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.