Immersed in Bumdom

[buhm-duh m]

noun

• the class or entire body of bums; bums as a whole.
• the outlook or behavior of bums, especially those rigidly adhering to shiftlessness.

When I attained the adventurous age of 10, I was cut loose from the ever-present, protective eyes of my parents. Regularly, I would toss my homemade, steel-wheeled skateboard underfoot and rattle my way down to Buccaneer Beach. The freedom granted to me, an exploratory kid by nature, elevated my parents to near perfect status and made this man’s growing up years the envy of his peers. However, my mom and dad did have one particularly stubborn, blind spot. (Hence, the “near” perfect.)

I clearly remember them sternly informing me in no uncertain terms, “NO, you cannot surf. Only bums surf!”

Please understand. Seen through the eyes of my parents, surfers were nothing more than long-haired, shiftless, marijuana smoking drop-outs. However, to a 10-year-old, the iconic bronze-skinned, blond-haired surfer was the pinnacle of everything cool. I tried debating with them, and when that failed, negotiations ensued, (also to no avail), which subsequently led to the humiliating stage of begging. Dang. Even that singular, tender teardrop that I worked so hard to perfect did nothing to dissuade them!

Dude, let’s be honest. Could you have blamed a prepubescent boy for over-romanticizing the life of a barefoot surf-bum? I mean, think about it. Which seems more appealing? Having a waxed stick tucked under shirtless, tanned shoulders, strutting carefree onto the squishy, warm sand, and straddling one’s board, gazing over the hazy horizon, naked toes dangling in the clear, blue, salty sea? Or, being shod, compelled to dutifully trudge to grade school, dull pencils and boring books in hand, only to have one’s squirmy butt forced, feet and eyes forward, onto a cold, hard seat? A fair-minded person would be rather hard-pressed not to agree that being a beach bum would have a powerfully fanciful draw.

Despite my diligent efforts at refining the sad puppy-eye look, my parents never relented on their entrenched stance. I had to wait until I was in my 20’s before my first awkward goofy-footed step onto a board. Ahhhh, the feel, the undulation of the float, the grace of sliding across the wave’s face in search of that elusive, perfect curl was intoxicating. I was addicted. However, by then, I had different priorities, and transforming into a darkening, dreadlocked surf-bum wasn’t one of them. Life stepped in, and I had to hang up my damp, slightly sandy towel.

“Surfers are bums!” “Surfers are bums!!” “S U R F E R S A R E B U M S ! ! !”

Even though my parents’ voices are silent to me now, my mom and dad’s dire warnings still reverberate intensely, wrapping around my thoughts, stinging my conscience like a Blue Bottle jelly fish. For there is no denying it – I am jobless, and I surf nearly every day, often twice a day and, in the interest of full disclosure, if the curl is just right, sometimes I can be spied sneaking away from the condo for a final sunset ride. Without question, I’m brandishing a killer tan. Furthermore, more often than not, I can be found hanging loose on the playas, south of Canoa, Ecuador, alongside my fellow “unemployed” surf buddies with our sticks tucked under our brown shoulders while sporting carefree, silly grins just before we paddle to the outside sets, straddling our boards, naked toes dangling, eyes searching, awaiting that perfect barrel.

So…..dare I ask? Am I destined to finish out my life as nothing more than a balding beach bum, sucked in daily by the lure of the ocean’s tides? And, as my parents feared, finally to be found indolent and fully immersed in bumdom?……..I hope so.