Der Bergzögling, den es ans Meer verschlug

Ahwuu, awuuuuuh…heult es auf, das kleine Lebewesen, von dem mein Onkel behauptet, es würde so gerne mit mir spielen, weil ich dieselbe Größe hätte. Meinen Onkel schaue ich in diesen Momenten schief an, und baue mich demonstrativ kräftig, breitschultrig auf, um seine Stichelei zu widerlegen. Das kleine Lebewesen heißt Max.

Max ist ein Berna-Sennen Hund. Seine Vorfahren lebten in den Schweizer Alpen und hatten die Aufgabe, die Milchkannen in Bollerwägen von den Bergen hinunter in die Dörfer zu transportieren und wieder hinaufzuziehen. Als Erinnerung an sie trägt Max ein Halsband mit einer Schweizer Flagge. Bloß, würde er zwischen dem Heimatort seiner Vorfahren und dem Meer wählen können, das er seit einigen Tagen mit uns genießt, dann scheint eindeutig wohin seine Entscheidung fällt. So wie ich, liebt auch Max das Meer. Vielleicht haben wir uns deswegen so schnell angefreundet. Heute Morgen führte ich ihn ein letztes Mal an unseren Sehnsuchtsort. Seine Gedanken liefen entsprechend seiner Nase die Kliffen hinunter in Richtung Wasser. Ich setzte mich auf einen Felsen, löste die Leine von seinem Halsband und ließ ihn hinunterspringen, immerzu gen Meer, gen Wellen, die auf Kieselsteinen brachen, aber den Sprössling nicht daran hinderten seinen Körper bis zum Hals im Salzwasser unterzutauchen.

Morgens, wenn ich der Sonne von der Luke unseres kleinen Schlafsalons aus entgegen blinzle, meine Glieder recke, Leben in meinen Körper und durch die Dachluke Sauerstoff ins Wohnmobil lasse, dann jault das kleine dreijährige Lebewesen auf. Es hat entdeckt, dass jemand wach ist, möchte endlich raus aus dem stickigen Gefährt, das so wenig Gerüche bietet, möchte Hunde beschnuppern, die Welt sehen und riechen lernen. Und sobald sich eine wache Seele regt, verleiht er diesem Wunsch Gehör.

Ich krieche nach vorne und beuge meinen Kopf über die Bettkante, um zu sehen, was das kleine Lebewesen treibt. Es dauert nicht lange bis er meinen Lockenkopf von der Decke hängen sieht. Sofort tapst er zu mir. Das zunächst sanfte Juchzen, mit dem er mich zu begrüßen schien, wird nun energischer, lauter, insistierender. Er will doch mehr, als nur mich sehen, er will doch raus. Als er merkt, dass ich sein Schauspiel amüsiert beobachte, mich aber noch nicht dazu hinreißen lasse, aus dem Bett zu kriechen, macht er prompt seine „Figur“ wie ich es nenne. Leibhaftig führt er mir vor, was im Yoga als herabschauender Hund bezeichnet wird – er schiebt seinen Popo nach hinten oben, zieht seine Pfoten nach vorne und streckt seinen Rücken in die Länge. Dann dauert es nicht mehr lange, er springt auf, versucht mit seinen Pfoten die Bettkante zu erreichen, wedelt nervös mit seinem Schwanz, bewegt sich pausenlos, ungeduldig, wild auf den überschaubaren acht Quadratmetern hin und her. Ein paar Mal juchzt und jault er noch, bis er schließlich mit dem ersten Bellen zu verstehen gibt, dass das Schauspiel nun beendet ist, dass er es nun ernst meint. Spätestens dann stöhnt mein Onkel auf. Die Nachtruhe ist beendet. Ich krieche aus meinem Betttuch, sage Max mehrmals er solle sich beruhigen, leine ihn an und entlasse ihn in die Welt. In die salzige Meeresluft. 

Memory child

The ocean is wide, endless. What arrives as a wave at the beach, is only some little hill, some peak outside at the open sea. Far out, the water molecules are still on their way to collect themselves, to find pairs, triples, to form groups and bound each other until they are countless, as is the energy they are carrying.

The sun is falling. In that particular moment it’s hiding behind some clouds, the rest of the morning fog, some rainy dust. Below the warm orange, yellowish sun, the ocean’s blue is even more beautiful. I’m sitting at a tongue of land that is extending into the Atlantic Ocean. It’s a Portuguese piece of land, their holy coastline, as I could also call it – the coastline of the world surf reserve Ericeira.

Five years have passed and I’m finding myself back in that small surfer’s village. At that time I had passed hours and hours at the beach without taking a foot out of the water. It’s probably there where a new description of myself was born: “My hair is out of order, my eyes are red, my skin is hispanic. And I won’t stop until my entire body starts hurting.” Now, passing by the surf school, I recognize the surf teacher that had taught passionately the art of surfing. He used to provoke me by throwing me off the board. I pretended to be angry, but of course the only thing he could see, was some little girl’s smile. It takes a while until I remember his name. But then the memory pops up. Alvaro – this is how he was called.

Being here the second time, I would enter the surf school routinely every day, grab a new board to test it, smile to one of the surf teacher behind the welcoming desk and search for Alvaro to ask him the “daily question”. Often he wouldn’t be around, then I’d shrug my shoulders, jump in the water, and wait for another occasion. The daily question would deal with surf technique, surf material, or surf anything. I would realize soon, that I annoyed Alvaro with my questions (understandably a surf teacher had other preferred subjects in his free time than again and again this one and only issue. However, one day I couldn’t but ask whether he’d like to go surfing together.

I was laying on a bench reading a book, when I dared to ask this question. One leg was stretched, one bent, so that Alvaro would easily recognize the fat black and blue mark on the inner side of my leg. “What did you do, Pauline?”, he’d ask in a caring manner, but also with a voice of great humor. I explained that the fins had caught me. He would slowly shake his head and tell me that a surfboard had the purpose of laying down, not of fighting with the fins. He’d look at me with his warm and provocative eyes, he’d wait for my laughter, which would of course follow every path that he was joking with me. I loved his humor, I loved the warmth in his face. Surprisingly, the answer on my hesitant question was an offer (a ‚yes‘ would have been too simple). He offered me to join the afternoon’s surf class. However, I surely already knew, that I’d be there on point, I just casually shrugged my shoulders and told told him that I’d think about it.

At the spot, Alvaro asked me for some wax. I shook my head no. “Oh come on, Pauline, you are a surfer!”, he provoked me again. In order to tease back, I stripped some wax from my board, until my little finger was white. “Here you got some”, I offered him my littler finger. “Funny girl”, he just remarked. Of course I would laugh again, as honest and as liberated as only a kid could laugh. Probably that was the reason why he loved teaching kids, I thought.

We would paddle out together and he’d assign me which wave to take. In the beginning, I didn’t catch any. I heard some ironic shout behind me “Oh, Pauline…”. When I arrived back in the lineup, waiting for his provocative smile to appear, he stated very seriously: “When you paddle, Pauline, you have to paddle with commitment!”. I nodded. Then, for the next wave I showed my commitment. This time it was a whipeout that kept me away from surfing the wave. It was probably the strongest whipeout I experienced in my entire holidays. I grasped for air, looked how much time I had until the next wave would overrun me. And there he was – surfing a wave of his choice. The wave had partly already broken next to him, he paused and then introduced a strong, powerful bottom turn. It was fascinating to see this strength, the tension and smoothness in his movements, the harmony with the wave. A second later I had to dive to not be entirely caught by the force of mother nature.

Surfing’s sexism

A look at hidden messages and stereotypes

 

There are many inequalities between men and women in numerous kinds of sports. Those inequalities aren’t only money questions relating to differences in sponsoring, income and prize money at competitions. They can also be observed in the structures and the images of a particular kind of sport. To reveal gender inequalities one can ask: “Through which images is the sport promoted?”, “Who are the public representatives of the sport and are those representatives representative?”, “Are women depicted in the same way as men or is there another focus regarding female photography?”, “Are those sport images objectively showing the sport’s practice or do they display and enforce gender stereotypes?

Before sexism (as a form of discrimination) is implemented in financial, political, economic, cultural and social structures of a sport, its prejudices and stereotypes have to be accepted by the people, have to be inhaled by their mindset. Only if that is the case, (unconscious) prejudices won’t be distinguished from reality anymore. Thus, a mixture between the real characteristics of the sport and its actors on the one hand and prejudices and stereotypes on the other hand evolves in people’s minds. A tool for the generation of prejudices is the use of above mentioned images, symbols and every kind of media.

The surf industry serves as a good example for this abstract analysis of sexism in the sport domain. Surfing is a very young sport. It began to spread around the globe in the 1980s. Slowly and in a sudden exponentially, it became more and more commercialized. Surf schools, surf academies, surf education centers, surf labels, surf competitions, surf clothing, surf shops, surf mentality was launched and promoted. And of course, there wasn’t only the exotic, relaxing, newly promoted Hawaiian lifestyle that people fell in love with and tried to adapt, but there was a whole industry that developed hand in hand with the attractive surf lifestyle. Such an industry could doubtlessly only survive and be pushed forward by the use of advertisements, promotions, posters, souvenirs and statues or memorials. All those kinds of media plant certain images in people’s minds, among them: gender related stereotypes. Quantity wise it’s clear that the amount of men depicted on photos, memorials, etc. in the public is at least double, if not triple, the amount of women. But apart from that, analyzing the content, the hidden messages is very insightful.

If there’s a foreground and a background, it’s normally the man that is filling the foreground. Men are depicted in a muscular way, with angular faces and the accent is put on the upper part of their body – the six pack – a must-have for the sport’s promotion. Their look is powerful, ambitious, cold and heroic. It’s as if the surf industry made constant use of superman in order to promote itself, its money flows, its actors. Men have to appear as a masculine ideal – physically and emotionally strong, self conscious and certain about their aims. Very often men are depicted lonely. It creates a certain romantic – the lonely soul, that is at sunset riding big waves, risking his life, trying to find peace in the nature, in the waves, only with his body and his mind being present – no need for society, no need for a woman (as can be seen on the poster below). Also, it can be observed that there is no contact between the viewer and the masculine protagonist on the poster. The man is painted in action. With his eyes, he focuses the action, respectively the waves. Hence, the observer is excluded from the act, only observing but not participating through eye contact or any other form of connection. This lack of connection creates distance which again lets the man appear as a powerful figure. In contrast to that, the naked woman looks at the observer. Her function as an accessory is evident. The contradiction is clear. On the one hand the man, an acting subject that is very distanced from the observer, on the other hand a woman whose nakedness and eye contact indicate simplicity, perhaps vulnerability.

Or, (cf. The statue above) one is shown a lonely soul, looking down to the beach, to the waves, that appear when the sun rises. Though, the man’s view doesn’t show sentimentality or passion, but strength and power. The focus is put on his face which conveys force, governance and control that he is able to exercise over the waves. One has almost the impression that the god of surfing is depicted, that is able to rule over wind, weather and waves, the god that is standing above the ocean, positioned at its fringe, at the highest point of the cliff in order to preside over the ocean’s wideness. Again, there is no eye contact between the observer and the statue (which is normally very often the case, especially regarding historical figures). Additionally, the breast that is pushed forward, the arms that are pulled back and the upper body that is leaned forward and the straight head create the impression of superiority, of dominance. The observer may feel intimidation or reverence. When one perceives the statue, he*she associates masculinity to superiority. This is how a stereotype is unconsciously created.

Women, in contrast, are normally placed in the background. The focus on women’s depiction is not set on the face, but on the body, respectively the breast and the buttocks. Although, typical surf clothing would consist of a wetsuit, women are rarely shown in such body-covering, unintrusive, discreet sportswear. Contrary to that, they are illustrated almost naked, with little clothes (which is not representative for the sport and its clothing at all, because the less clothes, the more dangerous the sport is; cf. Poster above). Often the breast is only covered by the woman’s hair or flowers or other (often nature-related) utensils. This sort of cover is associated to exoticism, a wild and uncivilized way of life. The sex is either not shown, or slightly hidden behind a piece of textile. If that was the real clothing of a female surfer, she’d immediately lose every piece of cloth when diving under or being caught by a wave. She’d be cut by the reef, hurt by the fins of her board or the inconceivable wave energy that would be pulled toward her. It is clear, that regarding this body- focused woman presentation, the intention is not to show a woman practicing surfing, but to expose the woman’s body.

Other female characteristics that are accentuated in women’s surf photography, are the hair (often long, curly and attractive), the narrow, slim body, the unimposing, faultless, perfect, soft face (that resembles the one of a doll), the full lips, and the big, pretty eyes. Women’s faces regularly express a bit shyness, innocence, passivity. The woman in the background could be an accessory, a decoration to contrast, and thus emphasize, the man’s characteristics. According to that, she practically serves as a stylistic device, as a means of emphasis, of accentuation. But not only this is the consequence. The inconsiderable, monotonous facial impression deprives the woman of her individuality. She is displayed as a number, an anonymous figure, an object. There is no intention of showing her personality, her characteristic traits. What the promotion industry could do instead, is to display a significant (sentimental or excited or anxious or uncertain or determined…) facial expression, referring to and giving some information about the woman’s character. Though, the transformation of the woman as an acting, feeling and thinking subject to her as a passive, serving object is clearly a sexist pattern. It tells the story of a dominant, superior (superiority with regard to knowledge, physical and mental power) man, and a submissive, inferior woman. This gender hierarchy can only exist and be maintained by the combination of power and prejudices. In worldwide social, collective structures men still have more power than women, they are able to make use of that power (consciously or unconsciously) whenever they want to achieve their aims. Prejudices are likewise spread by means of images, symbols, public speech, briefly all kinds of media.

To conclude, the surf industry promotes very particular images of masculinity and femininity. Those images create stereotypes and prejudices in people’s minds. They enable and contribute to a sexist thinking, feeling and acting. The first step of revealing them, is to watch closely, to look at hidden messages and question them.

Meer – du machst mich vergessen

Ich stehe am Strand. Vor mir das Meer. Der seichte, ablandige Wind streicht mir durch die Haare. Mein Blick ist weit. Nur Meer bis zum Horizont. Die Wellen treffen in regelmäßigen Abständen auf den Strand. Ich zähle eine Wellenperiode von dreizehn Sekunden zwischen dem Brechen einer und der nächsten Welle. Dreizehn Sekunden, die ich habe, um die Brandung zu überwinden und ins Line Up – dem Platz hinter den Wellen – zu kommen.

Vor mir erscheint ein Monster. Viel größer als erwartet und viel schneller als gewohnt, schiebt es sich mir entgegen. Bei dem Gedanken, von dem Wassermonster überwälzt und an den Strand zurück gespült zu werden, schüttelt es mich.  Ich tauche meine Arme tiefer ein, ziehe sie schneller durchs Wasser. Japse nach Luft, verbiete mir aber jeden Gedanken daran, langsamer zu paddeln, mich der Kraft des Meeres auszuliefern. Die Wassermasse vor mir verändert sich. Der anfänglich sanfte Berg formt sich zu einer steilen Wand, einzig die Füße des Bergs sind flache Ausläufer. Ich denke an Harakiri, eine schwarze Skipiste in Österreich, vor der ich mich im letzten Winter gedrückt hatte, und auch: eine rituelle Selbsttötung in Japan. Nicht ganz so dramatisch, aber ähnlich angsteinflößend ist der Wasserberg vor mir. Ich ahne, wie schwierig es werden würde, die Welle trocken zu überwinden. Mental bereite ich mich darauf vor, tief Luft holen zu müssen. Mein Brett in der letzten Sekunde nach hinten abzustoßen. Tief unter Wasser zu tauchen, um mich vor den Finnen zu schützen. Ich sehe, wie alles, was im Fußbereich der Welle schwimmt, nach oben gesaugt wird. Die Wellenlippe neigt sich mir langsam entgegen.

In der nächsten Sekunde peitscht sie in mein Gesicht, die Welle fließt unter mir hindurch. Ich krache auf den Rücken der Welle und gleite über den massigen Körper hinweg. Atme aus. Die Gischt der gebrochenen Welle spritzt durch den ablandigen Wind nach hinten weg. Salzregen ergießt sich über mir. Kurz und kräftig. Als wolle mir die Welle zeigen, wer hier draußen das Sagen hat. Ein letztes Zeichen geben, einen Warnhinweis, ein Schnaufen, das von dem gefallenen Monster ausgeht. Ich jubele, schreie vor Freude, vor Meereskraft. Ich liebe das Meer. Ich liebe die Kraft, die es in sich birgt.

‚Geh ans Meer‘, sage ich mir fortan, um meiner Angst mit Vertrauen zu begegnen. Das Meer ist mir ein Riegel, den ich vor das Schloss schiebe, wenn sich die Tür zur Angstspirale öffnet. Das Meer lässt mich Angst und Sorgen vergessen. Schenkt mir Ruhe und Jubel. Schenkt mir ein Bild, ein Meeresbild für die Zukunft.

Vom Meer aus schaue ich jetzt zum Strand. Perspektivwechsel. Ich blicke zurück, wundere mich, wie unüberwindbar die Monsterwelle schien.  Beobachte Welle für Welle, die anfangen am Peak, dem höchsten Punkt der Welle, zu brechen. Welle für Welle, deren Farbe sich von Ozeanblau in Rasierschaumweiß verwandelt. Schaumkronen, die am Strand ankommen, als Überbleibsel jener Energie, die sich weit draußen im Ozean aufgebaut hat, wo sich Milliarden Wassermoleküle zusammengeschlossen und von ihrem Freund, ‚dem Wind‘, in Bewegung gesetzt wurden, um dann tausende Meilen über den Ozean zu wandern. Ich erkenne in der Ferne, dass sich die nächste Monsterwelle dem Strand nähert. Frage mich verwundert, wie es sein kann, dass Angst und Vertrauen im Meer so eng miteinander verbunden sind.