Cori Schumacher

Being a spectator of and a commentator on the symptoms of a surf industry in a toilet bowl spiral is something akin to (I imagine) how Jerry Stahl’s Lloyd feels about his job wording the side effects of prescription drug use in Happy Mutant Baby Pills. That is, Lloyd has all the information about the possible side effects for the pharma being peddled, yet must find wording to make them palatable to potential consumers, while himself needing to dip into a little something-something in order to keep on keeping on.

Lloyd is using, not Big Pharma, but heroin (which he is, of course, in total control of: “I use it, I don’t let it use me.”). The paradox is abundantly clear. And a little depressing. Lloyd has the “bible of side effects” at his disposal. He has access to every possible symptom for every cure currently concocted for each pathologized emotion/condition known to modern science. Yet he makes his living figuring out if “anal leakage” is a more digestible wording than “intestinal discharge.”

Caring about the impact of Big Surfing on current and future generations as it is peddled by surf culture pushers (whose main concern is padding their own pockets and those of their share holders) necessitates viewing it, that is, consuming it. However distant my gaze, however filled with knowledge of its effects, however objectively and without spending (too much) money on it, try as I might, I must “use it, [though] I don’t let it use me.”

Lloyd is in denial. I’m… not?

In US culture, we have this phenomenon going on where we, the viewers, share in an ever more rapacious and lascivious media culture that is supposedly post-feminist. In this new world order, the enlightened sexist “jokes” on offer are indistinguishable from commentary by rapists and as viewers/consumers, we are supposed to be in on the idiocy of these jokes, that is, recognize them as the pathetic retroironic clichés that they are and har har har with them to massive ratings and engorged circulations.

The underlying message of most US media today (a media environment that has been extant since about the Clinton administration) is clear:

“[I]t’s through sex and sexual display that women really have the power to get what they want. And because the true path to power comes from being an object of desire, girls and women should now actively choose–even celebrate and embrace–being sex objects. That’s the mark of a truly confident, can-do girl: one whose objectification isn’t imposed from without, but comes from within. (Douglas, S. p. 156)”

Even so-called enlightened or intelligent media follows this formula. In the surf media, it is done in the name of “balancing the lifestyle and ability” of female surfers. But since when have the men needed this sort of “balancing?” And honestly, why is it necessary to “balance” ability with butt-shots, or ability with beauty, or ability with FUN… to place on a pedestal the “hybrid of empowerment and objectification?” Why is it so important to reiterate that females who act in the world with consequence and talent, power and decisiveness, be unintimidating and innocuous?

This balance of ability with trivialization (of every imaginable variety) is required because the market says hyper-emphasized femininity is what sells and so any shifts that are requested/demanded must work through and in the name of profit margins and “what is good for the brands and their consumer relations” since the health of the brands are, we are told sternly, what is good for the surfers themselves. Women are inextricably tied to this market logic, so says, well, nearly everyone.

So here it is, the gaol, the impossible loop. Men have been recognized as producers and wage-earners in the Northern Hemisphere/Western world far longer than women and, unfortunately, women as wage-earners in the NH/W world (that great bastion of white, academic feminism) emerged within a great boom of consumerism and so defined success according to consumerist standards.

When I am asked to provide solutions to the problems I highlight (and this happens often, both by those who honestly wish to make a difference and by those who want only to wag a finger at the nay-sayer from some lofty, status-quo entrenched privileged locale called, “I like it here. Why you causin’ trouble?”), I am of two minds in my replies.

The first is closely tied to Ms. Carissa Moore, whom I adore, as much as I can from what little I know of her, and for the Tyler Wrights of the surfing world.

In August of last year, I took my lady-wife on a little vacation to celebrate our fifth year anniversary and her birthday. We spent a few days on Oahu before jetting over to Kauai where we freaked out about sharks and had more fun body surfing than board surfing.

While staying in Oahu, we drove to Kaisers for some small ‘kine surf with some of our dear friends. I, forever parking miles away from entrances, gritted my teeth as wifey rolled her eyes and bemoaned the immediate future of our California-soft feet, and pulled to a stop beneath a raggedy tree quipping that I was only very kindly thinking of our post-surf vehicle as hot-boxless. One can never be too careful with a sunburnt arse on hot leather seats, after all. Wifey was not impressed with my rationale and we changed into our bathing suits in that oppressive silence that only comes when two people who are madly in love with each other are incredibly hungry and irritated to the point of homicide.

I hadn’t noticed the car that had parked to the left of us, natch, until the sound of a solid door slam caught my attention. I glanced distractedly in the direction of the sound and, in the first double take of my life, let my gaze settle into an eye-lock with Carissa Moore. She smiled. I have no idea whether I smiled back. I don’t think I did. I was completely taken aback. She moved to the front of her car and waited patiently for her friends while my mind started twisting in some strange gymnastic conversation with itself about whether or not it would be appropriate, or desirable, to walk up and shake her hand. A gesture reserved, in my mind, for those I respect with the core of my being; a gesture that far surpasses even The Hug, with all its strange, mixed parlance. To lock eyes (windows, that they are) and to lock hands (those intimate tools of creation and craft) without encroaching on the sanctity and the dignity of another human being: this is the ultimate gesture of esteem.

I let the moment pass, but it reminded me, in the midst of the Roxy Petition debacle, that fighting within the system is worthy and valuable, if not for me, for those who still hold to the dream that I too once craved. Each one of us must have the chance to find out for herself what this dream costs and what it can offer, after all. And so for those who ask about solutions, in this mind, I recommend supporting women-centric companies like Seea, Tallow, and of course, values driven companies like Patagonia, though their women’s line could use some serious design upgrades.

In this mind, I don’t want to cast aspersions on dreams, nor sully visions with my post-surf-industry-apocalyptic vitriol. I know the power of dreams, and I know the power that they can hold over folks who value achievement and look up to champions. So for the few who find their own, unique voice within this environment, those few strong folks, like Carissa Moore, I’ve got your back and I’ll keep walking into brand board rooms and haranguing the ASP and consuming surf media, hellbent on gender equity, fair representation, and the dignity of female competitive surfers for as long as it takes.

The second mind is laced with a far more complex, perhaps less accessible, way of thinking and it arises not from dreams of grandeur nor of visions of rising above like-minded warriors in some theatrical spectacle to please you, an audience.

If the first mind had a mortal body and a heart pumping human blood, this second mind is connected an ocean deeper. Strip my flesh, my muscle from my bone, and grind my skeleton to dust…

This deserves a different allegory, a different voice… perchance you’ll follow me just a bit further down the rabbit hole?

Imagine, if you will, a craggy mountaintop. Tucked high atop and within surrounding crags, is hidden the most beautiful enclave. There is a lake to be found amidst these dizzying rocky shores that is made of rainbow. It has been said that it is the source of all promises that hides clenched in this dark enclosure. It is this space that caught the desiderata of the word of God as it was spoken to Moses on the mount. Each bit of tablet that was carved out by the voice that emanated from the heavens fell, nay, was caught, in this earthly bowl. Each sandy bit that dropped as Man and Deity communed in rock and fire, fell as a dusty rain and formed beneath these two a great, watery vastness. It has no name, this lake, though many have dreamed this space and sought its name. Where, then, the detritus of that fateful fellowship? Here. Where we now speak, one to the other, across the abyss.

A long ways down, far in the distance, beneath the clouds that ring these craggy mountains, is tucked the first settlement. A village, founded as it was on waiting and a failing patience. It is an idol-building village filled with a fickle folk who cling, flee, and cling again to golden calves and brazen ba’als.

Much time has passed since the dusty rains. Tablets have been misplaced and divine names have long been forgot. Much removed from holy places, those of the first settlement travelled out in search of what they knew not. They had not the vocabulary even to form questions and the further out they travelled, the more distilled their search.

One day, an adventurous young man looked up at the clouded mountaintop above the village. He decided his wandering would be up rather than out and so he set off, touching the vertical mass with a tremulous hand. He climbed, for 40 days and 40 nights. He left his flesh and his blood upon the face of the insolent crag, this earthly pyre that was merciful in its severity. Still, he clung and he struggled upward, cursing the moment his neck had arched skyward. 6 and one Shadow were his stops along the way, O but… prolix, prolix!

Finally he reached the mists of the lower reaches of the clouds (called Bin-Chokm) of this mountain his people called Ineffable. And what do you think? Yes, he climbed still, though how much of that man was left, one cannot say.

Did this one move into the mists? Did this one reach the summit? Aye. After a prolonged sleep, and many delirious moments brought on by the symmetrical mists Themselves, this one summited. And what this one found was like the sound of many winged creatures riding atop thunderous waves. Whence the winds? Whence the creatures, rainbows woven through their glistening skins, eyes aglisten and aglow with some kind of divine energy akin to a peaceful madness, or an inspired language?

And now? Would this seeker return to the village and share all that he had seen? What if I told you that he did, that he set out to build an elevator from village to summit and that he succeeded and that the village itself became a tourist attraction because of the elevator and the treasure that awaited pilgrims at the summit?

“You must see it! I cannot describe it in words!” He said, “Only a pilgrim knows the feeling!”

O, and dear reader, the elevator was a great success and made the man a great fortune. He was such an intelligent and frugal Sir. He found the cheapest mechanical parts for his elevator could be made in China and imported at little cost, and the rich cotton fabrics he needed for the elevator’s compartment could be bought in India and threaded in Bangaladeshi factories. For many years he enjoyed the pilgrims’ exuberant faces as they emerged from the elevator but soon, the work became too much for him and he had to hire help. He found cheap labor from south of the village and hired villagers to manage the operation. He sat in his home with his own family, drinking expensive wine and entertaining celebrity pilgrims until one day, on a random walk near the elevator he saw pilgrims emerging with dusky feathers raised triumphantly in their hands.

He rushed up to the operators and demanded an explanation. They waved their hands at the man, “No English!” He desperately searched through the elevator grounds until he found one of the managers sunning himself next to a buxom and very beautiful young woman. “Cool off, old man.” The managing operator soothed. “Those pilgrims have been finding those feathers on the rocks next to the oily pool for years. It’s why they come now. The feathers of the Black Rainbow Swans sell for thousands on E-bay.”

The now, quite old man stepped slowly back. He felt his heart flutter and was brought quite abruptly back to a memory he had hidden from himself for the last forty years:

I was dying! Dehydrated and starving, I crawled to the only flat space I could find and found myself on the edge of a dark pool that shimmered brilliantly. I heard the sound of what seemed a thousand wings and with the last bit of strength that I had, lifted my head. In front of me… my god! Thousands of black swans swirling in a tornado above the abyss. I was so frightened! But then, the specters began to coalesce before me, swirling in a peaceful hum. Of a sudden, in the midst, appeared a woman, dressed in a beautiful, surreal black gown, her skin pale as moonlight, lips a rich red and eyes the electric-denim of a storm-tossed ocean. She reached toward me, smiling softly, lovingly. She walked upon the water, so gracefully, one foot crossing in front of the other until she reached me. She scooped water from beneath her feet and lifted my head in her velvet hands and cooed, “Drink.”

“She saved my life!”
“Eh, whatevs, pops.”
“You must stop them!” Cried the old man.
The manager vaulted from his repose and threw himself at the old man, “Listen, pops, we’re making a shit-ton of money here. You sold your portion of this venture years ago and you no longer have a say in what we can and cannot do. Collect your profits and
fuck
right
OFF.”

The old man tried to catch his breath but could not. He stumbled off as the manager mumbled apologies to the immobile female whose face seemed stuck in a perpetual smirk.

A stone caught the old man’s shoe and he fell, sobbing, to the ground.

“What have you done?”
“Wha?”
“What have you done?”
The old man, whimpering, looked around: “Who’s speaking to me?”
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”
The old man turned to the stone that had caught his shoe and caused his stumble.
“Are you speaking to me, stone?”

“WHAT. HAVE. YOU. DONE?!”

“I… I…” The old man looked at the stone

and wept.

“One of the signs of passing youth is the birth of a sense of fellowship with other human beings as we take our place among them.” ~ Virginia Woolf