In years gone by, we relied on family and friends for all kinds of support, from childcare and transport to emotional support and odd jobs. Now, as more of us work more hours just to get by, we have whole sectors devoted to picking up the slack. The irony is that the support we now pay for was once given freely, at least in monetary terms. The result is a more isolated existence, one that has made us more available to work and less available for human connection. We are a hyper-independent society, trained to pay for support rather than inconvenience ourselves to give or receive it. I say this both as a prime example of the trend, and someone trying to step into the discomfort of reversing it.
Amid what has been dubbed the loneliness epidemic, the buzzword of the year is community. You don’t have to look far to find it being used to sell everything from fitness to face cream. The difference is that today’s communities are largely pay-to-play. All too often, it’s an expensive subscription that unlocks access to a space, rather than a skills exchange or mutual support. While access can be bought, belonging must be earned, and it’s difficult to see how such exclusive groups can provide the deep connection required for a functioning society. But that’s simply because they’re not meant to connect, rather to sell, with the feel-good access to the in-crowd as an added bonus. The good news is that there are many brilliant examples of communities where this isn’t the case; you only need to look at the success of dip clubs and parkrun to see the demand for non-commercial spaces to connect.
While sport can be a natural home for community, it’s not always an easy one. As a surfer, and a very occasional mountaineer, I can vouch for the odd, often conflicted relationship outdoor pursuits have with community and commerciality. There’s an inherent mismatch between the risks of mass appeal and the drive to find like-minded souls to share the journey, and the desire to make a living from what you love and the pull to keep it as non-commercial as possible.
As an individual sport, surfing can easily be isolating, yet lifelong friendships form in the gaps between sets, in the struggle to get in and out of wetsuits, and in the commitment to the search for the perfect wave. All of this takes time; you earn your space in the community not so much by skill as by the dedication to showing up. It’s a sport with a fair amount of scepticism around organised communities, especially as interest increases and breaks become more crowded, but clubs can play a hugely important role in facilitating community and shortcutting that process of finding your crew. I’ve played a fairly active role in one over the past few years, and the social aspect is where it thrives.
Organising a surf meet-up is a challenge in itself. Nobody, not least an antisocial surfer like myself, wants to surf in a crowded line-up, so it’s the in between moments and post-surf get-togethers where most connections are made. When it works, an organised surf community doesn’t replace organic connection; it creates the conditions for it to happen. The intention is always to connect people and share the stoke, not the spot, but I understand the suspicion that it can attract when we can all be protective of our quieter local breaks. There is no access to a little black book of secret spots, just a regular time to meet for a pint and a WhatsApp group that gets excited about the chance of a decent wave or shares a grumble over water quality, beach pollution and the latest Surfline inaccuracies.
For me, the big takeaway is that the secret to any community is consistency. Showing up, holding regular events, and being a reliable event in the diary are what keep it alive. But maintaining that is an effort that often goes unrecognised, from the brave soul showing up at a social, not sure if anyone else will be there, to those behind the scenes working on the tasks that keep the wheels turning. Recognising those who contribute, encouraging new volunteers, and creating opportunities for views to be shared are vital to maintaining momentum.
Surfing teaches us that comfort rarely delivers anything worth having. You wriggle into a cold, damp wetsuit in conditions that make dog walkers grimace and push yourself to surf in conditions that are far from perfect. Yet you go anyway. Community works the same way. You turn up unsure if you’ll fit or be needed, but trusting that showing up matters. Over time, those small acts of discomfort build familiarity, trust and belonging, not through access or algorithms, but through shared effort and a willingness to learn from each other. In the end, the village doesn’t come back because we buy it; it returns when we paddle past our comfort zone and choose to be part of it.
