Pier Group Pressure

Friday 21 May 2010

Along the Durban shoreline, chess pieces jostle for position and hierarchy on what you might call a black and white checked board. Is it just pier group pressure? Or is it something else? asks Luke Mason.

New Pier, 11am, Tuesday morning.  It’s another summery winter’s day – baggies, sun block, a light west tickling. There’re perfect 2-3 rights picking up off the end of the pier and peeling down the superbly preened sandbank. But resources are limited. The late shifters huddle hungrily in the shadow of the pier, sitting out the long waits between waves like warriors on a chessboard.

A white-haired shredder strokes past a pod of Pawns and takes off in the pocket of the first set wave, surfing it beautifully all the way to shore. He got his all-access pass to these waters back in the heydays of the Bay of Plenty and hasn’t had to look back since. Chess piece heads turn and watch the bursts of spray hang in the air above the sharp turquoise lip.

The Bishops paddle a couple strokes this way and that – adjusting the pressure, marking the space, trying to catch each other off center, too deep or too far out.

More surfers are paddling out all the time, sneaking around the pier and making the paddle from down the beach.

The stalwart sits at the top of the pack - the King - never moving more than a space in any direction. He’s been sitting in that spot for 36 years. He calls his friends into waves and complains about his battered skin. He tells tales of the legendary 3-wave set, where the last one is always the biggest and best.

The Castle lumbers into the fray. He looks and surfs like a brick shithouse, but finds justification for paddling deeper and more frequently than his skill level allows in the superior intelligence of his biceps. Then there is Riz - more of a thief then a Knight between these piers. And then there’s me.

There’s conversation and friendship in the line-up, but there’s also a tacit acceptance of how the game works. Although these rules tend to bend toward the specific. You can bet your grandma’s Sterling serviette rings they’ll be quoted when shit hits the fan. It’s not an even distribution out here.

The Umtombo surf club paddles out next to the pier. In some ways, they are the biggest locals of them all, in others, they're the new kids on the block. The time and dedication they put in is starting to show and their numbers and increasing wave appetites have turned them into a noticeable force in the line-up these days. There is some wobbly-pelvised, wild-armed talent in the group, but these guys all still have a long way to go in this kind of company.

The wait is long and the good ones are really good. The chess pieces move predictably; each time one of the better surfers paddle into a wave they must prove their entitlement to the next one or face demotion in rank. Tension in the pack of the less able and less deserving of respect begin to mount.

A smaller one comes through tight to the pillars. Umtombo’s token big guy likes his chances. Riz L’s around him and takes off while the big guy’s still floundering (way too far back on his board) up in the lip. Riz lays his bottom turn and snaps about 10 centimeters away from Mr Muscles’ face.  Mr Muscle is not stoked as he floats, rudely awakened and defeated over the back of the wave.

I can’t provide a translation of what he said to his mates while paddling back out, but I’m quite sure it wasn’t pretty. It was a shit little wave anyway and Riz pull’s out 15 meters down the lineup. He paddles out with all the expected fucks this’s and fuck that’s.

“What are you doing bru? I could have hit you!”  Riz’s words, although raised, had a hint of prudence to them.

“I was sitting in the inside and then this guy drops in on my” he shouts pointing his open palm at me, “then I sit out here and you take off on my inside!” He’s spitting and his face wears anger’s crinkle. Group mentality kicks in. All the macho gesturing he’s got in during the last 25 seconds seems to have bolstered his courage. As far as the whiteys where concerned, he’d crossed a line.

First the Castle aims his guns, rears up on his board and sends spurts of his settlers mentality streaming from his mouth: “Watch out ekse! You ous must fuck off! You can’t surf here!”

Next it’s the Bishop with his spouts of moral lore: “You guys are just learning, go surf in the middle, you can’t sit in the pack and expect to get waves!”

The King just shakes his head. He turns to me and says “Things have changed hey china, in the old days loud mouths where filled with fists. Ous just don’t know the rules anymore”.

Riz and Mr Muscle carry on bickering. “You must sit on the inside bru, please, you can’t drop in, I almost hit you.”

“You should have hit me then.”

I look around and the line-up has erupted into chatter. Everybody suddenly has something to say, suddenly everyone is saying it. I hear the Csay to the King: “You know who’s fault this is? There’s some fucking English guy who fucking takes these guys and teaches them how to surf. They’re fucking street-kids man!”

I can see the light of his beloved country wavering in his forlorn eyes. It looks like even thinking of losing his last outpost to the darkness cuts him in two. I can’t help but grin, and look from face to face, marvelling at how ridiculous it all is. I start chanting:

RACE WAR!

RACE WAR!

RACE WAR!

and throw my fist into the air. One of the older and more level headed Umtombo guys looks at me and laughs. I start laughing too. He tell me I have something on my face. I thank him and wash a giant booger out of my mustache.

“You would have hit me Riz,” I say loudly, “What, you a racist? Only hit white people?”

A wave rears up, I paddle past everyone and take off. I’m pretty sure there’s someone behind me, but I don’t look back. Finally, a cooker. Pawns eat last.