jamie brisick

Surfer and scribe Jamie Brisick explores how living in L.A. makes it easier than ever to be a surf bum and a polished professional. In the classic ’70s film Big Wednesday, aging surfer Jack Barlow asks his friend Matt Johnson if he’s been getting in the water much. "Only when it’s necessary," Johnson replies. It’s a sentiment echoed by many an urban surfer, and more specifically, the L.A. surfer. The equation is fairly simple: The higher the stress level, the greater the need to wash it all off. And nothing hits the reset button quite like surfing. I know it well. I grew up in L.A. and was lucky enough to find surfing in my early teens. It’s been with me throughout my time here: When I was an angst-ridden high school senior, an overworked college student, an aspiring actor, a stunt double in TV and film—whenever I’ve been pushed to the edge via traffic, work, love, or the go, go, go of city life—I have always headed west for the great plunge. And it’s never been easier to do so. Back in the Gidget era (the late '50s and early '60s when California's surf scene was just starting to take off), surfers were tethered to the beach so they wouldn’t miss the swell; the ocean is, after all, a mercurial playing field. Today, thanks to surf forecasting, prime waves can be tracked days in advance, making possible the once-oxymoronic combination: thriving professionally and thriving in the surf. Many of L.A.’s notables have mastered both. Artist Doug Aitken, actors Edward Norton and Matth