broken glass, or nail, pick them up. Do not ignore the environment. Contribute—don’t be a tourist. Surfing is more than looking cool or pretty; it’s caring, it’s becoming. The coastal environments are our most precious gift. If we do not protect them and belong to them, if we don’t share some of our time towards their future, who will? The opportunists? The polluters? The destroyers? Truly speaking is either/or… if there is fighting to be done, let it be done for the protection of our shores.
7. Do not behave arrogantly or with impunity towards San Franciscans. They could be neighbors or family (God help you). This is their city. Those of you who come here to be ugly $#%^&*& trash, out…
8. A local is a five year term of residency in San Francisco. New faces and move-ins patiently wait your turn like everyone else. We’ve all done it.
9. Surfing is a dimension all of its own. As such, we partake of an environment of titanic proportions. And that makes us quite special.
Racism, prejudice, social or occupational status do not and should not have a place in our surfing communities, but for sure in San Francisco. We couldn’t care less how pretty or how hot you are, your social or economic status, your Dad’s name or your Mother’s money. These are all man-made trips designed to compensate for an otherwise boring, whimpy, unnatural and weird way of life. These handicaps do not belong in the surfing dimension.
Now, if this is not your cup of tea… there is always north and south.
G O F O R I T ! ! !
With all being said.
Sincerely, The Locals
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[ BVB voodoo / esoteric Ocean Beach energy ]
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Whoever wrote this warning — a polemic aura of the KCLB (Kelly’s Cove Local Boys) Secretary General or the legendary ghost of BVB (Bad Vibes Bob) — described the existence of a “conscious” localism that also knows how to deliver punitive damages. Crowds destroy the glow. The Covid-19 pandemic increased the population density of people in the water. Surfing lineups around the world see their fair share of fisticuffs and all sorts of craziness going down. Places I used to surf alone now regularly have at least five or six people in the line-up. It happened so quickly that people can’t quite fathom it. The good news is that you can still dial in a little bit of uncrowded NorCal circa 1998 if you paddle out on the darkest winter days when almost no one wants a piece of Ocean Beach.
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Conclusion: Conflict Driven by a Deep Love of the Sea
So why do we do all of this?
There are simple answers (given above) and then there’s the abstract, where a primeval feeling is hard to put into words. For some, they’ll tell you there is a tube beckoning, and you cannot put a price on it. Time slows down or becomes a loop, like the theory of the Möbius. There is a powerful nexus where land, sea and sky meet. When surfing in the green helix, these strange beings—surfers—are occasionally given a sun tunnel at dawn, when the angle is low. They receive a clandestine signal—an amplified, umbilical sucking sound from the sea organ as they fly toward the light, kinetic spray and rays blend into geometry, and suddenly they “get born” again before the barrel collapses.
To the sea, the wave rider is an unsolidified knot in the torsion, a counter-narrative to oceanic constancy, an erratic line trapped between dihedral angles. To the surfer, the sea is bountiful yet capricious and vindictive; it draws him in to tame the waves and watches him “die” trying. Invariably all unwary surfers are directed to the bottom for consultation in Davy Jones’ locker. A certain kind of love bond begins to build itself up from this experiential base.
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There is a meditative experience of staring at waves as they roll onto the shore, where the sea-goer sits and contemplates the simultaneously repetitious yet ever-changing nature of life. It happens in between the set waves, while you’re bobbing placidly on your board. Something comes out of the ocean as you put yourself in. In so doing, it becomes a precious commodity.
Florid statements that lionize or channel the ocean’s essence have spilled forth since ancient times, out of sheer adoration of mystery. As anyone who even faintly loved the sea or surfing could tell you, it began with an exquisite dose of fear wrapped in reverence and respect for origins. To small children, a disturbed and powerful sea state is fatalistically magnetic and eerily entertaining. To some, “fear” is the most impressive asset of “awe.” There is always danger beneath the surface. Eventually, we adapt and learn how the sea is willing to indulge the stupidities of boys and mankind.
Aside from what men do to Earth and each other, we’ve maybe never seen something so violent and hopeful as the ocean, because it is never vanquished.
And this is how—and why—the brutish locals live as if they’ll never die.
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Epilogue: Post-Local
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{ digital images ©dem411 }
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What would it take to empty the best, most-crowded surf breaks? Nothing short of full catastrophic abandonment, that’s what. Societal collapse by asteroid or similar mega-disaster, or a nuke-EMP-bioweapon fallout combo… should do the trick. Or, Matrix-like alien overlords pull the plug on their experiment, lock us in a step-down hologram and lay waste to civilization.
Years later it’s a tranquil, overgrown, post-apocalyptic scene where no one can claim “local” because the place is essentially devoid of humanity. The mutated 0.7% of us that escaped such hated destinies weren’t frothing for perfect surfing conditions; nay, they were foaming at the mouth in the throes of Stone Age scavenging in survivalist games demanded by a new world order where the average life expectancy was reset to 41. But dude, you surf alone… s’nice.
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[ Surf the algorithm of inevitable decay… all to yourself. ]
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In the mind’s eye it can be reduced to a thumbnail sketch, a few clever generative AI “prompt engineering” elements rendered by Midjourney, DALL*E 4 (OpenAI), DeepMind Gemini AI, and/or Firefly (as a Photoshop companion tool), and some quality time in Photoshop. Voila:
Locals, erased. Mind surfing atmosphere, provided.
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[ LLM prompt = 94 descriptors, and the bot has a personal taste for “overgrown” ]
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[ Wrong swell angle, Sam Altman… please debug the model protocol. ]
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[ The impossible hydrodynamic code of an AI hallucination ]
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