Party Waves: Creating Community as a Surfer of Color
Since I started surfing during the COVID-19 pandemic in 2020, I’ve been entranced by the subtleties of wave-riding…how the slightest change of foot placement affects the way the board turns under your feet, how even the angle at which your hands enter the water while paddling can mean the difference between catching and missing a wave.
I am enthralled by the distinct features of waves and how hard surfers have to work to read and respond to the ever-changing conditions. I am fascinated by how the wave-scape is never quite the same, so that even those who have surfed the same break for decades must continuously create a relationship with the waves in order to surf..
While I deeply love the sport and art of surfing, my relationship with it is complex because surfing as an Asian American woman puts me into an environment where waves, knowledge, and expertise are kept from people, often people of color–also in subtle and intimate ways.
You might know where this is going; as an Asian American who started her surfing journey during the COVID-19 pandemic in Southern California, I was already physically isolated from other surfers due to outdoor restrictions. But I also chose to isolate myself during that first year of surfing because of how often I heard misinformation about Asians being spread through other surfers in the lineup. I’m talking about gross generalizations, bordering on cartoon caricatures. It was hard to not take these digs aimed at the Asian/Asian American community personally.
I had heroic visions of myself confronting these strangers and berating them for spreading lies. But as a beginner, I surfed alone most of the time. Considering that lies had turned into full-scale hate crimes in other parts of the state, it seemed like the safest option was for me to shrink. To paddle away and hide in parts of the lineup where the waves weren’t as good or consistent. And paddle out during times of the day where it was the least crowded since the waves were the lowest quality. Looking back, I realize that I really sacrificed my development as a surfer in these early days in order to feel safe. By leaving quality waves where I could have improved my skills more and settling for suboptimal conditions, I had already internalized subtle signs that I didn’t deserve to take up space in a “real” surf line up. I still struggle with this today.
“I anticipated again surfing alone, separated from other surfers by my conspicuously brown skin and California license plate.”
Though I tried to keep my distance, one of my first interactions was when a white dude offered me hot water (which I desperately needed since I hadn’t yet invested in a full wetsuit) from across the street and as I got closer he said “Oh, but it’s not your people who started all of this [the pandemic] right?” Although I’m half Chinese and half Filipino, I lied and said “no, I’m Filipino,”—not even having the courage to claim the other half of me. A few months earlier, I had been screamed at and cussed out for “for bringing the virus” while volunteering at a food co-op. I just couldn’t handle another attack on my identity, especially in a space where I as a person of color was already out of place.
Sometime within my first year of surfing, I made the decision to move almost 3,000 miles away for grad school in Rhode Island. Online, I read that Rhode Island actually had decent waves for the East Coast. One blog even described the town I was moving to as a New England surfing hub. How ‘bout that! One small problem: I had spent my whole life in an incredibly diverse place and, in retrospect, took that part of my upbringing for granted. I knew I was about to experience a major culture shock being one of few people of color in a coastal New England town and I also knew that I might face more intense marginalization in the surf community. In preparation for the move, I tried to get a handle on the surfing scene by scouring Nobody Surf, Magic Seaweed and Surfline and looking for information on who worked at local shops. From these (of course limited) online sources, it appeared to an outsider that the Rhode Island surf community was primarily male and white. I anticipated again surfing alone, separated from other surfers by my conspicuously brown skin and California license plate.
I actually moved to the East Coast during the peak of hurricane season, which is when East Coast surfers finally get the high quality, consistent waves they have been waiting for all year. My first surf in Rhode Island was on the tail end of Hurricane Henri. I started observing the features of these new waves, recording how they were often softer than ones at my home break and how the breaks were shaped by cobblestone reefs instead of sand. Over the last few years, I’ve learned to integrate local knowledge into my decisions on when and where to paddle out. I’ve mapped out the channels where it’s safe to paddle out on a bigger day without taking wave after wave on the head and dialed my go-to spots for every permutation of wind and swell direction. This local knowledge wasn’t in any blog post or news article online. It is woven through the surf community, which is tight-knit as a result of surviving bone-chilling winters together and I felt that when people shared their insights, they were inviting me to be a part of it. Through knowledge sharing, I got to know my surfing spots more intimately than ever before and was elated to find that in parallel, I was forming relationships with the local community. I also started getting to know other women–Women of Color!--who love surfing as much as I do. How empowering it is to paddle out with other women who look like me–whose mothers look like mine, whose experiences are so reminiscent of my own and who also have a deep love and passion for board riding.
While I felt a greater sense of community in Rhode Island than I had before in California, I still encountered biases and microaggressions due to my identity. As pandemic fears lessened, I (personally) didn’t really encounter COVID-related misinformation, but those experiences were replaced by all too familiar inquiries about my background and subtle digs about my “nationality” and my (apparently obvious) out-of-place aura. I remember a day where I surfed from one end of the surf spot to another, covering all of the known spots in the area. From east to west, there are about five peaks with slightly different waves and at three of five spots, an older man approached me to 1) say “aloha” and ask if I was Hawaiian [I’m not] and 2) insist that we had met before. He eventually admitted to mistaking me for another Asian American woman (who does not look anything like me. Another time, a man approached me while changing out of a wetsuit to tell me I “must be Vietnamese because I just look like his beautiful daughter-in-law.” Again, I’m not.
I kept these experiences to myself for a long time, but then opened up to other Women of Color in the surfing community. It turned out that we all had a logbook of similar stories. Knowing this softened the impact of those experiences and others which followed. We even had a group hang out where we just aired all of the ignorant things that other people had said to us. At first we were angry. But anger turned to action and we ended up practicing how to de-escalate and redirect with one another, each taking turns being the aggressor.
Something that continued to bother me and my friend, Satya, was that many people refuse to know our names and often confuse us even though we don’t look alike and we’ve surfed regularly in Rhode Island for years. Moreover, we still didn’t exactly feel welcome at some surf sessions. Without the relative safety of surfing with allies and other women of color, side-eyed glances and other less-than-friendly behavior from other surfers seeped in. At one point we reflected on which People of Color are permitted to enter the surf community and how they maintain their status as an accepted member of the group. We raged against the exclusivity of all-white surfer cliques, the lack of media representation in local and global marketing campaigns, and how difficult it can be to take up space as Women of Color.
This need for more community drove Satya and I to found Colorful Lineup, a Rhode Island based surfing non-profit dedicated to breaking down barriers to surfing for Women of Color. Through Colorful Lineup, we host surf clinics, surf film events, and gear redistributions in hopes of creating a safe space for Women of Color to cultivate relationships and share surfing knowledge. As I reflect on four years of surfing, I envision ways to soften the learning curve of surfing for women like me and expand our community. We create the community we need and, at the moment, I don’t see us ever stopping since the need is so great. While most surfing communities have a long way to go to become open and welcoming to People of Color, through my friends, collaborators and mentors, I see a future where Folks of Color can truly feel at home in the surfing lineup.