The Prodigal Board
by Maeve Jemison
posted 2008-09-17
Frustrated by the theft of a beloved surfboard, one Florida surfer
never lost hope in small town familiarity and human decency.
I can still remember the first time that something was stolen from me, it was in first grade. My red mechanical pencil; a souvenir from a family trip to Texas vanished from my pencil box. I tried to rationalize it, figure out who could do such a thing.
Photo courtesy of Maeve Jemison
Even reminiscing about it now brings back the pang of the realization that people can be mean. Another time, in early adulthood, my car was stolen in the middle of the night. I remember through frantic explanation, the 911 operator telling me that I must calm down. I did eventually and also realized that thieves are ruthless. But it became a little more personal when they got me for one thing that always brought me joy no matter what the conditions. I'm talking about my 6'2" Mad Dog Super Nose surfboard.
On the east coast of Florida, head-high waves that deliver fun rides are not common like those that often grace the west coast of California. Even the residents of Outer Banks, North Carolina can boast of nice size and consistent waves on a regular. Nope, here in central Florida, we eagerly await hurricane season--or any low pressure weather system, with eyes glued to computer screens. Those online wave forecasters get more screen time than the ASP World Tour. We have to know when to time that perfect session (or at least to tell our bosses that we'll be missing some work).
The perfect board for the fickle Florida waves is crucial to making the most of our conditions. A trip to the beach might include two or three boards on the surf rack, just in case of shifting wind or changing tide. It took a couple of years of shopping around but I finally found the ideal board for Florida waves--a "fish" as we like to call them. Local shaping legend Bernie Crouch set me up with my perfect match. After he asked me some fitting questions, my weight, height, how long I'd been surfing, and what my goals for surfing were, he disappeared up the stairs of his shop.
Photo courtesy of Maeve Jemison
"I aim not just to sell boards, but to fit you with one that will be good for you," he said marching back down with a board under his arm.
My eyes twinkled in the overhead lights as my jaw hung open in awe--a beautifully shaped round nose, the inch and three quarter rails, 22 inches of width that I just knew would float me effortlessly. He'd gone into his personal stash for it, and since it was gently used he gave it to me for a steal-$350.
I could paddle into anything on that thing, waves that were slow to break, little pathetic thigh-high ones too. The genius of the design was how easily it carved the faces. Strangers would look at it and say, "That looks like a fun board." Or, "I bet you can catch anything on that." It was the go-to board; I got so much use out of it that when we finally were blessed with waves that allowed me to use my shorter, thinner, performance board, that's what I did.
Hurricane Ernesto came along and not only cancelled school and work, but gave me that chance to finally get into some powerful waves. The line up was surprisingly sparse, the beach even emptier. Only about 7 or 8 cars sat on the beach at the usually crowded Ponce Inlet jetty, Daytona Beach's southernmost break. The low-lying gray clouds served as a sports dome to the surfers' arena of peaky, head-high sets that were steadily increasing in size and strength. Not welcoming conditions to beach-goers or tourists, but comforting the few surfers that relished moments like these. I never thought twice about sliding the Supernose under the car, through the soft deep sand as I had done dozens of times before. I took my short board out and had one of the best sessions of my life—until I got back to the car.
The Super Nose had vanished. I started running mad, looking under other cars, hoping that it was an honest mistake. I filled out a police report and described every pressure ding and imperfection that would mark it recognizable as mine. If I would've had the board's serial number, the beach patrol counseled, it would be a huge help in recovering it. Hoping that I could track down those numbers I called Bernie.
By this time I had owned the board for a year, would Bernie even remember me? I explained what happened, and oh yeah, he remembered me, the board, and was just as offended as I was. He had only shaped a handful of them and it used to be his own, he was ticked-off. It felt good that he could share the pain of my loss, but unfortunately he never jotted down the serial number either.
