Toobs.com

	Wisdumb
	Marinated Human (12-04-05) When I lived in San Luis Obispo for about 6 years I wore nothing but a 3/2 wetsuit (while surfing). I guess it was a combination of youthful exuberance, stupidity, and tradition. In reality, I found I rarely needed anything thicker because on the central coast, you rarely have 15 minute lulls like here in Goleta. There is little time to get cold when you are dodging massive, endless sets at some square barrel reef break. Panic creates its own heat. Since I fancied myself as a clever person, I would stuff my suit with clothes to mimic a warm corpse and then squeeze a line of polymer goo along the seams. This way, we would be invincible in our 3/2 ‘dry suits’. This is not to say there weren’t times when I could barely slur my speech because of the ice water effects. Later I read this is the classic early symptom of hypothermia, a malady that I was sure only happened to the other guy. I only got out of the water once because of the cold. That was a mid-February session at south jetty by Morro Bay. The offshore wind had a haze in it not unlike the ice fog that pours out of the quckie-mart freezer when you grab some cheap refrigerated beer to help you forget straightening out on that bomber set wave like a sissy, while all your ‘friends’ pointed, laughed or just looked down, slowly shaking their heads. We rolled around in the sand dunes like sugar cookies trying to stop registering as ‘clinically dead’, before gaining the courage to swim across the harbor in more filthy ice water. After finally getting over wetting my bed in my late teens, I realized I might be missing out on an opportunity. There is nothing like cold or nervousness or too much coffee or beer to stretch a bladder to the point of rupture. I spent all that time working for all that chump change at some dumb job so that I could buy all that food and eat it like a pig so I could use all those calories to make my body warm and transfer all that heat to the contents of my bladder. The result; hard earned hot urine, going completely to waste behind some bushes or in a modern toilet. Or should it? I don’t remember my first wetsuit full of piss, but I can’t imagine it being anything less than the greatest cheap thrill ever while bobbing up and down in a 53F ocean under cloudy skies and crisp winds. It may have only lasted a few seconds, but it certainly gave me reason to live, and renewed motivation to get some more set waves. Sometimes we would use it as a tool to encourage a set after a lengthy lull, because it is likely impossible trying to multitask while urinating. So there I am, the marinated human stewing in my own juices, shaking hands with the devil for a quick heat fix. I am enveloped in a thin film of yellow vinegar, undigested vitamins, and essence of cheap beer, with a hint of dissolved skeleton. Simmer until tender. This was my personal hot tub, when I needed it the most. A hot tub I couldn’t share no matter what the fetish. A slowly dissolving human bouillon cube, infinitesimally seasoning the ocean through tiny holes in my hermetically sealed suit I worked so hard to waterproof. Occasionally, I would worry about revealing my position to a passing shark, but I felt it was worth it to live on the edge and ignore better judgment. When was the last time you ate junk food full of fat and toxic waste or smoked a cigarette like some corporate lackey? You’re probably doing both right now. I remember hearing some political hack insult Surfrider as hypocritical because we argue for clean water yet pee in our wetsuits. All I can say is that if you have e. coli or enterococcus in your urine, you should probably see a doctor. So I spend a bunch of money on this fancy new 4/3 wetsuit with glued and taped seams. I am thinking I am the shiznit when I notice the tape on the crotch area of my suit is coming undone. Pissed, I walk into my local surf shop and demand satisfaction. They say they can send it back to the factory and re-glue it for a nominal fee. Somewhat satisfied, I start filling out the ream of paperwork. The standard sexy surfshop sales girl comes up and starts chatting about suits. The owner then mentions that the glue they use to put the tape on dissolves in ammonia. This comment waltzes down the hall past my framed chemistry PhD diploma and right over my head. I give him a blank stare, not willing to entertain his riddle game. He then translates his comment into something the common folk can understand: if you pee in your suit, the glue will dissolve. The girl gives me a slight smirk. I pause and reply with total denial, like a professional white house spokesman at some press conference from hell. Whether it was fear of the acute sense of smell of a passing shark or withering under the impeccable timing of a witty comment at my expense witnessed by a cute girl, the outcome was the same. I avoided my two greatest fears by no longer peeing in my wetsuit and depriving a world of cannibals, a bowl of rich and steaming human soup. more stories >>