What's Inherent Bummer?

So, what’s Inherent Bummer? Get asked that a lot — most recently by “Archy” of “Pancho and Archy” fame. Arch called me over to his fragrant and rusted VW van one day, put his arm around me and pulled me in so we could make this a clandestine conversation.

“Hey, so what’s it mean? Inherent Bummer?”

He was deadly serious.

I went into a somewhat rehearsed monologue about the origin of the name. Rambled off something about Thomas Pynchon’s book Inherent Vice. The history of the word bummer, how it felt good to say, “It’s not the end of the world” when you actually feel like you might be facing personal armageddon. The “I’m just gonna get wet anyway” philosophy.

I shrugged my shoulders at the end of my ramble and said, “It’s kinda like that.” A low-fi shoulder shrug being a good pantomime of the sentiment. Despite everything, it’s all good. We surf. We have surfing: our beautiful curse.

“Ohhhh…OK, I like it,” he said. “I get it now.” 

I don't think he did and neither did I at the time. But he ripped out the pack of stickers I gave him and proudly plastered one to the bumper of his brown and primer colored VW. He placed it right next to the license plate reading: “SURFED.” 

I was never really satisfied with my answer. I know what it means to me. But I needed proof…or something more concrete to say so we can all be proud enough to rock a hoodie or a tee knowing that “we get it.”

Yesterday I had what I would call one of the most pleasant surfs of my life. It was a random window sandwiched between Microsoft Teams meetings that coulda been emails and errands of this and that — a day where grabbing a surf window looked unlikely and would be the first activity discarded. But with it being October in California and a medium combo swell in the water, I made sure one errand took me past the ocean.

Around 1:40pm — the most gentlemanly of surf hours — and following an especially excruciating phone call, the usual afternoon haze-wind nightmare we expect at that time of day had turned into a sheet glass combo town with no surfers around and consistent cerulean blue peaks popping off up and down the beach.

We all daydream of French beach breaks in the sun, right? This was that, with all the fixings. Paddling out the water looked aquarium clear and balls of bait fish swam below the surface — the temperature was cool and pleasant, perfect for a thin fullsuit. A strong but diluted autumn sun warmed the air.

The few locals out were all spread out thin and even, everyone choosing the exact wave of the set they wanted, often paddling over one gem to get the next one. Every wave was followed by giddy and hurried paddle outs. Deep breaths, stay in the moment. Savor this — the air, the water, the gentle mounds of water aiming at the lucky few surfers. I honestly didn’t think the grumpiest of souls could find anything wrong with it. Any bigger and it would probably close out. Any smaller and the sandbar would flood and you’d be hopping through a gutter.

It was perfect.

Then following my third or fourth wave — realizing it actually was as good as it looked — an older guy and his pal sat out the back waiting for more waves after splitting another flawless peak. As they waited briefly — another set already on the horizon, voluptuously aimed right at them yet again — one of the guys laid on his board to paddle for it while saying to his buddy, “Be great if it were a little bigger, huh.”

And there it was, our chronic condition: the Inherent Bummer. 

I shrugged my shoulders, paddled into another wave, carved it to the sand and laughed at the audacity of surfers and surfing. We have the key to happiness in our hands but no idea how to open the door. So that’s why it’s called Inherent Bummer. —Travis Ferré

[Above Artwork: No Title (lived, loved, wasted…) by Raymond Pettibon]