"That was a great run!" an old lady called out to me as I walked out of the surf, wrapping the leash around my board. I said thanks and turned to look at the waves. A big blue line rolled in and feathered, breaking in that slow motion curtain-drop way that indicates significant size and distance. Off the back of the falling lip rose a plume of mist. It was like smoke - like the udulating hills were on fire.
The waves were firing. Had I actually ridden one of those?
It had been a crazy session. When we pulled up to the dirt parking area a few hours earlier, there were lots of cars and trucks with surfboards on their roofs, but only three souls were in the water. Old guys with moustaches, crow's feet eyes, hoodies, and coffee mugs milled around, commenting on the action.
"Did he make it out of the barrel?"
"That was a big one."
"Never seen it work this good."
The waves were large and well-shaped: a solid head-and-a-half high on the sets. And hollow. Some closed out, but many ran perfectly for 200 yards toward the beach. I watched a guy tuck into a tube and glide back out onto the shoulder.
My compatriots, Nash and Slim, stood and watched next to me shivering at the brisk offshores, the prospect of charging. Nash instigated: "Let's do it!"
Suited up, we scurried down rocks and into the rip. No way could we have made it outside without the help of the outwardly moving current. I had butterflies in my stomach as I bounced through the chop, looking right for where the other surfers were lined up. I spotted them and began to paddle their way.
In a matter of only a few seconds, I realized I'd made a big mistake: I had turned out of the rip too early. Out of nowhere, a massive ledge arose and I redirected my paddling toward the horizon, trying to beat the wave to where it was going to break. I knew I wouldn't make it, but I hoped that by confronting it head-on, my speed would help me get deeper on my duckdive. The lip began to fall as I reached the trough. I pushed the nose as deep as possible, then jammed the tail down with my knee.
I was under the water fairly deep, but not deep enough to avoid the brunt of this wave's impact. My body went limp under the force and my surfboard vanished from my grip. I spun under the water and waited for the turbulance to pass. It did, and I swam back up for air.
I was rattled.
I got comfortable on the outside, letting swell after swell pass under me. I caught my breath. The first wave I went for was fairly huge (by my standards) and I mistimed it completely. I was too late. I went over the falls, falling through the air backwards somehow, feeling my board pass me on its way up into an offshore gust. Again I tumbled under the water for a while, scrambling up for air when the sea let me go.
I regrouped, watching the local surfers, who had the waves dailed. I noticed that they were taking off a little farther south than me. The peak seemed to crumble there instead of pitching from top to bottom.
The third wave I paddled for, I caught. I made the drop and quickly angled down the line, feeling the speed of rushing water under my feet. The mist of the lip seemed to tickle my shoulder as I rose up the face. I dropped back down and noticed Slim in the flats ahead, his smile confirming the fact that I was locked in the pocket with a teardrop in chase.
I rode it until the wall backed off a little and didn't push my luck, kicking out before I got too far inside. My fear was suddenly replaced by pure stoke.
I caught several more as the hours rolled by, wiping out often, but staying alert and careful. Keeping out of harm's way. I was completely focused. I chatted with my friends about the conditions and we advised eachother on easier ways to get into the freight training waves.
After a while our toes and fingers began to numb. The waves got a little less consistent as the tide advanced. Nash went in. I motioned to Slim with my index finger, signaling I was only good for one more. In a few minutes, it came.
The wave approached almost from the north, it seemed, in a long line. I had gotten used to the fact that even when it seemed to be rolling from that direction, it would hit a sand bar and break closer to the south first as it walled up, creating the hollower set waves. I spun for this one, being the closest to the peak, and paddled with everything I had left. As the power pushed me forward, it crossed my mind that I might be too late. I popped to my feet looking down at a near vertical eight-foot drop. My fins caught the wall and held, generating speed. A surfer who was paddling in pulled his board back as I sped by. I was slotted.
I stayed in the pocket with my hand dragging along the face. When I got too far out, I dropped again and found the pocket. It went on forever, and the lip seemed to be right above me. The tube must've been so close. This wave reformed at least three times as I got closer to the shore.
I finally got to the shallows and jumped off my board, buzzing from the ride. Grabbing my leash, I walked toward the sand, wrapping it around the fins. I pulled the hood of my wetsuit back and heard the woman compliment my "run."
Walking back up to the truck, I wondered if anybody else had seen my last wave. It was probably the best of my life.
"Dude!" It was Nash, who was scratching his dog's ear on the other side of the cab. "That was the sickest ride. I didn't think it was you at first. You were like two feet in front of the barrel. If you would have slowed down, you would have been in!"
We cracked a few beers and watched the waves for another half hour. And that was only our first session of the day.
Split Endz - Shark Attack*The photos above were shot stealthily from inside the truck. The swell got knocked down considerably with the higher tide, but there were still decent waves to be had. The location of this spot will remain anonymous, to protect the innocent locals who were kind enough to share their waves.
So many great artists have incorporated surf imagery into their work, whether they actually partake in our favorite passtime or not. This is going to be a recurring feature on Sissyfish (during those thumb twiddling dry-spells) where I showcase my favorites, many of whom directly influence my own paintings and drawings.
Always great to sneak out on a Friday and get some waves. Hadn't been to Shorties in a while, and it was nice to get it on a day when it could be surfed again. The sun was shining, the sets were aplenty (and peaky up and down the beach). Ebb and I exchanged waves for three hours. Cha-ching!
I guess you could say today was a good day. See you Sunday...
Sitting at your desk. Landlocked. Dreaming of waves. Dreaming of vehicles to ride those waves. Now it's Gee who is fixating on a new stick.
Not to keep beating a dead horse, but this is a shot from later in the afternoon on Sunday. We were out there for our second session, in which I completely flailed, but Nash and Slim redeemed themselves. Hard not to dwell on a day like that when you see impending storm surf for the next week.
Man, Poseidon really smiled upon us Saturday morning when we held the second annual G-Spot Invitational Surf Contest. Conditions that were forecasted at 30 feet earlier in the week dropped all the way down to 10 feet at 8 seconds when we checked the bouys the night before. There was no need to go to any mystical spots, as there would be one place that would work best on a south swell with hard southerlies.
When we arrived at 8am, this is what we saw: slightly disorganized conditions, but a nice hollow left running consistently through. The wind--as hard as it blew at times--switched offshore. I immediately snapped these pics (trying to keep my camera out of the rain) of a guy wearing yellow rubber kitchen gloves who gave us some perspective on the size of the wave. Not bad! It wasn't long before the five contestants were out in the line-up. Gee was out first, then OS, then Slim, then yours truly, then Nash. But Nash forgot his leash, so I told him where to find my spare in the trunk of our car.
Yesterday I got a phone call from Manny Caro, who informed me that he was going to start shaping my board. I marveled at the coincidence, having just posted about it a few days ago. After discussng a few more details about the board: Did I want bamboo side fins from 101 Fin Company? Yes. Definitely magenta for color? Um, no... I imagined myself doing a long cobblestone walk with a board the color of a doggie dick... Maybe something that I can ride at ALL of Oregon's breaks without drawing too much attention to myself? Blue then. Cool.
Ready or not. In our case, probably not. The waves are predicted to be peaking this weekend at 30 feet. There's only one mysto g-spot that may be able to take something off this ridiculous size, and we've never caught it working...
About an hour of yesterday's surf was decent, then the place just turned to junk in the blink of an eye, the flap of a seagull's wing in Chile, the swirl of a digital blob on a satellite radar. M was on the rocks moments later, mumbling something about a latte. Disrubbered, I pointed my lens at the cove, careful not to aim too close to you-know-where. I'm a journalist, dammit, but I also have a certain respect for that place - and my own front teeth - that keeps my camera away like two magnets denying the other contact. They want to get close, but they just can't.
It was pretty choppy and crossed up yesterday at the cove. But there was a consistant left rolling off the rocks and only two guys out. Our gang paddled out and got some fun ones. Then the other guys left and we were the only three people out. Must've looked like crap from the parking lot, because we had the spot to ourselves for three hours.
My oldest surf chum, Ebb and I got together yesterday for a hooky session. The conditions looked pretty good from all reports, but when we finally got to Seaside where we were sure that the swell would be protected from southern winds, we found that the break was also protected from the slightly southern swell. Even longboarders were struggling to get into the mushy (albeit very clean) waves. So we headed south to Shorties. Deja vous all over again. The waves were bigger, but the paddle out was a frickin' joke!
Painting again. Using the basement for something besides surfboard and LP storage. The canvas on the right is one that I've owed OS for some time now. I said I'd paint something for him when he bought a surfboard from me for way too much money, and now I'm finally coming through on my side of the bargain. Work in progress.
The center cannot hold, and all that. This was yesterday morning. I imagine that when people from other parts of the country think of Oregon surf, this is what they envision. A lot of times - especially in winter - this is what you get. Blown, chopped, chossed, crossed. Our most recent transplant to Oregon from California, Markarito (pictured), hasn't actually experienced really good surf here yet. He still works in LA often, so his surf trips here have been relatively limited.
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