Tuesday, 24 Sep 1996

campers manifesto

Something really strange happened to me this weekend, and I'm not sure what I should do. I would kiss it off as a bad dream, or the leftover fish I had for dinner Saturday night, except that I still have the notepad "the camper" gave me. I'm not sure if I'm doing the right thing, but I believe that the participants on this newsgroup might be able to help me sort it out.

I live in a Redwood forest canyon a couple of miles from the beach. The canyon rises steeply on either side, filtering early morning sunlight. Early Sunday morning there were occasional heavy wisps of morning fog drifting down the canyon through the trees, following the offshore breeze to the ocean. The fog deadened the usual forest sounds. I woke up feeling a little edgy and thought I heard a strange noise outside the house, threw on some sweats and went out to investigate. Things happen in these ancient forests. Unusual things. I've lived in them for most of the last thirty-five years, and I've witnessed extraordinary things, so I never take strange sounds or edgy feelings for granted. At first I saw nothing as I strolled around the deck. I peered through the patches of fog weaving among the trees, and listened down the road for any other activity that might have caused my alarm. When I turned around to go back into the house, I was shocked to turn face to face with a man.

I never heard him coming, and he was between me and my kitchen door. He was wearing only a ragged O'Neill T-shirt, and a pair of frayed, stained surfshorts. He had no shoes, and from the looks of his feet he hadn't worn any for quite a while. He was medium height, weighed about 165 pounds, and from his gray hair and week old growth of salt and pepper stubble I'd guess he was probably fifty to sixty years old. I say "guess" because he was in great shape. He was muscled and sinewy without an ounce of fat. He had the tan of someone who had been outside for a long time, and his face was criss-crossed with permanent squint wrinkles. His build looked familiar, strong arms and shoulders, narrow waste and powerful legs. He moved like a cat. Quick, graceful, his feet gripping the earth as he paced in front of me. He had to surf, I thought. At first, I couldn't quite catch his gaze, in fact he acted almost wild, like a hunted animal who was cornered. He kept glancing around with quick snaps of his head and eyes. Side to side...up...down...back...down.

I was speechless. I didn't know whether to hit him or help him. Suddenly he looked straight at me...straight into my eyes...straight into me. His eyes pierced me and held me silent. After he stared at me for what seemed minutes, his breathing steadied and he spoke.

"You surf don't you?"

I hadn't expected this as an opener but took it as an opportunity to get on his good side. "Yeah!", I managed to croak in response.

He stared at me another long moment and asked, "You the Hulk?"

I tried to speak but nothing came out, my jaw flapped and I nodded my head. This was getting really weird. This man was a stranger and he knew me, he knew where I lived.

He continued, "I'm the camper. I don't have much time, and we need your help."

Here was my chance to get rid of this guy. It was obvious that he was not completely sane. "Sure camper, (gulp) I'll help yuh." Was about the best I could come up with.

He went on, barely acknowledging my response, "...You must take this manifesto and share it with other surfers...I wasn't always the way you see me now....But that was before..." He was mumbling to the deck by then.

I figured "that" was before his nervous breakdown, and continued to press for how I might "help" him.

His head twitched back up to me and he said, "You've got to take this message...before they come...before they finish us..."

With that he thrust a tattered notepad at me. Funny, I hadn't noticed it before. I wasn't up to this. I apologized, telling him he had the wrong hulk and if he told me where he was going, I could give him directions. His eyes bulged, I could see the panic rising in him, then in a shrill voice he cried out, "Take it Now!", and threw the pad at me. It hit my belly and fell to the deck before I could react.

Now I had done it. I had really agitated him. I mumbled, "ok, ok." and bent over to pick up the notepad. When I straightened up he was gone. There were only the trees, the fog, and a chorus of jays shouting at a couple of woodpeckers a little farther down the canyon.

I can't explain it. I didn't hear him leave. One second he was there, and the next instant he was gone. That's when the leftover fish theory came to mind, but I still had the damn notepad. There were several pages of notes, some very neat and organized and others scratched down, almost illegible. I was shaking. If this was a joke, someone would pay.

I needed to clear my head. Without reading it, I set the notepad inside on the kitchen counter, locked up the house, and went surfing. The surf was crap, small low tide shorebreak closeouts, and the wind blew strong onshore just as I paddled out. I practiced fin-first takeoffs and hit my head and both shins with my board, got a bucket of sand in my wetsuit when I fell on my last wave, and dinged my new board putting it in the wavemobile afterward. It was the kind of session that left you feeling more frustrated afterward than when you arrived.

When I got home, my wife was really upset. My two year old son had found the notepad and begun coloring on it. She had thought he was ruining some important notes of mine, and had taken it away. When she had read it, she had become angry that I would leave it lying around the house where anyone might read it, and asked why I would write such ridiculous trash? I tried to explain that I didn't write it, and this camper guy had appeared out of the mists and.... I stopped mid-sentence. If she didn't believe me, my sanity was in question. If she did, her safety might be at risk. I decided I didn't want to worry her, took the blame, and apologized.

I retreated and began to read the notes. After some careful reconstruction, a strange document is emerging. It seems to be part history...part fiction, part razor-keen analysis...part revolutionary rhetoric. It is interesting, provocative, even motivational. But I can't believe the camper, whoever he is, would want me to share it with other surfers. Why me? Why didn't he do it himself? What surfers?

That's when I began to think that I might post it on the newsgroup. You read everything. Maybe someone knows who the camper is. Maybe you can help me understand this manifesto...I'm just not sure.

da hulk, MBS


Friday, 27 Sep 1996

campers manifesto 2

I thought I could bail on this but I can't.

I've now had some time to sort out the notes in Camper's notebook, and reflect on the experience last weekend. I'm still not sure what happened. Maybe he was just some homeless guy, maybe he was a ghost, maybe he was from the future, or the past, maybe he's one of you. This experience and the notebook have become a kind of obsession. I haven't been sleeping much. I pace the house at night. During the day I cruise likely spots the camper might be hanging out. I stalk the hills around my house looking for recent camping sites. I have even harassed my friends to see if any of them were setting me up. I finally explained what happened to my wife on Wednesday, and she and the baby flew to her dads till "I get over it". I didn't even surf during the swell that passed through this week.

As I have gone over the notes, some sections are written in distinct writing styles with different handwriting, so I am pretty sure more than one person contributed to the notebook. I am now pretty much convinced that the document is the raving of some paranoid lunatic fringe. I have known conspiracy enthusiasts before and this is classic. But, I can never quite tell where reality ends and fantasy takes over in conspiracy theories. Sometimes they know more of the truth than we are willing to recognize. The note I am including was written in the top margins of the first page of the notebook, so I take it to be some kind of preface.

Kooks, Grommets, and Wanabes:

If you are thinking that you want to surf, read these notes first. I am risking my life in order to share them with other surfers. It represents years of experience, and the sacrifice of many people you will never know. It concerns a conspiracy of such a vile nature that you may find it hard to believe. If you read on, you do so at your own risk. Once you understand the hideous truth, your eyes will be opened. If you choose to start surfing after being informed of the risks you are exposing yourself to, I admire your courage and shudder at your misguided naiveté. As for me and my kind, we have become hunted shadows who's ranks are reduced each day. I myself have become reconciled to a life on the run, doomed to extermination.

the camper

I've been transcribing the rest of the notes and have almost finished, but its so long and complicated. The main text is titled "Surfing as a Revolutionary Threat to the Status Quo".

It's like I'm possessed or something. I seem unable to just toss the notebook and forget it. I've tried that already. Instead I have this raging compulsion to pass the notes along and get them and the camper out of my mind. But if some of this is true I could be in real trouble. We all could. This whole thing is just too weird.

da hulk


Friday, 27 Sep 1996

campers manifesto 3

Here's the first part of what I've been calling "campers manifesto". I will post the rest as I finish transcribing it. I still don't know why I'm doing this. If having this document places you at risk with some authorities, don't save it.

da hulk


Surfing as a Revolutionary Threat to the Status Quo

(Part I)

The Revolutionary Nature of Surfing

Surfing in its purest and most elemental form is by its very nature revolutionary. It has transformational qualities that change individuals, and link them to an international network of surfers.

The nature of the transformation is so radically different from the traditional status quo in society that becoming a surfer removes you in part, or in whole, from the established order.

Surfing has an ethno-magnetic functionality that, once started, cannot be corrected. The activity and the camaraderie are irrevocable. Once one becomes a true surfer, the process cannot be undone. It forever transforms the individual's perceptions, passions, values, decisions, and social life.

The values associated most closely with surfing are a clear and present threat to the values of the traditional status quo. The fundamental values most threatening to the establishment are as follows:

As a result of the fundamental value shifts inherent to Surfing, Surfing is inconsistent with existing cultural, moral, political and economic realities.

The very foundations of the existing world order are threatened by these values. If surfing culture spreads at recent rates of growth, the basis of the current world order would be irrevocably undermined, and existing world leadership would be deemed irrelevant and completely displaced. In particular it would challenge the monolithic stranglehold that economic realities have on all dimensions of modern human existence. Witness the continued expansion and influence of Surfing on the public, in spite of concerted efforts to undermine and discredit the surfing movement.

The history of surfing is one of struggle and repression. The ancient birth and spread of surfing in the Hawaiian Islands demonstrates the contagious nature of surfing. Hawaiian culture was dominated by its relationship to surfing activity for many centuries. Unfortunately it became dominated by the Hawaiian ruling classes making it vulnerable to isolation and attack. When Western Culture invaded Hawaii, one of the first actions of the western invaders was the eradication of surfing. Surfing went underground, and re-emerged as an entertaining diversion during the first half of the 20th century.

In the late 1950's surfing once again emerged as a viable cultural alternative. In the 1960's surfing spread at an unprecedented rate throughout the world, and among youth in particular. The power of the culture was such that it reached nearly every corner of the world, and even youth in non-surfing areas were drawn to it. Considered a youth fad by the world elite, the importance of the movement was seriously underestimated. Since its modern inception, surfing has had a tremendous influence on the language, music, attitudes, organization, technology, and priorities of the masses. Furthermore, it has been recognized that as surfers have matured, they have not stopped being surfers, nor are they fully cooptable into the old world order. This history, and the rapid spread of surfing is evidence of the revolutionary nature of surfing. Eventually surfing's threat to the existing status quo was recognized and is now being effectively neutralized.


Monday, 30 Sep 1996

campers manifesto 4

I realize that I have lost control of everything. I now know that everything I thought I had was simply what others allowed me to possess. I can only follow the path that destiny has put me on. I will deliver campers notes, no matter what the cost. Despite abandonment by family and friends...Despite harassment by the others...Despite your sheeplike apathy...

da hulk was not a name I gave myself. It was a result of the collective wisdom of those who surfed with me, who knew me best. Where injustice exists, or I get cornered, my anger boils over, logic and reason evaporate, and a raging creature void of concern for personal consequences takes over. It is my fate.

I have not found the camper. Instead I have observed RV's parked in front of every major surf spot in Santa Cruz, occupied by non-surfers. Why are they there? Why are they taking pictures of us? There were three fly-bys of my house by unmarked helicopters this weekend. That was two more than have been here in the past year. I'm beginning to think this is not a coincidence.

Here is part two of camper's manifesto.


Surfing as a Revolutionary Threat to the Status Quo

(Part II)

There is a clear and present global conspiracy instituted by non-surfing interests that extends to the very center of the surfing revolution.

As a result of the inevitable and continued clash between Surfers and the ruling elite who prey on the unenlightened masses, the conspiracy continues to escalate. The methods being used to end the surfing threat to the radical reactionary old world order are subtle but unrelentingly effective. Consider the following:

·          

·          

·          

o         

(To Be Continued)


Monday, 30 Sep 1996

campers manifesto 5

I am so tired. The helicopter came again last night. The forest is silent.

Surfing as a Revolutionary Threat to the Status Quo.


(Part III)

·          

o         

·          

(To Be Continued)


Tuesday, 01 Oct 1996

campers manifesto 6

This is the last part of camper's manifesto. In the few weeks I have been transcribing this document, Summer has changed to Winter. It is time to check my gear and prepare for the storms ahead, and the swells.

Surfing as a Revolutionary Threat to the Status Quo.

(Part IV)

·          

·          

o         

(This is the end of campers manifesto)


All that was left in the notebook camper gave me was a carefully written letter on the back of a paper placemat. I won't tell you what restaurant it came from.

To Whom It May Concern,

All of these forms of divisiveness, and methods of extermination are already in place. Without really knowing it we engaged the establishment, we betrayed ourselves, and now we fall in retreat, whining and fighting among ourselves. The surfing revolution now appears to be effectively neutralized, and may ultimately be relegated to history books and museums. We will be remembered as a foolish and futile Millenarian Movement, if we are remembered at all. Crushed by the unstoppable march of capitalistic progress, and the mindless masses who are led by the media, sophisticated pimps for the capitalist elite. The richness of our surfing culture will become the fodder of fashion hyenas, marketing the myth they created for us, producing neoprene bathing suits, trunks without wax pockets, video games, and surfboard shaped coffetables. They will piss on our bones and bury us, even as the masses mindlessly lurch toward their next vicarious thrill.

It is only a matter of time until I am isolated and terminated. I have seen too much. I have said too much. I am drawn to surfing's center and cannot leave even if I want to. I will die as I have lived, surfing, not knowing what will come after I am gone, only hoping that others find the truth, organize, and turn the tide. Surfing has risen from the ashes before, it could happen again. It would be good to see it happen. The beauty of our movement was that you didn't have to throw bombs, just surf as much as you can, and share your stoke with others.

In the meantime, wherever a surfer dies of asbestosis, Nuclear Radiation, or Hepatitis B; I'll be there. Wherever a surfer crawls to the beach bleeding from a chum induced shark attack; I'll be there. Wherever another beach is closed for a new boat harbor, or a sewer spill; I'll be there. Wherever a professional surfer-entertainer sells out the movement; I'll be there. I'll be there for the grommets first ride, and the old man's last glide.

A world consistent with the spirit of surfing would have been profoundly different, it would have been radical...it would have been bitchin. It would truly have been a revolution, it would have taken unwavering dedication, it would have taken great personal sacrifices; but look around you at the alternative....

If you are already in the lineup, keep Surfing, and accept your fate. Charge it if you can. Otherwise heed my warning, and enter the water at your own risk. You will not be able to resist surfing's charms, and the non-surfing world will devour you...

the camper


So now you know what I know. When I got up this morning the surf report said an unexpected new swell had arrived, accompanied by a fresh offshore wind! As I got ready to leave home, I glanced in the mirror and thought I caught a reflection of the camper in the corner of my eye, but when I stopped and turned, there was only my own pasty image on a misty mirror.

Camper, I did what you asked! If you're still out there...let me go!

The helicopters came by again last night, they are getting closer each time. I know this forest better than anyone. I know the coastline better than most. I know a lot of dedicated surfers all over the world. I'm good with my hands, I can pick up odd jobs. I have begun stashing camping equipment and supplies where no one will find them. My boards are stored with friends. Years of surfaris have taught me how to live on the road. If they come, I'm ready.

Coming to your lineup soon...

da hulk, RSO


Wednesday, 02 Oct 1996

camper manifesto postscript

In case anyone was really wondering, it turns out that camper's manifesto actually was the result of the leftover fish, and a big itch I needed to scratch. I feel much better now....

The guy I encountered on the deck really was a lunatic lost in the woods, who swore the CIA was after him. I drove him into town and dropped him off on the west side. The RV's were just stoked tourists. The helicopters turned out to be my neighbor's VW after his muffler fell off. The rest came from you. This time...

Are we an endangered species? Hell Yes! History hasn't treated folks like us kindly.

Can you make a difference? Only as an informed and unified force! Save the backstabbing for after the revolution.

I sometimes think our greatest strength, and paradoxically our greatest weakness is our tendency to not take ourselves, or anyone else, too seriously. (sigh)

Have a great Halloween!

da hulk, MBS

Copyright©1996, 1997, 1998, 1999, 2000, 2001 by Stephen Hull. All Rights Reserved


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