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These articles adapt famous Shakespeare plays to surfing
themes, thereby ruining them. |
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Act III, Scene II of Julius Caesar Surfer The Real Deal
Friends, Groms, countrymen, lend me your
ears; I come to burn Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that surfers do lives after them; The good karma is oft interred with their bones; So let it be with Caesar. The noble Bruce Hath told you Caesar was amphibious: If it were so, it was a grievous fault, And grievously hath Caesar answered it. Here, under leave of Bruce and the rest - For Bruce is an honorable kook; So are they all, all honorable kooks - Come I to speak in Caesar's line up. He was my friend, faithful and just cool to me: But Bruce says he was amphibious; And Bruce is an honorable poser. He hath brought beginners home to Norcal, Whose chariots did the parking lot fill: Did this in Caesar seem amphibious? When that poor surfers have cried, Caesar hath wept: Amphibians should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Bruce says he was amphibious; And Bruce is an honorable hodad. You all did see that in the Northercal I thrice presented him a kingly wave, Which he did thrice refuse: was this amphibious? Yet Bruce says he was amphibious; And, sure, he is an honorable tranny. I speak not to disprove what Bruce spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did burn him once, not without cause: What cause withholds you then, to board for him? O judgment! Thou art fled to brutish wave hogs, And men have lost their reason. Bear with me; My heart is in Costa Rica there with Caesar, And I must pose till it come back to me. More here.
For Whom the Swell Tolls He sat on the white sand, his chin resting atop his fist. The beach sloped gently where he sat, but below it was steep reaching down to the violent beach break which churned sand and mud at low tide. A southeasterly wind whipped small bits of sand around his face and blew off the tops off the green gray waves that broke all at once to form an impenetrateable wall 60 yards from shore. Seagulls flew erratic circles overhead, their white and gray bodies twisting in the wind and wrestling with each gust in a vain attempt to find cover.
The young man scanned the dark horizon.
Outside the surface of the sea grew restless and clear lines became to form. It was a set. A few people were suddenly visible- heads turning from side to side and arms thrusting into the water over and over, paddling in desperation to meet the giant waves. The first broke and some of the surfers glided over the top of the peak. Others barely made it in time, digging through the face of the wave while it broke over their legs and behind them. Still others stopped paddling and watched the wave explode, creating a fortress of white water directly before them. They froze for a moment, helpless to prevent the beating which was about to occur. One tried to duck dive, forcing the front of his board below the water and burrowing his head and shoulders leaving only the tail of his board and his feet visible. The wave had its way, plucking him from his watery hole and casting him up in the air and back before its energy. Another shoved his long board to the side and dove to the bottom. The wave tossed the 10-foot board momentarily into the air and then shoved it before its whitewater and towards the beach. The victim briefly surfaced and sucked a large gulp of air before the leash attached to his ankle pulled him under, dragging him below the surface backwards for 20 yards.
“Will you paddle out?” the old man asked. “I may. It looks like fun.” “You need to find a channel.” “Yes, a channel would help.” “The gun?” “I think I will ride the gun.”
He rose and walked up the gentle slope of the beach to the warm black asphalt of the parking lot. Others watched as he approached his car which waited patiently, two large boards strapped to its roof. Today he would surf. Today he would surf and it would be good.
"No man is an Iland, intire of itselfe; every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as well as if a Manor of thy friends or of thine owne were; any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee." (MEDITATION XVII., Devotions upon Emergent Occasions by John Donne) Editor's Note: On October 19th of 2002 the first big swell of the season hit. A good friend had an e-ticket ride, made the drop, but got knocked off his board when the wave exploded. He bounced off the bottom, injuring his back and sucking water. Two waves followed, but he made it to the beach where he chucked his Egg McMuffins for about five minutes. It was his great humor and courage that prompted us to include this piece. Photo of Sir James and Sir Richard on a better day. With apologies to Shakespeare and the Battle of Crispian soliloquy from Henry the Fifth. WESTMORELAND: O that we now had waves at the shoulder and would not get worked by overhead mackers at Crespi this 19th of October. KING HENRY: What's he that wishes so? My bro’ West? No, my fair beginner; if we are marked to die, we are now. Some will be lost to the line-up; but we who survive shall receive a greater share of honor. God's will! I pray thee, wish not one foot less in swell. By Jove, I am not covetous for a new board. Nor care I who doth feed upon my waves. It yearns me not if men speak well of my surfing. Such outward things dwell not in my desires. But if it be a sin to covet big waves, I am the most offending soul alive. No, my coz, wish not one less foot. God's peace! I would not lose so great an honor as to risk my life at Crespi! Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, that he which hath no stomach to swallow salted water, let him depart for the Jetty with his Soft Top weapon. We would not die in that kook’s company; he who fears his fellowship to die in a rogue set. This day is called the feast of St. Crespi. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, will stand a tip-toe when this day is named. And rouse him at the name Crespi! He that shall live this day, and see old age, will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors and say 'To-morrow is St. Crespi.' Then will he strip his wetsuit and show his wounded back and say 'These wounds I had on Crespi’s day.' Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, but he'll remember, with advantages, what drops he made that day. Then shall our names, familiar in his mouth as household words- Harry the King, Good Richard, Iron Man, Fair James, Wild Bill and the Sow of Elk Park- Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered. This story shall the good man teach his son; and Crespi shall ne'er go by. From this day to the ending of the world, but we in it shall be remembered. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. For he to-day that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother; be he ever so vile. This day shall gentle his condition, and gentlemen in England now-a-bed shall think themselves cursed they were not here. And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks who surfed with us on St. Crespi’s Day. Ode to My Favorite Surf ShoppeOh Wise Robert, whose knowledge doth spring forth like a million fountains of light in a dark and barren desert. Fair Bob, who hath bestowed happiness on many naves who would frolic in the unforgiving sea. We beseech thee, and humbly beg that you might render unto our undeserving souls one apple of wisdom from your overflowing basket of fruitful knowledge. High in your thrice-tiered castle on the Great Pathway, we knoweth ye have little time to soil your blessed ponderings with questions from our Tribe of Kooks. And yet, we muster our courage and come forward with these inquiries most desperate. An arrow, the arrow for our quiver that will allow us to honor the Gods with turns and flights that are envisaged only in great surfing paintings and hieroglyphics from centuries long past. An arrow that will dive like a duck under the tumultuous white foam. An arrow that will glide across the blue plains of Neptune with the grace of Ulysses’ ship. A weapon that might dodge the Cyclops-like sets that descend upon the Cavern of Sloat and the Point of Fortitude. Nay, not a long weapon which requires three slaves to transport. Nay, not a tool so thin and short that the slightest grom doth sink like a stone. Perhaps a Giant Guy Tri from Sir Stewart of the land of Saint Clemente. Or an explosive gun from the Hinds Hinterland. And armor of the finest craftsmanship we beg. Carefully sewn with the softest of fabric from rubber trees, carefully imported from the dark continent. Armor that might warm our hearts and allow our blood to flow to our extremities as God intended. Further, blackened helmets and boots are required by our phalanx of surfers, such that our toes and ears may not pale to blue and stiffen like stones during this winter of our discontent and discomfort. And many golden coins will be bestowed upon your household for this wisdom. And whilst you may think twice, there is no cry to discount thy wares nor services. For every coin deposited to thy purse shall be returned in our comfort and safety a thousand-fold. And as the Conqueror Niño of the South descends once again upon our nation state, let us pray and prepare for safe passage out, and an exhilarating return home to warm our feet by the fire.
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