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Brisick as a young stoked Grom.

"I was 21, on the pro tour, an aspiring superman of the Rocky Balboa variety when the record Instinct by Iggy Pop came out in 1988." - Jamie Brisick

There are the ones that mean nothing: Say I’d like to know where / You got the lotion, or Like a virgin / Kissed for the 31st time. And then there are the ones that seem tailored to suit the job at hand—and redirect lives.

I was 21, on the pro tour, an aspiring Superman of the Rocky Balboa variety when the record Instinct by Iggy Pop came out in 1988. Like pro surfers today, we used music to amp ourselves up before heats. Iggy had always been useful in this regard, starting with Raw Power and evolving into Blah Blah Blah. This was music that could make your blood boil, inspire you to leap tall buildings.

“Instinct”, the title track, did exactly that. Not only in the momentum and urgency of the music, but in the lyrics—

Standing on the borderline

Between joy and reason

Tending carefully my fire

Waiting for my season

And then the chorus—

Instinct keeps me running

Running like a deer

Instinct keeps me running

Running through the grinning shadows

And then, later in the song, the big one—

Get me out I can’t accept

A second-rate life story

My season, far as I was concerned, was the event I was competing in: the 1989 Gunston 500, held at Dairy Beach in Durban. And that second-rate life story? That was the shitty, miserable life I’d be stuck with if I did not make my pro surfing dreams come true.

I listened to “Instinct” before my first heat, the round of 48. It worked. And then, like any good superstitious athlete, I listened to it before the next round, and the next round, and the next. Suddenly I was in the semi-finals.

Brad Gerlach, my opponent, was a monster of a competitive surfer. Not only was his ocean knowledge ace and his top turn mighty, but he was insanely fit—windmill arms, a million waves a minute. I tried not to think about this as I stretched in my hotel room, “Instinct” blaring through my mustard yellow Walkman. In the elevator on the ride down, I stared at myself in the mirror. I wore my teal blue and orange Rip Curl spring suit, but it may as well have been a satin robe. My cheekbones were warrior-like. My muscles were ripped. My 6’4” Spyder Murphy six-channel gleamed.

The beach was packed with spectators. The sun blazed. The air smelled of brine and Coppertone. I did a kind of shadow box/hip swivel/yoga stretch at water’s edge. I paddled out with fire blazing from my nostrils. I banged the lip many times.

I lost.

But that’s not the point of this story. The point is that ten years later I would discover that I may have misheard those galvanizing lyrics about Get me out I can’t accept a second-rate life story. According to several websites I went to, it’s actually Let me out I can’t accept a CERTAIN READ life story. According to another couple, it’s Let me out I can’t accept a second RED LIGHT story. Only one presents the lyrics as I heard them. I have not seen Iggy to verify. But this is what we do in a life: we alter, we amend, we turn mere coincidences into giant fateful moments, we insert messages into song lyrics in order to slay dragons.

Listen To Instinct Here

Jamie Brisick is a writer, photographer, and director. He surfed on the ASP world tour from 1986 to 1991. He has since documented surf culture extensively. His books include Becoming Westerly: Surf Champion Peter Drouyn’s Transformation into Westerly Windina, Roman & Williams: Things We Made, We Approach Our Martinis With Such High Expectations, Have Board, Will Travel: The Definitive History of Surf, Skate, and Snow, and The Eighties at Echo Beach. His writings and photographs have appeared in The Surfer’s Journal, The New York Times, and The Guardian. He was the editor of Surfing magazine from 1998-2000, and is presently the global editor of Huck. In 2008 he was awarded a Fulbright Fellowship. He lives in Los Angeles. For more of his work check out http://jamiebrisick.com & @jamiebrisick