Truck Surfing vs. Acequia Squatting, and Everything’s OK if You Call it Art

There isn’t any contest, actually: I just took the photo here by squatting half-naked in the acequia, and yes it was cold.

But this gives me a chance to talk about truck surfing, yes!

Back in the old days on the Eastern Shore of Maryland near Chestertown, there was a thing my friends did when a typical party got stalled — and boy, were there ever some great parties, generally when held at a certain person’s ramshackle but magnificent country home. This frequently meant spending hours on a big screened-in porch well after dark, drinking and smoking dope until it didn’t matter whether you had another hit or not. Not talking kids or dirty f*cking hippies, either — well, maybe a few — but mostly fine, upstanding members of the community, moderately marginalized perhaps, as artists and iconoclasts often are, and getting better at it all the time: talk-talk, drink-drink, on and on and on into the night, VERY hot and muggy it was, with a thumping stereo barely audible above the background noise of tree frogs, locusts, laughs and bullshit…

If the mood was right, about the time when everyone had had enough and spouses were yawning and stretching to hit the road, someone might suggest a “truck surfing” expedition. What you need for this is an open pickup truck and a bunch of sweaty, drunken people to climb in back. It should be hot and steamy, so you’re grateful for the breeze. The driver’s responsibility is to drive as steadily as possible (and only moderately fast) down the most deserted, spooky, tree- or cornfield-lined country lane that he can find, while the “surfer” stands up in the back facing into the wind and adopts a surfing pose as long as possible to the applause or derision of the other passengers. Cheap thrills!

Now, the thing about doing this in Maryland in the summer is that you get almost as wet as if you were actually doing it in the water, which is kind of horrible if you think about it. I don’t remember anyone ever falling out, though, so the worst hazards were getting a mouthful of gnats, losing your hat, or meeting a roadblock on the way back. Ah, the days of social life gone by… Once I stopped halfway home to let my wife throw up, as any loving husband would, but I knew all the back roads and we never saw a cop.

Meanwhile back in the present here in Taos, I wanted a picture of the acequia for some reason. (Because it’s there, probably.) The seasonal irrigation ditch is about two feet deep, five feet wide, and flowing quickly. The only way I could get the shot was to stand in the water, to which end I took off my pants, put on my Crocs, and waded in. Unfortunately, I was still too far above the water and had to squat, but providentially had instant anesthesia with the icy water. All in all, I had the greatest time getting naked in the back yard for the sake of art and heartily recommend it to you all. Much safer than truck surfing, and one could also achieve the same ersatz surfing vibe from holding a pose in the water, I suppose: acequia surfing, olé! (I think this needs the context of a party, however, with everyone drunk and naked in the ditch and someone sober enough to make a video.)

In the end, though, I’m not satisfied: even squatting, I couldn’t hold the camera close enough to the water. You know what this means, don’t you? [shudder]

Next time, I’ll have to sit!

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