A simple Belarusian-American guy Kolya Sulima tells what the surfing looks like. It seems most of all for love.
Wetsuit I bought without fitting when we drove around the city in search of furniture. He cost me to thirty. I still can not believe that it came up, after all, the purchase of a wet-friendly - a terrible fruit: Imagine that you need three or four times to get someone in a close, hot ass. And then get out out.
In addition to the boot and costume, I still have a hat with a short visor, too, from Penorezine. She leaves open only part of the face: eyes, eyebrows, nose and mouth, all tightly around the perimeter so that I look like a crucian. But in it warm.
Of course, the board. Long in one and a half and firmly beaten. She lent her colleague named Mary, and she left her former husband, who is now in prison, in Sacramento. Despite the prison and Sacramento, from where there are two rides to the ocean, he called Mary and said that he would take the board at the first opportunity. Real enthusiast.
Serf has a cord, called "leash". It is fixed to the ankle textile velcro, so that the board does not swim, if the wave of you somewhere is elbowed - it happens constantly. The board must be lubricated wax to not slip. Wax is sold by round washers like soap. The most famous is called "SEX WAX" and I understand why.
The board is similar to a woman: while you are driving it to the ocean, she clings to you on every turn, preventing the news, then you will firmly hug her one and a half hours, and she is to dump you with any awkward movement.
Exit only one - find the balance. Slightly hurry, uncertainty or panic - sprinkle salt water. After the first, unsuccessful, attempts you calm down and start taking Zen Surfing. He is that it is impossible to fuss. Just kills pleasure. And it is that you give the ocean taped yourself. Turn off the thoughts about the outdoor world, as if there were in space or in the maternal womb. Going to a special capsule where thoughts do not reach the electrical stations, business planning and collapse of convergence.
I get up at 5.45 in the morning. I want to get to the "Fourth Mile Beach" by half the seventh - there should be smaller surfer. On other days I wake up about half the ninth. When my soul finally gets to the body, pulling the face and eyebrows, pants and cap. I look like a citizen in them. And today crawling into the wetsuit through a narrow hole, where, it seems, it does not pass even a head, but it is miraculously stretched and here I am already similar to the model from the magazine for latex perverts.
Morning is the most right time for wetsuit, in the morning I still have the form of a person. I shift the sneakers on the Bosu's leg, grab a rubber hat, gloves and bots and stuff them in a black bag for garbage, the towel and wax are flying there. The board is in the storage room, sandwiched between the wall and the washing machine, as the allegory of the free spirit in the vice of life.
Five minutes on Kabarovo-Highway, ten minutes on Mishn Street at a speed of a catatal, and five minutes on the highway number 1, there are fields of lettuce and a whitewash strip of the surf. The sun will rise from minute to minute. On the left of the blue laid farm houses, this is a sign: the next turn is mine.
Parking near the path leaving up. The ocean is reached here with cold fingers. Grass in dew, breeze rolling, like Shilo, two Ford Pickup guys stretch the costumes and cloths from the cold. They have confused hair and remembered from sleeping face.
"What are the works, brother," one mechanically asks.
"Everything is old," dude, "I reply, and we continue every one."
I pull the bots, pull out the sirf and I rub it from the soul with wax. The board flies into the grass; I put the gloves in the helmet and close the car. Such a key in a suit, near the ankle to not lose. With a blackboard under the arm and helmet in his hand I go along the path towards the ocean.
The sun rises. Morning flies like alcoholic euphoria. The road goes down to the beach, on the right duck pond and beytails. Sand in Santa Cruz is a smaller manus and penetrates everywhere like a plague. The ocean has an unwriting appearance.
On the fourth mile always wave. For the kettle, it seems to me this is not the most good place. In the water there are already visible spins, covered with rubber. Whenever you decide to ride, you will always have a company. It seems, I wake up at three o'clock in the morning with a full moon and get to the fourth mile, three-four will probably on the boards in sleeping bags, so as not to miss the place.
Today, at six thirty, there is already an eight in the water, and they are not happy to me at all. Surfers protect the territory as skunks - until you prove your loyalty, you will be mowed and torture with each cross. Patience.
I go on my knee, spreading noodles of laminaria. Ice water seeps into bots, like a thief, and gets to the groin. The first wave pushes into the stomach, the other is infusing to the left side, trying to embroider from the hands of the sirf. We throw a board on the water, accelerate and slow down on it, now it is necessary to rare faster to slip with a surf, knocking down to flip out the fever.
I pick up my legs so as not to hang out in the water, and scraping, the board rolls through the comb and slaps the wave on the back. The main thing is to stay slightly on the side, near the beginning of the wave. All the best places are already engaged in local, never in the world they will not be asleep.
I sit on the board, the water filled the costume from the inside and is slowly warmed by the heat of the body. I see how a two-meter wave lifts black bodies, two mashed hands, the word mill - wings, one is inferior and turns. The second moment jumps on the sirf and lays the turn to the right and down, hiding for a second from the species, but immediately pops up on the ridge. Water dust flies into his face, tense, like a surgeon.
Behind the wave looks far as terrible than in front, its huge transparent lip covers a black silhouette, but every time a man miraculously saves, like a whale ion. The surf imperceptibly pushes me to the shore as an unloved son. Falling on the board and rowing there, where the wave is folded out of the dying cold water.
I'm waiting for the one that will raise me, but will not cover. The wave grows, I balancing, sitting to her face, turning sharply for one hundred and eighty, fall on the plastic and milk that there is a spirit with hands and legs. Children's feeling of chase captures me entirely: As if I run from the invented monster, choking on the fear and laughter at the same time, not knowing what to my back. Wave in the VMIG throws up the board. I'm pushing your hands and get up on one knee, the water is full of me for a collar, like a cat, terrible effort I climb and balancing, it seems that I am going away from delight.
This morning will be much different. Three times I will drop from the board and will cover twice. When it happens, you need to turn into a bud of the embryo and hope that you do not beat your teeth or will not hit the rocky bottom.
My body, less pea, knitting, flies in the water, then stretches the leash, and the board pulls me for ankle, like a dog. I emerge and watch, whether the next wave is far from. In the stomach of half-liter salted water, in the ears of the ringing. I gave myself on my teeth my knees.
An hour later, I go out of the water, feeling myself a cosmonaut returned from the orbit. Devastated, waistball board to the car. To relieve a suit, there are ten minutes to tear a rubber with strange fingers, ice, like pasta from the refrigerator.
The board rises between the wall and the washing machine. Suit, bots, gloves and cap hang in the bathroom until they are stitching. I stand under a jet of water and felt how my fingers hurt, in which the blood returns.
This is a special kind of happiness. This is the time when you do not need to think about anything except - this wave or next? Time disheveled by the Universe. This thing clears you no worse enema. The person who at least in his life was standing on the board, will never be the same - he has his own ocean, shelter, cosmos. There he is waiting and loved.
Text author: Kohl Sulima