Whether it’s on the land or in the water, I seem to be a magnet for dudes that just want to chat. Guys regularly approach me out of nowhere and enjoy nothing more than launching into a conversation. Ladies, however, have historically kept their distance. Probably because I am constantly surrounded by strange men.
But I do not want to chat. I never want to have a full-blown conversation with someone I’ve never met. Maybe a quick back and forth over the waves or weather – some small talk bullshitting – but nothing lengthy. I came here to surf, not to scrounge up new friends.
So, I was not really surprised one afternoon when an older gentleman paddled up next to me and began talking. He asked me if I had been out surfing that morning. I told him I had not, since I had to be at work early to finish an important project. He responded with the following:
“You can be good at making money or you can be good at surfing. You can’t be both.”
I was good at neither. But I did not disclose that information to this fellow. I keep my money matters private. As for my lack of surfing prowess, that would reveal itself in due time.
My unwillingness to divulge personal financial information did not deter the elder man from revealing his.
“Every hour I spend surfing is another thousand dollars I could have made,” he said. “Even right now, I’m anxious thinking about all the money I am not making.” I really should have asked him what he did – because that sounds way better than my desk job. Who needs a grueling 40+ hour work week when I could work 40 hours a month? But I didn’t, much to my bank account’s chagrin. Instead, just wanting to focus on surfing, I rambled something about life requiring balance and tradeoffs.
This seemed like the perfect note to end on. If a wave had appeared, it would have been a fantastic opportunity to escape and never talk to him again.
Sensing my anxiety, the ocean decided to go completely flat. Great.
He prattled on. “You know, when you get to be my age, you can pretty much have whatever you want.” It should be noted that this gentleman was an older white gentleman, predisposed to such advantages. My manly magnetic pull must have been especially strong that day.
“Oh?” I was trying to convey as little interest as possible.
“Yeah. My surfboards are all custom made now. I get them shaped by Jeff Mccallum. He costs a lot more, but he makes great boards. And I only want to buy the best.” To his credit, at least he wasn’t pushing some off the rack FireWire as the apex of equipment.
Ironically, or perhaps predictably, one of the defining features of Jeff’s boards are the dollar bills he glasses into them. Mccallum’s sleds look awesome and he has a great reputation for making unique shapes, but watching this guy next to me revealed some pretty basic surfing: pop up, cruise down the line, kick out. There is nothing wrong with this! However, another shaper could have made him a board that would fit his needs for hundreds less. This dude was not paying for superior quality or for the particular type of boards Jeff makes; he was paying for the bragging rights to tell others his board costs $1300 because he could easily afford it.
“Why is a fancy pants guy like this surfing a shitty beach break with a lowlife blogger?” you might be asking yourself. Don’t worry – he went right ahead and told me.
“Today I was supposed to be on this trip with my friends to Mexico. It’s this really exotic resort. A point break somewhere on the mainland.” He proceeds to wax poetic about a right-hander that can only be accessed by boat and recounted previous adventures with his current Mex-bound crew. He had to stay behind this time, for some vague $1000/hour related reasons.
And then he hit me with this:
“The resort is one of those places affluent businessmen with means go. It’s not for hot dogs like you.”
Through strictly talking about himself, his experiences, his trip, and neglecting to ask me a single question about myself, he had made a gigantic leap and assumed I was poor. I mean, he wasn’t wrong – in case you are wondering what my current class status is, I am a Hot Dog – the lowest tier of barbecue meats. Perhaps once my student loans are paid off, I can climb the ladder into the Burger class and finally be able to afford a decent bun in an up and coming neighborhood.
He simultaneously insulted hot dogs and implied some vague country club level misogyny. But he said it in such a nice tone. I always expected to be called poor by someone with a well to do voice and a monocle; an Upper East Side type. To be reminded that I was at the bottom of the class totem pole by a character with a smooth voice wearing a Matuse spring suit caught me off guard.
Is this what people with money do? Are they so bored with the rest of their lives that they need to aggressively dry hump strangers with their wealth? Using their money to acquire everything material has worked for them so far, so they surely must be able to employ the same strategy to gain people’s approval.
I wondered if his surf trip story was even true. Perhaps the reason he didn’t go was that he was never invited in the first place. I certainly would not want to spend an entire vacation with a guy regaling me with The Perks of Being A Wealthy Wallflower. I get it, you make money. Good for you! But your vain, wealthy self-reflection is nauseating. Can’t we just surf?
Is he the worst human being on earth, rubbing his extravagant lifestyle in everyone’s face that would listen? Or is he just lonely, hoping his wealthy braggadocio will lead to more friends?
You can’t be both.