Crazy! Why do it? Why expose yourself to such “sustained thorough beatings,” to the risk of death? Finnegan’s answer – “It simply compelled me” – is hard to comprehend. But in the existential risk-taking of his thirteen-year-old surfer self, I see the ballsy journalist, who, in 2010, would venture into Michoacá – the hell mouth of the Mexican drug war – to report first hand on the mayhem.
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
William Finnegan's "Off Diamond Head"
I want to correct an oversight. Reviewing the June 1st
New Yorker, I overlooked William
Finnegan’s wonderful "Off Diamond Head." It’s a “Personal History” piece about the
“clandestine life” Finnegan led when he was thirteen, living in Hawaii – clandestine
in the sense that Finnegan’s parents knew him only as “Mr. Responsible.” They
had no idea he was running with a racist gang called the In Crowd; they didn’t
know about his fights with bullies at school; and they didn’t know about the
risks he was taking on the water, surfing with his best friend Roddy (“I darted
around, dodging peaks, way out at sea, half-hysterical, trying to keep an eye
on Roddy”). I skipped “Off Diamond Head” the first time around because I
thought it was about something I wasn’t interested in – surfer culture. But
Finnegan is one of The New Yorker’s
best writers (his "Silver or Lead" is a masterpiece). So I returned to “Off
Diamond Head.” From its opening sentence (“The budget for moving our family to
Honolulu was tight, judging from the tiny cottage we rented and the rusted-out
Ford Fairlane we bought to get around”) right through to its superb conclusion –
A bruise-colored cloud hung over Koko Head. A transistor
radio twanged on a seawall where a Hawaiian family picnicked on the sand. The
sun-warmed shallow water had a strange boiled-vegetable taste. The moment was
immense, still, glittering, mundane. I tried to fix each of its parts in
memory. I did not consider, even in passing, that I had a choice when it came
to surfing. My enchantment would take me where it chose.
– it caught and held me. Finnegan doesn’t just
recollect his Hawaiian experiences, he relives them on the page. Of the waves
at Kaikoos, he writes,
Thick, dark-blue peaks seemed to jump up out of deep ocean,
some of them unnervingly big. The lefts were short and easy, really just big
drops, but Roddy said the rights were better, and he paddled farther east,
deeper into the break. His temerity seemed to me insane. The rights looked
closed-out (unmakable), and terribly powerful, and, even if you made one, the
ride would carry you straight into the big, hungry-looking rocks of outer Black
Point.
Of the waves at Cliffs:
The sets were well overhead, glassy and gray, with long
walls and powerful sections. I was so excited to see the excellence that my
back-yard spot could produce that I forgot my usual shyness and began to ride
with the crowd at the main peak. I was overmatched there, and scared, and got
mauled by the biggest sets. I wasn’t strong enough to hold on to my board when
caught inside by six-foot waves, even though I “turned turtle”—rolled the board
over, pulled the nose down from underwater, wrapped my legs around it, and got
a death grip on the rails. The whitewater tore the board from my hands, then
thrashed me, holding me down for sustained, thorough beatings.
Crazy! Why do it? Why expose yourself to such “sustained thorough beatings,” to the risk of death? Finnegan’s answer – “It simply compelled me” – is hard to comprehend. But in the existential risk-taking of his thirteen-year-old surfer self, I see the ballsy journalist, who, in 2010, would venture into Michoacá – the hell mouth of the Mexican drug war – to report first hand on the mayhem.
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