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The Stoke

Joe Loveless, Fall 2004

To know surfing is to know the stoke.  The stoke is simply a lifting energy in the soul that's unique to the art of surfing.  To those that have never felt the stoke, it's tough to imagine and likewise, it's tough to describe.

Easy to mock from the outside, surf stoke fundamentally changes a person forever.  A lifetime of utter boredom and lack of purpose can suddenly seem too short when surf stoke hits.

The stoke makes you realize that life can never be long enough for you to catch all the waves you want.  It's that powerful - and empowering.  On the quintessential list of foods for the soul, to many surfers, surfing is a close second to the Good Book.

The stoke is about surfing and dahaole is about the stoke.  It's about never being too old or too young to know the stoke.  Certainly, at the top of the dahaole list of beefs, dahaole resents localism and violence to deter folks from knowing the stoke.

However, like everything on this planet (even where there is no trace of mankind) there are rules and protocols.  In surfing, respecting the line-up and understanding proper etiquette is the law of the break.  Even more, it's part of the core spirit of dahaole.

As I was first starting to explore the stoke, and dahaole, I had to break down some old stereotypes.  I spent a lot of my youth at the beach, swimming in the ocean, and paddling up and down rivers and lakes in the mid-Atlantic states.  To me, water was water and there was plenty of it.

After a day of playing in the surf, there would be that cool "I'm still feeling the waves" after-effect when I'd hit the rack, but that was pretty much it.  After canoeing, sailing, or boating, I'd enjoy the memory and pleasant exhaustion of having spent the day on the water.

Surfers?  Well, being raised in the East, they were those West Coast guys who went to class wearing shorts and sandals.  Some smoked dope, others skipped school, others were radical X-gamers. That was it.  I didn't even know of the 'stoke', I just figured these guys lived near the water and likely had some sort of endorphin deficiency.

At best, my rationale was limited and linear: I had nine varsity letters and they surfed.  In the end, we were equal.  I didn't get it and since they were a world away, I didn't see the need.

Then in 1985, I moved to southern California and of course, dove into all things SoCal.  I think the first thing we domestic emigrants do is assimilate as quickly as possible into a Pacific Coast lifestyle and then wave it in the face of those we left behind in the rain, snow, and ice.  Funny because nothing says 'tourist' more than the process of assimilation.  One must be, not strive to become.

Point is, that I spent a lot of time on the beach and in the water from San Diego to Santa Cruz.  Dates, parties, girls, concerts, bon fires (when they still let us do that), and campouts.  Guess what, I still never got it and remained hopelessly ignorant of the stoke.

Then a little more than a year ago, having lived in southern California for nearly twenty years, a childhood friend, surfer, and former lifeguard took me out to Old Man's at San Onofre, north of San Diego.  He took the time to explain a few things (like how shark attacks are rare as he strapped on his diving knife) and tossed me a board.  Whatever man, it's cool to hang with you so what the hell, no big, I'll go out.

On a fine summer day with board in hand and donning a rash guard, I saw the waves surging to a height of 5'-6'.  Paddling through the kelp (trying my best to put the park's great white shark warning out of my mind), I suddenly felt a shutter of humility and realized that I was not as ready for this as I thought.

As a kid, Dad was a football coach so you never got hurt at my house.  In seventh-grade, I took the heel of an eighth-grader in the nose and shattered my face (but still made the tag and final out).  In football, I played with (yet another) broken nose and sacked the all-conference quarterback ending a potential game-winning drive only to receive a bitter cheap shot between the legs from the 230-lbs lineman I beat to do it.  I high-jumped and hurdled my senior year in high school with gut-wrenching shin splints.  I fell 50-feet off a cliff in Western Maryland because I didn't understand how intoxication dramatically affects one's rock-climbing abilities. I used to climb out the third-story window and up to the roof of my college dorm so I could have a smoke with a view.  I dropped out of college to take on the world and bolted to Los Angeles with only $38 with no job waiting for me.  I walked the dangerous streets of Los Angeles daily for three years because I couldn't afford a car.  My stunning live-in LA girlfriend shattered my heart and dumped me on Christmas Eve 1985 leaving me with no place to go (and still no car to get there).

I have been out there.  I know pain and I know fear.  I know challenges and I have always invited (in some cases, unnecessarily created) them and attacked them with tenacity and two-fisted style - but this was different.  This I didn't know.

Somehow, all of the blind-charging confidence and single-result minded perseverance that had served me well in years passed was nowhere to be found.  I ignorantly took on wave after wave as I struggled to get out to the break.  This was a different feeling of exhilaration and uncertainty.  I was enjoying the new experience (and a heart rate of 200), but was really lost in trying to understand it.

It likely started when I realized that waves are a lot higher and a lot more powerful when you are laying flat on the water as opposed to standing or swimming with them.  It also dawned on me that I wasn't really sure what I was doing.  Though this had never been a deal-breaking problem in the past, the uncertainty of what was to come in this surprisingly new and refreshed medium was intimidating.

Nevertheless, I went after as best I could.  Paddling (and paddling and paddling), dodging other surfers, ignoring the sharks, and trying to be Kelly Slater.  Meanwhile, I'm waiting for this lightening bolt to strike me and infuse me with the stoke.  Never happened.

Unreal.  After all I was putting myself through and the constant internal pep-talks and self-debasing name-calling, where was the stoke?  Hit me with the stoke so this will all go away and everything will be ok leaving me with some self-esteem when I go in.  Well, how's nope.  How does that sound.  How about nope.  Nope, your not getting the stoke today.  There.  Take it like a man.

As I paddled in, walked onto the beach and made my way to our site, I was completely befuddled, a bit numb, and overcome with a sense that surfing was either REALLY overrated or that I was immune to receiving the stoke.

Well, the day just wasn't the same.  I hung out, we grilled some burgers, had some beers, a few smokes, some laughs, listened to music, and watched the sun give us a final wink as it fell asleep under the Pacific.

Despite the time with the guys, I was tired, frustrated, a bit confused, and somewhat deflated over my 'disappointing' surfing experience.  Turns out that after all of that, I was dead wrong too.

The stoke isn't something you receive.  It isn't a bolt of lightning that comes down out of the sky and blesses you.  It's something that is generated inside you from a spontaneous reaction to the natural environment.

The stoke happens when you don't expect it and it happens in a glorious moment on its own terms.  Next month, I'll tell you more about how I scratched it the second time out and share with you the insights that can help you find yours.

In the end, that's the reason dahaole was created.  To help our fellow men and women find their stoke.  It's a worthy chase and one that will positively affect you for life.  No one is the same after the stoke, they are fundamentally different and the answers to many, many questions start to show themselves.

-joe