June 4, 1994. That's when I went to see Pink Floyd play live at Veteran's Stadium. I was not prepared for the urban hippie subculture that had the audacity to share my air at this show and their presence was an eye-opening experience.

You see, I'm from the beach. I grew up at the beach and god-willing I'll die on the beach and get washed out with the next tide. We beach guys were always a little "off", but our goofiness, stunning good looks, and prowess on the boards won us regional renoun and plenty of bunnies (or Betties, or whatever we decided to call the hotties in those days). 'Twas a gnarly existence our simple, sun-bleached lot enjoyed.

I guess you could call us a "subculture", but where I came from it was the culture. The only other dominant force in town was the Navy, but they were no competition for the daytrippers and other no-locals. You take a bunch of guys with the same haircut, same blue jeans with a polo or T-shirt tucked in and wearing a leather belt and put them up against us.... ha! Dude, we smashed them every time in the coolness department. They did have cars, though. And having a car was a bonus. They also had money. Yeah, they had money.

We had a friggin huge, yellow '68 Plymouth. My bud and I got it for free after some dude just left it where it died and asked us if we wanted it.

Shyah!

So we fixed up the engine, tore out the back seat and mounting rails, and removed the trunk/cabin divider, giving us plenty of room to stow our boards. It also fit a queen size matress quite well.

So, the squids had the mustangs, the jeeps, the nice trucks, but we had the Banana Boat. The squids had wads of cash ready to spend on some ditzy chick, but we had pure animal charisma and the Under-18 set. Damn, it felt good to be a surfer. A Surfer. Not this surfer/skater or surfer/skater/snowboarder/X-Treme Sport crap. There was no slash in our world. Skateboarding was for kids and the mountains were too far off. We were pure. We had our essence. There was no taint of the slash on our beach. We were too busy surfing and hittin up the bunnies. The only other secondary skill any of us had was knowing three chords on the guitar, but that was just for the chicks. Chicks dig dudes who can play a guitar. It's a sure lay.

Which brings me to that much-maligned word, Dude. People give you shit for saying it all the time, but if you think about it, it's a good word to employ. It means all sorts of things, and out there on the water, an economy of words is a necessity. It's loud out there and great distances are involved. If you want to point out a killer swell to a bud, you point and yell, "Dude!". It also doubles as a warning. If you don't get what the other guy's saying, you look puzzled and ask, "Dude?". If you're disappointed in your bud's performance or if you just want to offer some consolation, a simple "Dude" with a sigh conveys a depth of emotion I've yet to encounter anywhere else in the language. I guarantee that if the Founding Fathers were from the beach, the Declaration of Independence would've read:

Dude.

And everyone would've known what they were talking about. John Hancock, when endorsing the document, would've probably added, in large, stylized script:

Totally

So stick that in your nose and snuff it, you King's English pansies.