Stewardship is Swell: Why All Surfers Are Environmentalists

There is something cleansing about year-round surfing -- its sporadic baptisms washing away your sins and bearing you newborn again. At séance with the sea, you conjure up your demons to smite them with a slash of your tailfins or send a net of white spray to sink your sorrows to the bottom. Then you disappear into the sea's curling barrel, the world whispering to the tune of ocean-spray.

At moments like these, you can't help but love the ocean. But that clarity can retreat, fleeting in our memory. Lots of eco-idealism dies in this limbic margin of our emotions. We've all enjoyed the free fireworks of a sunset or the agile artistry of a flowing flock of birds. But if we’ve all noticed a little beauty here and there, then why are so few willing to sacrifice in its protection? Maybe we just forget.

Year-round surfers tend to sidestep this environmental amnesia, repeatedly renewing our vows in perpetual pilgrimage to the sea. For those who can't escape the concrete bee hive, the environment can sound like a contrived utopia reserved for the rich or rural. Sure. I see trees out there on the block. But something’s not right with our synthetic orchards: tree, parking meter, tree, parking meter, dog doo-doo, traffic cone.

True environmental zeal requires a more potent catalyst. If we are lucky, year-round surfers get a regular dose of such a stimulant, and our political endurance reaps its sustaining effects.

That said, surfers -- and all environmentalists to a certain extent -- are hypocrites. SUVs idle in the parking lot, warming us up before the long drive back to our over-sized houses and various electronic devices. I may take mass-transit, but even so, those train tracks go over my water source, inevitably dripping down lubricant and shuddering rusty dust as my silver steed gallops overhead.

And as in all idealism, our commitment can wilt in contact with testosterone. Unfortunately, coolness (of the rebellious variety) doesn't lend itself to global social conscience. But the ocean challenges even the most tattoo-scribbled shredder to defy the occasional run-in with environmental inspiration -– the delightful sight of a perfect wave or the plays of light and wildlife at the end of a session. To be sure, no one is a tough guy in the tube. Think about it: mother earth literally hugs you!

I understand some of my chest-beating brothers might see these words as fluffier than the whitewater chasing our wakes. But deep down, all surfers are environmentalists, even if they can't admit it.