Picture of a Picture: Troncones Beachbreak Firing

NSFW

These pics aren't safe for work because looking at them makes you want to quit your job and devote your life to getting tubed.

Other Day Spray

From the Cannon Beach Surf Blog.

Yakety-yak.

It was a great first day back.
A couple guys got the shack.
The lefts made my lips go smack.
And as you can see, the rights didn't lack.
But it was a full-on walrus attack.
And those old dudes weren't afraid to hack.
And my wetsuit's zipper breaking was wack.
Ack.

ANOTHER ROADSIDE ATTRACTON

Friday was cold. Air temps were in the teens when I woke up and packed my boards on top of Rye's veg-mobile. On the drive out, there was some ice on the roads so we took it easy. That may have been why I had a better chance to look a little closer at the landscape I normally would just blow by, blinded by stokey anticipation. Down a ravine on the right side of the road was a blue sheet-metal barn and through the trees the morning sun hit it, illuminating an old surfboard. I told Rye and he slammed on the breaks (carefully) and u-turned back to see if we could get a closer look.

Down a dirt driveway there were a couple of these blue sheds and three trailers that had tarps and other add-ons. Not many windows. There was ice covering everything. Three dogs ran up to the car and we wondered if maybe we shouldn't be down on somebody's property this early in the AM. Then an old woman walked out of one of the trailers with a cigarette hanging from her lips. We asked if we could take a picture of the surfboard and she said ask her daughter-in-law in the other trailer. We walked to the other trailer, which, with all it's windows covered with blue plastic, looked more like two big shoeboxes attached together perpendicularly. Knocked softly.

Before you read any further. This is not a farmer's daughter story. There is no cow milking machine or buttered popcorn coming. No. The young woman answered the door. Peered at us suspiciously from beneath some huge elk antlers. Then she just motioned back to the other trailer and said, "If she says it's alright then it's alright."

No. Her husband's board, which had massive rotten holes in the sides and crusty ivy hanging off the back where it leaned against the wall, wasn't for sale.

Not that exciting of a story, really. And no, I can't refund the last 50 seconds you lost reading it. When we got to the spot, though, the waves looked pretty good. Not as good as the last session where the winds groomed the lines perfectly, but not too shabby either. Mostly rights. I took out my newly-repaired Andreini, but probably should have stuck with something a little more suited to shifty beach break. But I still caught a few and coaxed it into a few bumpy rights. Did I mention it was cold? There was ice on the beach when we arrived and the water was somewhere around 44 degrees.

Single-Wave Session

Sunday morning was pretty sloppy. Seemed like the ocean was having a hard time simmering down. After scouring the North Coast we settled on the above spot, where we battled a Sisyphean paddle-out only to have to do it all over again when we'd misjudge the line-up and get caught inside. After a couple hours, I finally scratched into a hefty left, at a moment when I was ready to give up, and rode it all the way to the sand. Done and done. Yes it was worth it, and no I wasn't on the Pony.

Bucket Lists

"What's on your bucket list?"
"Spending a whole week on a beautiful beach with just my dog. How about you?"


"Throwing buckets."

Dad's Pad

My dad was thumbing through this Leroy Grannis photography book on my coffee table when he came across the picture above: A 1967 shot of his fraternity house on the strand in Hermosa Beach. Though he was living there at the time, he can't identify the dude out front. I've never been much for frats, I think I might be more inclined to pledge in the '60s at LMU, considering the fringe benefits above.

Oyster Waves

Kuma Sutra.
Kumamoto oysters.
Small, hollow, and sweet.
The trick is getting inside.
I'm still picking bits of shell from my teeth.

A flat tire on the way out gave us time to crack into the 24 oysters we bought in Tillamook. When we finally reached the beach, the waves looked choice. Shoulder-high negative-tide dredgers. It only lasted an hour or so until the tide filled in. On the way home we explored such topics as: teaching yoga to inmates, killing animals with your bare hands, karma, the new T.Moe movie, the new Animal Collective, art, and if it's possible to get a "happy ending" via reiki massage.

Saturday Secret Session

Saturday was amazing. Reports from up and down the coast made it sound like spots were lighting up like firecrackers on the Fourth. We were pretty happy with our early morning decision, as you can see from the shot above. Nice being the only ones in the water (for a few hours) on days like this. Sorry I couldn't crop out the landmark, though. I hope I'm not giving anything away, but then again, most of you can probably tell where this is by the way the wave is breaking. But if you can tell where it is by the way it's breaking, then you already know the spot. But if you already know the spot, then why would you care about a picture that doesn't name it? Wait. I'm confused.

Water, Water Everywhere...

Los Angeles. Tuesday. As we sped up PCH from LAX toward Malibu for a voice-over session (details to come), I noticed something crazy... There were waves everywhere. Guys were bobbing in the lineup at what seemed like every bend in the road between Santa Monica and the 'Bu.

From the cliff-side house where the sound studio was, I had a perfect view of Malibu and the pier. Waves seemed to be rolling in with amazing consistency. We stayed in Santa Monica that night and over drinks I noticed big lines smashing the shore near the the boardwalk there.

Wednesday morning. Our call for the music video shoot was at 6am. This time we were in Marina Del Rey, and again, explosions of whitewater blasted above the rise of sand between the beach house where we were shooting and the Pacific. The day went really late, and as the sun set, I noticed guys catching windblown lefts off a jetty on the south side of the beach. Mist from the breakers chilled our extras during the golden hour.

The next morning I was beat. Got in a plane and flew back to Oregon. Mission accomplished. But zero waves surfed.

"Did you see that?!"

"Did you see that?!"

We both asked the question at the same time. As if we could have missed it. The tide had dropped so low on Sunday morning that it turned a monolithic rock way out in the ocean into a left point break. This was a true mysto spot, one that we hardly ever had to share with other surfers, purely because it rarely actually worked. But the minus tide was working some magic and it switched on like a light. Head-high sheetglass barreling lefts for two hours. Just Nash and me (and some other dude who must have spotted us through the trees, but he didn't seem to want to catch waves). This was Sunday, by the way, a day that I was going to write off because the reports read 5 ft. at 9 seconds...

The picture above was from the first spot we checked. Not as good as the second, but you get the idea.

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.

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.

...........SOJOURN...........

Heaven on Earth = A full day surfing head-high waves followed by sitting in a hot tub, beer in hand, looking through the window at my wife and baby. Hanging out with my wife, baby boy, and best friends, drinking good wine, watching football in the afternoon, even playing a little Guitar Hero...

We spent the whole holiday weekend at the beach. It was my first time back in the water in three months. Saturday was really disheartening, surf-wise -- I couldn't even make the paddle out and had to forfeit, belly in, and run to the rip. When I finally did, the waves were doo-doo anyway. I got skunked and seriously questioned whether I would be able to keep surfing if my conditioning was this bad.

Sunday was redemption. Big, bowly lefts (and even a few powerful rights). I was a glutton because I had a whole peak to myself, and I'd just cruise back to the rip after each ride, again and again. My final wave was an outside bomb; I heard OS hooting, after which he said it looked about head-and-a-half high.

Monday was freezing. Waist-high peelers that petered out pretty quick. Only 4 guys in the water at 9am and one managed to get my way. I tried to fade down below him and clipped the tail of his board. My Skip Frye Flex Fin left a long gash from rail to stringer on his board... His tail left a new 12-inch long channel down the middle of mine.

It was an amazing weekend though, and one the whole family plans on replicating soon and often!




Pictures are all from the day we're now calling "Super-Bowly Sunday" (two weeks early).

Foghat - Slow Ride (Guitar Hero Version)