Virginia Beach Classics

When you think about it, even a stuffed blue marlin hanging in a seaside motel office once knew the mysteries of the deep ocean.
I’d like to think this was my first thought as I checked in to the Blue Marlin motel in Virginia Beach with surf fratelli member, Jacob Albury. However, it wasn’t my thought – nor Big Jake Dawg’s - for that matter. Instead, we were wondering how the airlines could lose our surfboards.
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For those of you who know me, you know that my name is not Mr. Brian Cormier. But, according to United Airlines he’s the dude who ended up with our surfboards - somewhere in Washington. It was a case of the wrong tag on the wrong bag, said Dana the baggage agent. And as our airport taxi guy ‘B’ said, “It’s an international fuck up. And no one wants an international fuck up these days.”
But, to be fair, it only took the airline 9 hours to find the boards and fly them 45 minutes down to us at the Blue Marlin motel. And we only had to pay $100 bills, and make 47 phone calls for the trouble.
As ‘B’ pointed out from beneath his all-black Yankee cap, “It’s because they don’t have any competition that the airlines can get away with this shit. Now, if we all had some Star Trek beams, then they’d get their shit straight. Shit, if we could just beam ourselves everywhere, then the airlines would be like, Oh – can we please get you something?”
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Yes, when we checked in to the Blue Marlin morale was low, and then the front-desk man, John – a displaced surfer from Del Mar, CA. - asked us to pay for the week’s reservation up front. This, to me, seemed sketchy, and I couldn’t help but wonder what ‘B’ might have to say about the situation. However, as our time in Virginia Beach would eventually prove, this town is one that is ever paranoid about the travelling rip off artist – who breezes into town to skip out on the bill at Harpoon Larry’s raw bar (where the seafood is ‘bad to the bone.’)
But, that wasn’t our game and it wasn’t our race. We were here for Jacob to surf in the East Coast Surf Championships.
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Down at the Front Street jetty we were among the first in the water before the 7am contest start. A curious group of sleepy looking surf shop managers and reps were busy setting up their branded tents and stacking up merchandise. I’ve never surfed in front of a contest staging with music blaring, and as we caught some waves I realized it was America in all her capitalist glory unfolding before us.
Big Jake made it through to the quarter finals of the junior division, but the waves let him down in his last heat. I suppose it’s true what they say, “mother nature can be as cold as a killer.”
Perhaps the most important move of the day was to saddle up ourselves to a tent that was noticeably empty except for a couple of older dudes and a young kid who was obviously a native Costa Rican. Before long introductions were tossed around and we knew we were dealing with the older classics - Chappy and Rick - and that the Costa Rican kid was Jairo Perez.
Chappy was all amped up on our stories of Nova Scotia point breaks and filled us in on Jairo’s deal. Meanwhile, Rick was there with the camera – always ready for the money shot of any unsuspecting beauty, whether it was a Brazilian babe or some kook in a speedo.
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The contest continued on and Big Jake surfed in the open men’s short board and the pro junior divisions. Yet again, the ocean was a cruel mix of high tide, onshore wind, and small chopped surf. However, we in the ‘international’ tent didn’t seem to mind all that much: Jairo was cheering Jacob on from the sideline. For me, this solidified a connection among us all.
In order to put this all into perspective, we must first state for the record that when we first saw Jairo, we thought he was a young grom - maybe age 14. As it turns out, he’s 20. As Chappy tells it, Jairo comes from a working class family in Costa, and although he rides for O’Neill, they’re only paying him $150/month travel allowance.
Sometime in round two of his open men’s heat, Jairo landed two airs on one wave. He scored a perfect 10 – the first ever in the contest. Meanwhile, the O’Neill reps hadn’t even come down to see if he needed anything, or introduced themselves.
But, Jairo didn’t need anything because he was getting by with help from himself, and from his friends. Friends like Chappy and Rick – just a couple of American working guys who happen to spend time surfing in Costa whenever they can.
At one point, I looked over at Jairo as he was unpacking a lunch. You could tell from the way he handled the zip lock bag that he had packed it himself. The contents of the bag consisted of 12 hardboiled eggs: just the protein needed to help him survive the marathon of heats that he would run in the next 72 hours.
And despite all the pressure and nonsense around him Jairo was up and whistling to Jacob to help him find a position for the sets. Let’s face it, Jairo didn’t have to get involved at all, but that’s the spirit of surfing. Behind the brand names and bullshit, there’s the stoked camaraderie of simply surfing with your friends and cheering them into waves. In my mind, Jairo is the spirit of surfing in a 5 foot frame that weighs in at 95 lbs.
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We found camaraderie elsewhere as well. Over at the 17th Street surf shop we met up with surfboard manager, Cameron. He was so excited to tell us about the time there were no waves for the contest, so they called in the navy submarines to do a couple of stir-it-up drivebys out in front of the jetty. And dang gone it – bingo - a weekend of navy issue white pants swell.
America! Unreal!
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Now, there are a lot of tattoos down here in Virginia Beach. Some go for the dragon, some the star, some the Polo logo, and others who put a bicep curling a dumbbell on their bicep. Yes. Jacob and I talked about possibilities as we killed time in a Wendy’s line-up.
Back at the surf shop, I couldn’t help but notice the tattooed inscription on Cameron’s lower calf which read, Faith. Now, I could see from his eyes that he was grounded in something deep, perhaps it was the church of his choice, or the Grand Canyon at sundown; I don’t know, but I’m glad he’s got something upon which to hold fast.
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There are others here that, unlike Cameron, are lost without an anchor. Take, for example, our sometime cabbie, Gene. Now, as Jacob tells it, this guy is the spitting image of Kip from Napoleon Dynamite. I didn’t get a good look at his face, but Gene laid out some quotes concerning female beauty that he saw around him at the beach. Quotes that were just borderline enough to laugh off, but not quite accept. Things like, “Pink, nah.” I’m sorry, but it would be impossible for me to elaborate on that one….