THE ANXIETY OF INFLUENCE
By Jason Hilford
Photos courtesy Chris Burkard
November 2007

From my aisle seat at 10,000 feet, I can barely make out my old apartment on Maui’s North Shore. Just months after returning to the Mainland after spending almost two years on the Valley Isle surfing, editing, and writing, I’m returning for the wedding of my friend Ryan, who moved halfway across the ocean not too long ago to pursue dual careers designing landscapes (from an office) and shaping wooden surfboards (in his backyard).

I momentarily consider the profound effect Ryan has had on my surfing; in turn, my airline-coffee-fueled consciousness streams back to my days freezing my skinny little preadolescent ass off at Pismo Beach. Unlike me, Ryan didn’t have a surfer dad who tossed him in the water at the age of nine. Despite starting as a teenager, he didn’t come into his own until, while in college at Cal Poly, braving the often-scary Los Osos Sandspit before even learning to duck-dive. Still, at age 32, barely a committed surfer for a decade, he carries with him an encyclopedic knowledge of surfing history and board-shaping theory (he sharpened his shaping tools, so to speak, as an apprentice for a San Diego shaper) that have unquantifiably inspired me to learn ever more about this thing I feel compelled to do each morning. Which brings us to Dan, that sadistic father of mine, who, on that glorious July day in 1984, finally let me paddle out with him. For a man who’s been at it for 45 years, he’s a pretty iconoclastic surfer. He appreciates, of course, the rich history behind his obsession; but my father is pure id when he hits the water—a bright-eyed, giggling third-grader in a wetsuit, still going strong as a budding sexagenarian. He’s giddy when it’s good, and equally grumpy when it’s crowded or his chronically sore back gets the better of him. I credit him for my near-ludicrous obsession with my daily (if possible) paddle-out.

Blur the influences and you have ever-impressionable me, an open canvas adorned in liberal brushstrokes of zeal for the activity itself and undying curiosity about where it came from and where it’s going. It all explains why I can justify those 6:30 a.m. dawn patrols at windy, foggy Ocean Beach, San Francisco (my newly adopted home break)—along with my willingness to ask incessant clueless questions, to anyone I’ve deemed the expert of the day, about foil length and water dynamics. Surfing was deep into its phase of Day-Glo and slash-and-burn hot-dogging when it became a factor in my life, and I delighted in the neon aesthetic (both visual and metaphorical) of the day. As the ’90s rolled around and the boards changed (thankfully) back into colors found in nature, I clung to the logistical portion of ’80s surfing for a full decade. I didn’t weigh 120 pounds anymore, and began to sink the tail of the board my dad gave me for Christmas in 1988. He entreated me to try a longboard on the smaller days when my 6’4” just wouldn’t cut it. But I didn’t listen; I would never jump on what I called a “Winnebago board,” the tool of those obnoxious guys taking all of the waves. By the standards I doggedly maintained, it just wasn’t cool. It was my gradual, reluctant acceptance of life beyond the tri-fin thruster (shortboard), brought about by people like Dan and Ryan, that most clearly signaled my bona fide embrace of surfing.

It started the day I finally agreed to try one of my father’s longboards. I was 22, I think, and had been surfing for more than half my life. As I caught more and more tiny waves at our spot north of the Pismo pier, I thought about all the waves I’d squandered through my stubbornness, languishing in potentially fun knee-high waves on, in Dan’s words, a “potato chip.”

I’ll be the first to admit I’m no maverick when it comes to surfing and its equipment. When I really think about it, I realize I’ve become the most egregious follower. I can trace the expansion of my surfboard quiver right in line with the basest trends among those who ride waves. First longboard? The late ’90s: a few years after high-performance longboarding carved a mainstream niche for itself, followed by mass sales in boards measuring more than eight feet. (In this case, however, a former roommate left it at my house.)

Then the millennium rolled around, bringing with it a craze of “retro” boards (thicker, rounder shortboards with one or two fins, rather than the usual three, that hearken back to the boards, and more organic surfing style, of the ’60s and ’70s). And onto the bandwagon I jumped, shaping my first board in 2003: an extremely short, thick board with a deep swallowtail—a shape known as a “fish”—a twin-fin whose floatability and down-the-line speed put a spin on my surfing circa 1973. If you’re not a surfer or a board aficionado, I’ve probably bored you enough. The point is, expanding my stringent standards, I opened my mind—and my surfing—to possibilities I never could have imagined before. It’s been my conversations with Ryan (a die-hard adherent to the retro board) and my father (a throwback to surfing’s halcyon days) that have thrown those doors of perception wide open.

Surfing began on the biggest boards imaginable—in Hawaii, or Peru, or wherever your personal folklore tells you. As the boards became smaller, the surfing became more and more precise, with innovations in board length, fin technology and rocker (upward curvature of nose and tail) allowing for tighter turns, speed control, and, eventually, jaw-dropping launches and spins. Few things are more thrilling to me than seeing some young ripper in the vein of Taj Burrows grabbing a rail while suspended five feet above the lip, or throwing up a cascade of spray on a hard top turn. Modern shortboarding carries the potential for a form of ballet that would put many leaping Russian expats to shame. I’m all for it, despite the fact that I’ll usually be the one watching other people perform those maneuvers rather than performing them myself. I might not be the best surfer in the water on any given day; in fact, on most days, if anyone was judging, I’d probably be lucky to crack the top 50th percentile. But I guarantee, from Pismo to Hawaii and beyond, I’m finally having as much fun as anyone. For this, I thank Dan and Ryan—the giants who allowed me to stand on their shoulders.

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