Poser. Dork.
Originally published on my old windsurfingradio.com web site in 2004:
I knew the type as soon as we saw him pull up in his fancy white Dodge 2500 Cargo Van. Everything he had was clean and new. Perhaps he'd just won the lottery, but more likely he hit a tangent forked from mid-life crisis or divorce. Maybe someone close to him died and he realized he was 35 years old and working a job he hated, living in a life he hated. So he quit, cashed his retirement savings, bought a bunch of new stuff and started bumming. Guys like him burn out in a year, maybe less, find they now have nothing but a year-old van full of year-old gear, no retirement, no job, no house and a big hole in the resume. That's when the real mid-life crisis arrives. I had him pegged.
My buddy Mike brightened when he saw him. "Yeah, Billy's here. You should see this guy sail."
Mike is a good sailor, so am I. So is everyone else around here. We don't windsurf from this beach because we are pussies. But, even pussies need a break now and then; smoke a cigarette, drink a beer, wolf down a Subway meatball sandwich and some Ho-Hos. Evan has a bum right knee and two broken toes on his left foot, and he's still sailing. Thomas broke two ribs and has a nasty bruise on his left side after over-rotating a forward. I am strong like bull, with only a sore back. We are men. This dude in the white van, Billy? Poser. Dork.
I knew this like I know when someone is Republican. You can just tell.
It's blowing 35, gusting to the mid-40's, we're on our smallest stuff. For me that's a brand new 4.3 wave sail and a custom seven foot wave board. It's slow, but it slashes. Not so good for jumps, but you don't need Good at 35 knots. Anything that floats will jump. Dork unloads his stuff, tossing out a seat harness, life jacket, helmet... oh, man. Here comes the train wreck, I thought.
Mike walked over to Billy, slapped him on the back and shared a laugh. They seemed to get along pretty well, but then Mike's a friendly guy. Apparently Mike sailed with him yesterday, when Billy pulled into town, driving non-stop overnight from Loserville. Surprising Billy even rigged up, who'd want to risk getting their purty new windsurfing stuff all dirty?
Mike walked back over, all smiles, told us Billy's going to rig his 6.0, same as yesterday when it was only 25 knots. Billy looked to be about Mike's size and Mike was on his 3.3. You could have stuffed a boom in Evan's gaping mouth. I just laughed. Not only that, said Mike, but he's putting it on a 100 liter early 90's
slalom job. Mike shook his head and said, "He can handle it, if anyone. This guy can really sail."
Okay, so he's a dork, but not a poser. At least he's not loaded down with a bunch of fancy new gear. Most of those mid-life crisis guys just go for the best stuff ever. Once I saw a neon green Porsche underneath a neon green board, the sports car towing a neon green mini-trailer. Trick stuff, but you could tell it was
look-but-do-not-touch kit. Poser.
I was powered on my kit, overpowered in the gusts, just the way I like it. I thought it would be best if I talked Billy into some sense. As I walked over to where he was rigging, I was impressed to find that the van looked new, but was well used, probably ten years old. He must take good care of it, I thought. There wasn't much gear stuffed in the back, nothing that looked smaller than a 6.0. Probably in Loserville
they don't have real wind. Well, kudos to the Dork for rigging what he brung. Billy didn't think much of me telling him he was gonna get smoked out there on such gear. He looked up from rigging his twelve year old six-cam race sail, measured me from head to toe and said, "We'll see. I like to jump and this stuff works pretty well."
I rolled my eyes and shrugged. "Whatever, just watch out for the oyster bed downwind," I offered, knowing he'd understand when he was climbing out a mile downwind after being pummelled for two hours.
I lagged on the beach as the rest of the gang hit the water again. I wanted to see this guy sail. No one else thought much of it. Mike yelled to Billy that he'd see him on the water. Thomas gave him a friendly wave. I cracked another brew and regretted not bringing my video camera. This could earn me some money on America's Funniest Videos or one of those Fox "caught on video" specials.
Billy rigged fast and hit the water, knowing I was watching, waiting to laugh my ass off. Twenty feet from the beach he got launched. Oops, no one told him about the sandbar. Thought he knew about it. I laughed to myself, even though I caught it on the same bar first session today; tweaked my back. Billy gathered his gear and waterstarted and was off like a shot from a cannon. He angled downwind, sliding into a trough with head high chop piling up around him, picked up some serious Dunkerbeck speed and then boosted the biggest jump in the history of windsurfing. He pounced like a mountain lion going for the kill. He killed me, sitting on shore ready to laugh. I dropped my beer, but barely noticed. My desire for a video camera renewed.
This guy was awesome.
I'd never seen such hang-time. Between Clark Kent's launch and landing I dropped my jaw, my beer, scrambled to my feet and had started strapping on my waist harness. A few minutes later I was on the water, waterstarting after hitting the sandbar again, forgotten in my haste to get out there.
In the water it was hard to see anyone because of the rolling chop. You could see Billy, though, rising above everyone on those huge jumps, probably one or two per reach. For awhile I stayed close to him, falling behind when he took off down a trough, catching up when he launched into one of his enormous jumps. Between his jumps he was doing all sorts of transitions; from screaming jibes and planing fast-tacks to monkey jibes, vulcans, duck jibes and heli-tacks. He kicked my ass.
The stupidest part is that the irony didn't hit me until late that night, when I'd grabbed Billy his third beer from my fridge. I dissed everything about the man before I'd even seen him sail. As that thought hit me I realized, so what if he couldn't sail? What if he did suck and spent the day floundering, washing up on our
local version of Bozo beach? Was I in high school? This was a windsurfer, a brother, kindred soul. I had to offer him smack and lip-service instead of a beer and welcome-to-town pat on the back?
He wasn't the poser, I was. Dork.
