In a development that has sent shockwaves through the global surfing community and the editorial offices of every broadsheet from here to Truro, a plucky team of Mexican surfers has allegedly paddled out to chase the world's largest wave. The location: the infamous 'Skeleton's Jaw' off the coast of Oaxaca, a maelstrom of watery fury that has, until now, been the exclusive playground of Hawaiian dreadlocked demigods and the occasional suicidal Australian. But wait. Before you salute their intestinal fortitude, a chorus of British surf experts has arisen from the foam-flecked cliffs of Cornwall to ask the pressing question of our age: is this cultural appropriation?
Let us set the scene. Picture, if you will, a wave so monstrous it has its own postcode. A wave that consumes fishing villages for breakfast and hiccups out the remains as chum. Into this aquatic apocalypse paddle three Mexicans: Miguel 'El Tiburón' García, his cousin Chucho, and a Labrador named Scraps who apparently has a death wish. They are filmed by a drone that belongs to a local TV station, and the footage goes viral. Cue the BBC's 'Surfing Today' programme, where presenter Barnaby Wainwright-Crumble, a man whose hair has been styled by the wind itself, adjusts his tinted glasses and opines: 'While one must applaud the sheer bravado, one cannot help but wonder if the act of riding a wave that was, for centuries, the spiritual domain of the Polynesian people, is not, in fact, a form of cultural pilfering. Particularly when undertaken by individuals who are not, strictly speaking, of Pacific Islander descent.'
Let us pause to savour this exquisite absurdity. The Mexicans, a people whose ancestors built pyramids without the aid of a theodolite and invented chocolate, are now being lectured on the propriety of wave-riding by a nation that brought us the cucumber sandwich and the concept of queueing for fun. The audacity is breathtaking. It is as if a penguin were to critique a flamingo's choice of legwear. The British, whose entire surfing tradition can be traced to a wetsuit-clad accountant wobbling on a foam board off the coast of Newquay on a Tuesday afternoon when the water temperature is a balmy 12 degrees, have somehow appointed themselves the global arbiters of surf etiquette.
But let us not be flippant. Cultural appropriation is a serious matter, is it not? It is the steamroller of globalisation flattening the delicate wildflowers of indigenous tradition. It is the Kardashians wearing bindis. It is Starbucks opening a 'tea ceremony' experience. And now, it is Mexicans surfing a big wave. Because, apparently, the act of standing on a piece of fibreglass and being hurled towards the shore at 50 miles an hour is a sacred ritual that must be performed only by those with the correct ancestral bloodline. The British experts have helpfully suggested that the Mexicans might instead 'appreciate' the wave from a distance, perhaps by writing a sonnet about it, or creating a tasteful watercolour. Or, failing that, they could donate funds to a charity that teaches displaced Hawaiians to knit.
One is reminded of the great philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer, who said: 'Every man takes the limits of his own field of vision for the limits of the world.' The British surf experts, bundled in their thermal rash vests and clutching their copies of 'The Surfer's Bible' (published, naturally, in London), cannot conceive that a Mexican might have a legitimate claim to a wave. I blame colonialism. The British Empire was so successful at appropriating everything from tea to cricket that now, in its dotage, it has become hypersensitive to any hint of the same behaviour in others. It is the guilt of the old imperialist that speaks, and it speaks in the patronising tones of a man who thinks he knows better.
Let me be clear. I am not suggesting that cultural appropriation is a myth. I am suggesting that the British, of all people, are in no position to police it in the realm of surfing. The wave off Oaxaca is not a Hawaiian wave. It is a Mexican wave. It breaks in Mexican waters, over a Mexican seabed, and it will, with any luck, pound these brave Mexicans into a fine paste that will then be consumed by Mexican crabs. If anyone should be offended by the Mexicans' audacity, it is the crabs.
Miguel, Chucho, and Scraps have not yet responded to the controversy. They are probably too busy being pummelled by a billion tonnes of salt water. But if they ever dry out, I hope they will take a moment to appreciate the irony that their quest for a world record has been gatecrashed by a bunch of British experts who wouldn't know a real wave if it swallowed their crumpets. In the meantime, I shall raise a glass of Gordon's gin (appropriated, admittedly, from the Dutch) to the sheer, beautiful, uncouth chutzpah of it all. Ride the wave, lads. And to the British experts: kindly sod off.
