Brendan Buckley’s Tuesday Tickle: Detrimental Side Effects Of Chlorine
Wave pools have always had something of an exotic presence in surfing, sort of like inter-racial pornography. You see footage from time to time and your optimistic overly stimulated little noggin loves to toy with the idea. But, deep down, you know it’s probably never gonna end up happening. Sure, you might get a chance to ride a flow-rider or some other excuse at mimicking a wave. Just like you might end up getting a hooker in Tijuana. But is that the real thing? No.
Lately, however, it seems like the era of wave pools is closing in on us. Looming like chlorinated storm clouds of expensively trivial technology. Looming like an army of Mexican hookers. Looming; another artifact of mankind’s self-sustained dick measuring contest of creating outrageous things. We’ve all seen the video of Dion’s trip to that electric kool-aide place. We’ve seen the photos of Kelly Slater’s enchanted surfari thing. It all looks so dreamy- enticing us like a pie on a windowsill.
Wave pools would allow everybody to get a piece of the pie, feeding the nation with its warm and moist electricity. They would birth an entirely new breed of surfer: the chlorine swine. The chlorine swine would sculpt how middle America defines surfing. When the mayor of Joplin, Missouri thinks of surfing, they would think of the chlorine swine. When Oklahoma City’s fox news interviews a surfer, they would be questioning a chlorine swine. The chlorine swine would wear undies under their boardies and boardies under their wetties. The chlorine swine would know Dane Reynolds simply as “that bearded guy with shitty art” and there’s no f—king way the chlorine swine would be able to correctly strap a surfboard to the roof of a car. This would be the popular conception of a surfer, finally a step away from Spicolli. But a step in the wrong direction.
Wavepools and the chlorine swine would take our little vulnerable little niche and meld it into an entirely separate entity. Its blessing would be its curse. Control over the conditions opens the door for opportunity, but would slam the door shut on everything that was spicy about surfing. And that’s what is so terrifying about electric walls of moving water. It would make surfing as safe as tennis. As predictable as bowling. It would give us structure, something that should never have a rightful place in surfing. It would take the Mexican hooker out of the equation. She may try to stab you or rob you. Hell, she might even pull out a penis of her own on you. But she could end up giving you the thrill of your life. That’s what makes surfing what it is: a level of unpredictability similar to that of an emotionally distraught poverty-stricken prostitute. Have your undies and your tennis if you want. Bobby Martinez and I will stay salty, in more ways than one.—Brendan Buckley