Editor's Note

A Call to Pens

The first wave I ever caught came at the hands of a three-time world champion. In another world, where things like omens and signs take precedent over reality, I may have gone on to become a professional. I would have been fearless at Teahupoo, laughed like a maniac while getting whipped into beasts at Shipsterns. I would have drank beers with Fanning on the Goldy and Parko would call me “Mull-O.” Dane and I would talk about music and wax poetically about organic coffee beans. It would have been glorious. Sigh.

But in this world, where who pushes you into your first wave means absolutely nothing, I struggled with duck-dives as an 8 year old; treated lefts like the plague as a 10 year old; successfully dodged every perfect barrel well into my teens; and once went almost an entire NSSA season without making a heat. Sigh.

Maybe the golden life of a traveling pro wasn’t in my cards after all. And then one day it hit me. It was as if God himself slapped me on the back and told me that there were other avenues in life that could keep me in the water.

Hmm. Well, I’ve always been a voracious reader. I go through books like a wood-chipper through brush. In high school, I would drive an hour to the nearest Borders, post up on the floor, and relish over every printed word. And I wasn’t picky, either. Anything from the Second World War to a biography on Jefferson would suit my fancy.

And then, of course, there were the surf magazines. Hemingway they were not, but I had lifelong subscriptions to them all and put the likes of Evan Slater and Sam George on virtual pedestals. Maybe this was my in. So what if I can’t win a heat (or make one) to save my life. Big f--kin’ deal if I can’t do airs. I can make this work. I can still surround myself in the sport, right? Even if I’m not in a jersey. This was my in. The pen would grant me my salvation!

So here I am, 27 years old, feverishly tapping away at a keyboard well past 5 p.m. on a Friday with perfect surf just a short walk away. But here’s the catch: I haven’t surfed in a week. My back is completely void of a tan, there are no wet trunks drying in my bathroom and things aren’t shaping up to be any better anytime soon. Deadlines loom over me like the Sword of Domicles, ready to cut me down at any second. Truth be told, I couldn’t be happier.

I’ve been an editor at a surf magazine for more than three years now and I literally can’t stop smiling. The surf will still be firing when we’re off deadline. And the thought of nailing a good headline now gets me as psyched as getting barreled. I’ll take the thrill of going to press over winning a heat any day.

Eat your heart out, Slater.