I Wish I Could Do That

Two guys are walking down the street and they pass an old dog splayed out on the sidewalk, licking his balls.

"I wish I could do that," says one dude to the other.

The second guy answers, "You probably can if you pet him first..."

***

Though the intro is dorky, the tricks in this video are the dog's bollocks!

OUTSIDE!

We didn't even have time to say it. Everybody was too busy jockeying for the shifty head-high-plus peaks to notice a dark line advancing from the horizon. After all, the buoys were only reading 6 feet, so -- more than anything -- we were all just stoked that so much swell had found its way into a break that normally knocks size off.

Sitting way outside, I'd just caught a great one that had the guys on the inside hooting as I made the drop, bottom turn, and set up for the racetrack that rolled and reformed several times before ending 100 yards or so to the north. At that point, thinking I had it dialed, I was probably one of the farthest guys out.

I spotted a bend on the otherwise flat blue line that marks the "end of the earth" and started paddling casually out to sea, not wanting to alert the whole lineup that a set wave was on its way. As it progressively grew, my strokes grew faster. In a matter of only a few seconds, I realized that the wave was standing up and feathering already, 30 yards in front of me. I kept scratching, though I knew I'd never make it out the back.

All surfers have faced dilemma: Is it better to paddle hard toward the maelstrom when a sneaker set is about to drop the hammer, or just sit and wait for it to lose a little power before facing a wall of whitewater? Thinking of the sandbars inside that had been delivering punchy waves all morning, I reasoned that the foamball would still be heavy, so I kept paddling.

As the first wave of the set slammed down, I did my best to hang onto my board, but it was ripped from my grip. The hold-down wasn't horrible, but when I emerged, a second wave had already broken behind it. I looked behind me and saw a few tombstones way inside and knew it was safe for me to swim for the bottom. This happened about five times in a row.

From that point on, the session was somewhat dicey. The clean inside waves were still there, but the temptation to grab a bomb on the outside -- and avoid being caught inside again -- kept me a little too safe. I caught one huge one and got bounced off by the chop. The end.

Back on the shore as we changed, Foul Pete told me that he checked the Tillamook buoys that morning and they read 13 feet at 13 seconds, so the jump in swell wasn't a complete bolt from the blue.

The pics above are somewhat deceptive. You have to blow them up to see the size (the guys caught inside give them perspective), since I couldn't get a shot with anybody riding.

Six-Outta-Ten

There was so much anticipation building up to the weekend. You could just tell that Sunday was going to be good: The buoys beckoned with 8-feet-at-13-sec readings that morning. We spot-checked a few places before settling on the old standby. But when we got to the cove, it didn't look all that. There seemed to be a secondary swell that either flattened the waves or cause it to jack up and close out inside.

Should we hightail it back to spot number one? We didn't really have time. So Gee and I said screw it and found a log on the beach to throw our stuff on. We changed fast and I snapped the photo above before finding a rip and paddling out. It wasn't as "meh" as it looked from the cliff above (it never is). Sets were shoulder-to-head and pretty glassy, but it was incredibly shifty and the bigger waves tended to shut down in one booming curtain call.

The conditions got even more challenging as the tide dropped and we both went over the falls on waves we underestimated the speed/steepness of. We changed peaks and were sufficiently humbled when a longboarder pulled into a right-hand tube and shot out completely dry.

Another hour passed.

"One and done" was the decision with three hours and a few decent waves under our belts, but nothing to write home about. Then, a rare a-frame peak almost seemed to weave past the guys on the outside and feather right in front of me. I snagged it, dropping in at a hard angle and making tracks, hearing a tunnelish echo right over my back shoulder. Goddammit, I'm outrunning tubes again. Why can't I just drag a hand or do a little wheelie to slow down in the heat of the moment?

On the way home, Gee asked what I'd rank the day.

"Six out of ten."

By the evening, as we sipped margaritas with sunburned faces and went over each wave in detail--coming to terms with the fact that another big winter storm was approaching--that number magically changed to seven.

Why You Shouldn't Surf PC

I received my first submission to the blog last week in an email cryptically titled "Pacific Simian." A guy who simply goes by "Hunter" wondered if he's the only one who sees King Kong in the monolith outside the line-up. I'd never noticed that before, but after seeing the shot I saw another picture of PC and sure enough, the silhouette looked just like the great ape.

His second image was even more disturbing...


Looks like there's going to be some good surf this weekend. Hope you all get some!

Ready... Set... WHERE'S THE SURF?

This homeless dude with an heirloom tomato nose approached as we struggled into our wetsuits.

"You're surfing?" he inquired, his breath smelling vintage 3am. "Ain't it cold?"

Yes, we answered.

He looked over the cliff, down to where we were planning to do our thing. It was so well-protected from the storm surf that it was hardly working. A longboarder bunny-hopped along, trying to milk some momentum from a slow-roller.

"Not much going on down there," he said. "Ever heard of Sandy Beach in Hawaii? I used to body surf that place a long time ago." The odor was really bad -- the kind of sour twang that reminded you of long-forgotten pickle jars. "I seen a lot of guys get hurt there."

We nodded.

"Well, have fun and don't freeze!" he said. "It's like you get all suited up, climb down, get in the water, and just sit out there. It's like: Ready... Set... WHERE'S THE SURF?"

Then, right on queue, he spun around and hopped onto a city bus that had just rolled into the parking lot.

True story.

Note: We actually DID surf, and had a decent time. Pictures are all of the spots that we didn't tempt fate at on Sunday... The second to the last one reminds me of Sasquatch.

DOWNSTAIRS

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