“Dude. You’re going to get so laid from that surf column,” someone told me recently. “Bitches love that surfer vibe, bra.”

I smile with no teeth while trying to kill him telepathically. That failing, I give him the most sarcastic “Yeaaaaa so sicccckkk dude,” I can muster.

I’m thinking, “It’s fools like this who give surfers a bad name.”

We aren’t all that way — in fact, a lot of the surfers I’ve met are good people. Surfers hail from a broad variety of places and cultures. I have a lot of good things to say about most of the surfers I’ve met in my travels. Then again, I have a lot of bad things to say about a lot of the surfers I’ve met. And most of the latter group come from Southern California and Santa Barbara. The bros in particular.

However, there is a rare breed of die-hard surfers I’ve met in Santa Barbara, who get things done under the radar, who don’t surf the beach in hopes of glamour, pussy and a beach bod.

Sometimes you can spot them lurking in the back of a party around midnight, checking NOAA (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration) before they allow themselves another drink. Sometimes you can hear them in the mornings around 5 a.m., rubbing sleep out of their eyes and wearily dragging their wetsuits and damp towels down I.V. alleys to their surfmobiles. Sometimes you have no idea they exist because they live as mountain men in Los Padres National Forest, well below your glitzed-out radar. Probably the most noticeable giveaway of a salty sea-vet’s behind-the-scenes surf activities is when you overhear one noting the wind conditions late at night. Or when you’re at their secret spot and they’re threatening to drown your kook ass— you’ll also know then.

These are the surfers who don’t immediately saunter up and brag about where they surfed or the waves they got that day — instead they are looking forward, always stretching toward more spots, more waves, better designs, increased stoke. What these elites pull from their sessions is the knowledge of the perfect combination of wind, tide, direction and light required to create the ultimate dawn sesh at T’s, ’Con, Lil’ ’Con and certain other areas up and down the coast.

These aren’t the shaggy-haired blonde boys and girls sitting in front of you in lecture, sporting bright pink Electric shades, obscene blue trunks, sorority rush shirts and surfer-style trucker hats. Not the fools who stain their reps by going for broke all day. (“Hey bra did you see that epic set at Sands yesterday? I like totally busted a rodeo flip over the whole UCSB surf team.”)

Instead, these are the people accustomed to the chain of maneuvers that settle you into the precarious overhang beneath a slabby tube. They see swell lumping in from the horizon and know precisely how to start the elevator drop down a watery cliff-face into exalted tubedome.

Surfers thrive in every nook and urine-drenched alley of Isla Vista. They exist in abundance in the state, nation and most of the coastal world.

The only problem with surf bro-ciety is that there are too many wannabee Jordys out there, but too few Gerry Lopezs. Everyone wants to throw the biggest air all the time — but guess what? — waves are made of water. Try staying in the water for a while before you get any grandiose ideas, big fella.

There’s a lot to be said for the type of person who learns things the hard way — through patience, practice and persistence. And passion, I could add.

As a side note, there is also that unique breed which owns a house in Montecito, dates 19-year-old models from UCSB and moonlights as a world-champion surfer. How does he do it? Is he human?

Daily Nexus Surf Columnist Elliott Rosenfeld will drown your kook ass if you ever suggest that he’s getting laid again.