I cared for a long time. I cared. Every day I paid attention and made sure to get wet for the best part of a decade. I missed job interviews, pissed off girlfriends, remained a stagnant layabout b/c nothing mattered more than the pursuit of waves.
Then, like many of you, I moved 80 miles inland like a right twat. And it sucked. And I suffered. I suffered in the way only a young privileged, white, straight male can suffer. The worst. I forgot how to surf and tried to relearn. Sometimes it worked sometimes it didn't. Everything was fine as long as I was on but when I was off, or the waves were off, I was down a deep dark hole. The weekly wave hunt dictated how the rest of my week went. Mostly terrible.
Then it got more crowded, I got fatter and balder, with less time, less stoke, and even the surf seemed to deteriorate. I started to hate you, hate surfing but still punished my self. Like a wolf that licks the bloodied blade over and over again, until it realizes the blood on the blade is its own. Maybe a new surfboard would help? Maybe a new quiver? 1/4" here, 1/4" there, damn gone up a wettie size...
Now I'm old and surrendered. For real middle age not pretend. And I've found the Middle Ground like an ugly, unfit unenlightened Siddhartha and its not great, not bad, not wonderful or even good, its just a whole lot of 'fine.' A nice peaceful white noise hum. A soothing ride towards death. But it also means I still surf, sometimes several times a week, sometimes not for weeks. Sometimes, I think I'm ripping, but I'm not. Mostly, I'm like an oblivious seal, floating around, not really doing much but waiting to get chomped until a half decent wave picks me up and carries me gently to shore. If I'm lucky I'll link three turns and then sink in the shallows, half satisfied.
Then I have a beer on the beach (usually under 5% ABV these days) and drive home ever so slightly under the speed limit. And put my surfboards away (never thinking about getting a new one), rinse my wetsuit (same wetties for several years now) and put one foot in front of the other mediocre foot.
Sometimes, I cycle past that Cosube surf shop at the burnside bridge head and it doesn't even piss me off any more. They can have it. Their interpretation of surfing has nothing to do with me. I might even go for a pint at Up North, providing there's a weak and watery enough lager on tap.