Though now out of print, I have a few copies of the 1st edition hardcover
edition of Stoked available at $75 per copy (inscribed & signed), plus
$6.50 Priority Mail in the USA; $15 outside USA

Send check or money order (for $81.50 USA; $90 outside USA) to:
Drew Kampion
834 Woodsong Lane
Langley, Washington 98260

An excerpt from

Stoked: A History of Surf Culture

by Drew Kampion

The Stoke

Every ten seconds or so, on every ocean beach, a wave is breaking. If the coastline was shaped to squarely meet the advancing swell of a single wave, that wave could break in a thousand places simultaneously. Usually, however, waves advance toward the coast at some angle, then wrap into the shore. Thus the curling edge of a single wave can travel ten thousand miles of shoreline, varying in its spill-pattern as the topography of the shoreline varies. A surfer rides that edge of that wave. If the coast was perfectly regular, the shoreline always angled just-so, a surfer could ride the full length of that ten thousand mile long wave without moving. It's not exactly true, of course - he's movin' all right - but it does put a little Einstein in your day just to think about it.

Out to sea there are rolling swells, and inland there are amber waves of grain, but on the coast, at the ocean beaches, we (humanoids) can experience this ongoing rhythmic discharge of transmitted energy. Maybe you can get it in a Nebraska wheatfield too; you probably can. But this - the coast - has it in concentrated form. The surfers who ride these waves plug into a whole different reality, one that is so entirely experiential that, naturally, words fail to describe it. And even if they could, only another surfer could really understand. In the words of a surf-parody of Casteñeda's Teachings of Don Juan, Don Redondo tells his apprentice, Careless Constipeda, "You wanna know 'bout Surfin', you surf. You don't surf, y'don't know nothin' 'bout Surfin."

But even if you surf, you will likely do it for your own peculiar reasons. To some this riding of waves is a religion; to others it's a sport - good, healthy exercise and, they claim, nothing more. Some have said it's an ephemeral, transient artform - at least that's been a topic of some debate for some years. If surfing is an art, perhaps it's a martial art, but in the spirit of aikido, "The Art of Peace" - using the opponent's own force to overcome the opponent: "When an opponent comes forward, move in and greet him; if he wants to pull back, send him on his way." This is the action of a man carving a surfboard on a wave. The wave tightens into a fist of power, the surfer moves into the barrel to greet it. The muscle relaxes, the fist opens and pulls back, the surfer slams off the wide-open face of the wave laying the shoreward rail of his board into a clean arc of beatific contempt. Bit much, eh? Well, from the perspective of the artist surfer, it's just a very beautiful thing. But, we digress.

If surfing's a sport, perhaps it's a play sport in the spirit of throwing the Frisbee and bullriding. As opposed to football or Indie car racing. Surfing small waves is, to be brief, a gas. To surf small uncrowded waves (having gained some proficiency) is exquisite play. How could anything of a play-nature be better? You're riding these curling echoes of ocean winds and storms. You're cavorting in these perfect spiralling three dimensional laid-on-their-sides little tornadoes - skating down the zippering wall of the tube - in the center of the cyclone. Havin' fun.

In an ideal world, perhaps. But, unless you're one of the ones that wants so bad to do it and is good enough to make it reasonably worth doing all the time all around the world, you're stuck with crowds. And if you don't have crowds (definition: too many guys, not enough waves) at your surf spot - if you don't have that sort of surf culture - then one of three things: your spot is really "shitty" (surfer term), your spot is really miserable (as in very cold), or you live somewhere with good waves that nobody else knows about.

This is the irony, paradox, water-torture of the late-20th century surfer: You've got the perfect sport, the waves are as good as they've ever been, and technology has created these exquisite six-pound things to surf them on, but it's crowded. Why is it crowded? People love it. They're just stoked, that's all.

© Drew Kampion, 2006