Citizens of the world, brace yourselves. Not for the terrifying, cathedral-sized wall of water that may or may not be lurking off the coast of Mexico, but for the infinitely more perilous threat of a cultural appropriation row. Yes, while a collective of plucky, sombrero-wearing, tequila-fueled Mexican surfers are apparently gearing up to chase the planet’s most colossal wave, a gaggle of perpetually offended academics and Twitter sermonisers has spotted an opportunity to suck all the joy out of it.
Let me paint you a picture. Imagine a wave so immense, so monstrous, that it makes the ones at Nazaré look like a gentle ripple in a bathtub. The Mexicans, bless their cotton socks, believe they have found it in the depths of the Pacific, a veritable Leviathan of liquid, a tsunami-sized beast just begging to be ridden. But hold your horses, you knuckle-dragging surf bros. The surfboards are not yet waxed, the wetsuits not yet zipped, because the morality police have arrived.
You see, the issue, as ever, is who owns what. The wave, apparently, is not just a wave. It is a wavethat has been ridden by indigenous coastal communities since time immemorial, using hand-carved planks of sacred wood while chanting ancient songs. Or so the argument goes. The fear? That a bunch of gap-toothed, flaxen-haired gringos from California will turn up, slap a corporate logo on the wave, and claim it as their own invention. A perfectly legitimate concern, you might think, until you realise that the Mexicans themselves are being accused of cultural theft. Oh, the delicious irony. It would make a lesser man weep into his gin and tonic.
The row has exploded on social media, naturally, with the hashtag #WaveGate trending faster than a hangover on a Tuesday morning. Everyone, from earnest anthropology students to attention-starved influencers with no connection to the sea, has an opinion. The original wave-chasers, a band of salty-dog fishermen turned surfers from a sleepy village, are now being branded as colonisers of the curl. One particularly vocal activist, a woman who I suspect has never even dipped a toe in the ocean, insisted that the quest for the giant wave was 'a blatant erasure of pre-Columbian aquatic spirituality'. I cannot make this up.
Now, let us get one thing straight. I am all for preserving culture. I love a bit of tradition as much as the next man, especially if it involves drinking something strong and wearing something ridiculous. But the sheer, unadulterated pretension of this debate has reached stratospheric heights. The Mexicans are not storming a sacred temple; they are chasing a bloody wave. A wave that, by its very nature, belongs to no one and everyone. It is water, churned up by the wind, obeying the laws of physics, not the whims of a diversity committee.
What is next? Will we need permission from the ancient Phoenicians to sail a boat? Will a Cornish pasty require a heritage licence? The world has officially gone mad, and the asylum is being run by people who have never experienced the sheer, unapologetic joy of doing something for the hell of it. If the Mexicans find their giant wave, and if they surf it, and if they have a splendid time doing so, I say good for them. And if some rich, tanned tourists turn up and try to commercialise it, I will be the first to boo. But let us not pretend that a natural phenomenon can be owned, especially not by a bunch of self-appointed guardians of culture who would rather see the wave unfurled than see a grin on a local’s face.
In the meantime, I shall be at the pub, raising a glass to the absurdity of it all. Here is to the surfers, the wave, and the beautiful, pointless chaos of being human. Cheers.
