Squabble Up

Territorialism is an animal habit, perhaps even a biological drive. Animals zealously guard their hunting regions, defining the boundaries with spore and odor signposts that say “Off-Limits” to other animals seeking food. As the size of the herd increases, the competition for food grows more intense within each hunting region, and violence becomes widespread.

When animals find the competition too fierce in their area, they’re forced into new or marginal hunting grounds, and even there, they have to battle against other dislocated and hungry animals. The strong can defeat the weak, so they eat more and become stronger. This primal behavior, abstracted and sublimated by societal and technological aspects of the human animal, still exists in the darker recesses of our nature.

The year is 1958, and it’s 8:30 a.m. at Huntington Pier. The ocean is a clean, transparent blue-green, and I can see the sandy, swirling bottom through 6 feet of water. The surf is running 8 to 10 feet. My friend and I woke up early and are the only surfers here. We’re just two of no more than 1,000 on California’s coast. We hope someone else shows up to share the waves with us and take a bit of the edge off the imposing size. We wait for an hour or two, but no one shows. So, we paddle out anyway and carefully pick waves. There are 10 to 12 waves in a set. Many sets go unused.

The year is now 1973, and it’s 8:30 a.m. at Huntington Pier. The surf is 3 to 4 feet. The ocean is an opaque green-gray-brown combo. There were four surfers out before dawn broke full. Now there are more than 30 on each side. The waves are semi-fun, but my hunger to ride them is not so intense, so I watch idly from the pier. Most of these surfers have never seen it any different. They don’t seem to let it stop them. Suddenly, a squabble erupts in the water just below the “T” in the pier. A surfer has taken off in front of a bigger surfer on a meaningless wave. Both lose their boards. The bigger surfer swings one straight right and misses. The others in the water are oblivious to the happening. The bigger surfer strokes closer and connects. The smaller one is shouting, “Hey, man, I’m sorry. Hey, what’s your trip?”

I turn away and check the other side, and notice a girl pull off a smooth turn—much nicer. I wonder about Rincon or maybe Swami’s. I wonder how many are out at those places, and if going to one or the other is worth the drive. I think about the “old days,” the camaraderie, the capers, the identity I had conjured for myself as a surfer. One of a few who knew and shared a secret groove. I think about animal behavior and wonder if it is something to accept or to try to philosophically and spiritually rise above. Is it possible for man to escape the biological realities? As I walk off the pier, I grin at a surfer wetsuited up and half running to the beach to become the 86th go-out that morning. He grins back.

[Feature image by Thomas Lodin]