The mixed smell of suntan lotion and Zogs sex wax as the sun cooks your body, while the waves baste your exposed skin to a golden brown. The burning rawness from five hours of neoprene rubbing salt into your neck and armpits. The persistent sting as the golden rays and brackish water mix in your eyes, preventing a clear view of the incoming swells. The shared camaraderie between you and your best friend as he catches the wave of his life. Jealousy vanishes and bones tingle in excitement when he bellows from within as he drops into his first double overhead wall. But, what if your friend is taken from you? What if you’re left alone to paddle through the close-outs on OB’s inside bar, only to be greeted by the bigger close-outs on OB’s outer bar that seem to grin and bear their fangs every chance they get? You no longer have that security of encouragement from someone else egging you on to paddle for that green beast with the mangled face coming toward you, growing at a remarkable rate until it forms the mass that is before you, about to crumble whether you want a part of it or not.

I no longer have that security. When I was sixteen, my best friend suddenly died of cardiac arrest after spending only nineteen years on this Earth—born at a time when Mark Richards conquered the world tour, and soul-arching his way through life’s barrier just as Kelly Slater secured his reign as king. He was my brother by blood, but my best friend by choice.

Masking the pain, doubt, and remorse that engulfed my body were those feelings we shared together on our surfboards. Suddenly, my nostrils were filled with the sweet smell of wax and my eyes were blessed with set upon set of perfect waves, but as I looked around, I was scared. Who would be out there with me? Who would be there to share those unforgettable five-hour sessions? No one. No one could replace him or the energy he brought to the ocean. They had a symbiotic relationship—he would give as much energy to her as she gave to him. No matter how bruised or battered he got, he would paddle back with the same look of contentment that he never had on land and that I have yet to see again.

That’s surfing. It’s not about the stories. It’s not about telling people that you surf. It’s the feeling you get when you conquer or get conquered. That touch of immortality as you catch the wave of your life or the stroke of death as you fall head first into her angry, frothy mouth. When you share that bond with someone, as they are the first you see when you emerge from that white cocoon (whether out of a barrel or up from the deep), it’s something that can never be forgotten. Sometimes, I prefer to surf alone without my new surfing companions because I can still see my brother paddling out and sitting by my side on his prized triple-stringer Jacobs. But, even if I can’t see him on certain days, I can always feel him and I know he’s out there with me. Even more than that, I know his hands are now my hands, paddling when I paddle and his feet are now my feet, feeling the same adrenaline rush I feel when I have a ride so flawless that I know the ocean has to be on my side. Especially during those moments when I can hear his voice again through the slurping and shooting spray while exiting a hollow barrel—the moments when ‘brah’ never seemed so real. I can only imagine the connection others that knew Eddie, Foo, Chesser, Solomon, Joyeux, Moriarty, and those that I am forgetting must feel after charging every wave they can get their feet on. It’s comforting, though, to think that perhaps someone’s always there keeping the ocean warm for us and to protect us on the drop-ins gone right, the wipeouts gone wrong, and the beauty in between.

This isn’t supposed to be a sad, let’s feel sorry for ourselves for those we’ve lost kind of story. It’s more of a let’s get out there and rip kind of story because we still can and because there are those that we have lost, and even those that are still with us who would switch places with us if they could. Surfing isn’t a hobby, it’s a lifestyle that can’t and, by all means, shouldn’t be taken away from you if you can prevent it. So, the next time you paddle out, don’t just do it for yourself, do it for the love of the sport and those that can no longer experience the immortal rush of searching and overcoming their own perfect wave. The rush that all surfers hope will carry them through life’s barrier—soul-arching in a deathstyle all their own.

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