The pig is a surfboard. I am actually surprised you haven’t heard of it. Fabled, beyond mythical, immortal even. I could say I own it, but does one really own anything? Truth be told, the pig owns me, and the relationship has been bittersweet. A rollercoaster of emotions. Whilst the pig wears its scars on its sleeves (pigs don’t really have sleeves), the imprint it has left on me is eternal.
Shaped by Pugsy in 1987, the pig was always destined for greatness. A stoutly built, off-white, pure fibreglass fatty, the pig was more akin to a mini icebreaker than a surfboard. Pure Arrogance. So how to decal a board of such stature and ego? Remember now, it was shaped in the eighties. Yes. The pig is distinctly eighties. Distinctly Australian. Iconic. An era where pastel colours were the new black, Crocodile Dundee was playing knifey spoony and kangaroos were wearing boxing gloves. If you are picturing a kangaroo fighting a spoon under a pastel rainbow, you wouldn’t be far off. From the photo above, you should still be able to make out the boomer of a kangaroo, midway through a big cutback on a pastel rainbow wave. The pig is now 33 years old, if only you could have seen it in its prime. It has lived a hard life. Weathered by time, far beyond its peak years.
So how did a board destined for a life on the pro tour (or at the very least, a starring role in the classic surf movie Surf Nazis Must Die, also released in 1987) end up in my possession? To say details are sketchy is to say, the pig’s early years are not my story to tell. By the time we got the pig in 1993, the pig was angry, damaged and rude. But it had a big heart. The light of ambition was still shining bright. And so, it was, in 1993 my brother purchased the pig from our cousin. I still remember the day we picked it up. I was blown away. Forget the scars, the booming kangaroo was a sight to behold. I told my brother, “One day, I’m going to surf as good as that kangaroo”. Twenty-seven years later, I’m still trying.
Goes without saying, but I was immediately jealous of my brother and his sweet ride. The impatience of youth inevitably blinds us to the obvious. My brother would soon outgrow the pig. It only took an eternity, or in other measurements of time, three years before the pig found its way into my possession. To my brother, the pig had become too cliché, too dangerous and too embarrassing. I didn’t care about his reasons for disowning the pig. All that mattered was the surfboard was now mine. Only problem, I couldn’t (still can’t) surf. Growing up, some might say gravity impacted me more than other kids, others might say I was a Michelin Man. Regardless of your level of political correctness (or refreshing honesty), I had indulged in too many milkshakes. My physical composition, whilst beneficial to the front row of the rugby team, meant that gravity worked extra hard to keep me down. I was about as agile as a sloth.
So rather than starting on a surfboard, I rode a bodyboard. Ocean and Earth. Navy Blue. Slick Back. Fully Sick. Barrel rolls and spinners. Yeah, I surfed, where were the chicks? I was also scared. Scared of going out the back, of catching the big waves, the waves which according to my brother had my name on it. “That’s bullshit how could my name be on a wave”. Eventually, I understood the metaphor. Eventually I overcame the fear. In doing so I learned a valuable lesson. To overcome your fear, you must push through fear. It dissolves instantly. In other words, just take the wave with your name on it. Thanks to my brother, I learned a valuable life lesson. I also got my first little barrel. I had conquered the body board.
The time had come, to stand on my own two feet and become a man. It was time to pick up the pig. I remember some glorious summer afternoons down by the beach. The wind never seemed as strong as it is now, the water never as cold and the waves never as small. That’s the funny thing about memories, the more time passes, the less we can trust them. We remember only the parts we want to remember in a way that only we can remember them. Even though these moments may have been shared, we only see things through our own eyes and the memories are shaped by our own unique way of thinking. Which is why when I reflect on learning to surf on the pig, I was a natural from the very first session. Every time I surfed the pig, there was a glorious sunset with dolphins and turtles splashing and playing in the fading light. Its little wonder that I loved the pig.
Sadly, it all came to a halt when I was called out of the water by a couple of kids who I like to think have ended up living horribly mundane lives. “Look at the pig riding that beat up old pig board”. I’m not going to lie, that one hurt. Kids can be cruel, but milkshakes are delicious. I smile about it now, but at that age I didn’t have the strength or the wit to comment back. There were some fears I still had to overcome. So, I went back to lying down on my bodyboard where I could be inconspicuous but still enjoy the ocean. As for the pig, it sat in hibernation. The rollerdoor was down and the world turn to darkness.
The resurrection came thanks to some very close friends. They heard rumour of the pig and begged me to bring it out for a surf. By this time in my life, I had cut out milkshakes completely and I was back surfing. Over that time, I had been through a series of boards of various shapes and sizes. None came close to the early joy of surfing the pig. And so, with the fond memories softening my heart, the pig was dusted off and touched water for the first time in years. It was great to have two mates with me for the big event. My friend, having broken his board in an earlier surf was surfing my board, which itself had just been repaired. I of course was surfing the pig. Our other mate had his own board.
It was only a matter of time before the inevitable question was raised “Hey Mark, rekon I could surf the pig?”. With much hesitation, I handed the pig over with a stern warning “Careful mate, she’s a bit lively and likely to cut you”. The response came fast, “I’ll be right”. In what can only be described as a release of pent of up rage, the pig seemed to possess my mate overcoming him in a fit of madness. Time stood still, as I watched my mate paddle for a wave, attempting to get to his feet, down the face of the two foot wave he tumbled. The pig held its course. A course determined by destiny. Straight toward our other mate, who had no choice but to abandon the board he was borrowing from me. There was nothing I could do, the pig would have it’s revenge, ploughing a hole straight through the middle of my freshly repaired board. In the same instance, the pig lost it’s middle fin, symbolically flipping the bird at me in a further act of defiance. Time heals all wounds, except for the pig. And that was the last time I took it to the beach.
Nigh on a decade has passed, as the pig slipped from my memory. It became a myth, occasionally brought up during surf trips. In all honesty, I thought it had been thrown away. Until I discovered it last weekend, standing proudly in the old cubby house out the back of my parent’s house. My dad resurrected it from underneath a pile of rags, sitting behind the dual peg BMX which I never rode. I feel bad about that one, but being rotund, I didn’t have the strength to bunny hop. A boy of my frame really should have had a bike with gears. That aside, what is the pig’s condition now? Beaten, battered and bruised. Dings the size of a minivan, fiberglass spikes sticking out like little hairs and a flattened nose with two perfectly round holes. The pig looks more like a pig than ever, I guess we should be careful of the labels we give to things or even ourselves?
So, what to make of the pig? The pig is stubborn, brash and full of ego. Apologising to no one or no thing, the pig wears it’s scars like badges of honour. There is no compromise when it comes to the pig. Yet we hold on. One day, I know we will cut it loose. It’s our attachment to things and the memories we learn to associate with them that makes it all the harder to let go. Take for instance the t-shirt your mum gave you that you haven’t worn in three years. You fail to let go, because it was given to you by your mum. In more complex instances, there are some things which we truly believe we cannot live without or discard from our lives. Over the years I have learned that if we can metaphorically let go of those things we hold dear, whilst we still own them, such as imagining a world without the pig, we learn to appreciate that thing even more. Philosophically though, I have already let go, which means the next time I surf the pig the dolphins will be playing, the turtles swimming and the water will be a pastel rainbow of delight. I will have given the pig the end it truly deserves.