Day 88
"So, do you, like, surf really big waves, or what?"
It's actually a pretty common question.
I like to lie.
"Yea. I like it when it gets to about 10 or 15 feet high, you know. 8 feet is kind of weak surf for pansies. anything less than that is, like, totally boring. Every now and then, I like to surf some 30 or 40 footers, you know, at the outer breaks."
They nod, as if they know what they're listening to. Wow. That's really cool. I understand you. I've seen people like you on TV.
Reality check.
A ten foot section of a one foot wave (with a two foot face) contains about four hundred pounds of salt water.
A ten foot section of a "head high" wave, with a six foot face, contains over one thousand pounds of water.
So, when a surfer takes a fall on a head high wave, lands in the flats and get churned into the foam, they're getting tossed around by a thousand pounds of moving water.
When you start talking about waves that are "head and a half" or "double overhead", that situation gets pretty serious. A ten foot section of a double overhead wave with a 12 foot face contains nearly 2,500 pounds of water.
That's like getting hit by a liquid mid-sized car.
So, when you see a picture of Laird Hamilton carving a giant bottom turn across a giant 20 foot section of a 40 tall foot face, you're looking at a man surfing under the power of 16,000 pounds of moving water.
This is not something that your average beer-gutted longboarder does on a Saturday.
There's a term in surfing called "tombstoning". Tombstoning is when a surfer falls into the belly of a big wave, and the wave pushes the surfer down under water. The surfboard, a wonderful floatation device, comes up to the top, but the surfer is constantly pulling down on it so that the surfboard sticks straight upright out of the water, like a nicely waxed tombstone.
If this doesn't terrify you, you are either a really strong swimmer who is convinced in your ability to hold your breath for some unspecified period of time while a wave drags you around under water - or you're an idiot.
As someone who has spent all my time surfing on weekends in mediocre Southern California chest to head high waves, I can afford to be honest. And, the truth is that when the paper says anything over five or six feet, I start to get nervous. A six foot swell will have outside set waves with faces up to twelve feet high.
This morning, Brett and I paddled out into some head and a half high sets. It took me nearly ten minutes just to make it out past the white water to the breaking zone.
Brett never made it.
Held down by one of the set waves, his leash snapped, leaving him swimming to shore in some pretty big surf without a flotation device. He got to shore and found his surfboard. Surveying the leash damage and discovering that he wouldn't be able to repair it, he decided not to try again.
I made it past the outside breakers by paddling over the peak of one of the largest ones. I saw the wave coming towards me, it's steep face reflecting the morning sun ominously, and started paddling as hard as I could with no regard for breath or arm strength. It started to break just as I pushed the nose of my board through the crest of the curl. Hurling all my weight forward, the board slapped down on the back side of the wave and slid down to the flat water behind as a hurl of spray came back towards me from the pitching crest.
I looked back. The wave was four to five feet tall on the back side, meaning the face could have been anywhere from eight to over ten feet. To me, that's a big wave.
I looked right and left. I was alone. While a few other surfers had already entered the water with Brett and I at six twenty, none of them had made it past the brutal white water trails. I looked to shore. By the ruler of the length of the beach, I had drifted the span of two lifeguard towers since getting in. Watching the big sets come in, I leisurely paddled southward, opposite to the current.>
At just after six thirty I spotted the familiar white rash guard and thick upper body of Jeremy. I paddled towards him. He sat, waiting out a few sets cautiously. I got close enough to wave, and Jeremy greeted me.
"Whatsup, Travis?"
I suddenly felt really good that we had exchanged names a few days before. It felt good to know someone out there. With Jeremy to the south, I paddled into a medium sized right as a warm up. The wave caught me, and I popped to my feet and started a clean line down the face. About halfway down, I saw that a closeout peak was going to cut the ride short. Rather than surf straight into a certain end and a possible trip back into the whitewash, I pointed up the face and shot out over the crest of the wave.
Not bad, I thought. In and out, no damage.
Slightly more confident, I swam further into the current. Jeremy drifted past me, but some of the other surfers were making it out now. I paddled into a good sized left, got a bottom turn and again pulled immediately out to avoid a close out section.
Those count, I told myself. That's two.
A shortboarder was paddling over towards me, looking like I had felt, the wary fear and excitement mixed in his eyes. His need for conversation was obvious, so I obliged, exchanging a few greetings and comments devoid of any useful content, but full of communication that neither of us was alone.
Brett was gone from the shore. My alarm went off.
I could see number three building. I paddled over to what looked like a very clean left shoulder, and pointed towards shore. Underneath, the surface of the valley dropped as the wave picked me up. I stood to my feet, angled to the left and took a drop that felt like a falling elevator. I made a powerful enough bottom turn, and shot back towards the crest of the wave, leveling off for a smooth top carve and re-entry. On my second drop down the wave, I noticed another surfer paddling out and watching. His face told me what I already knew - The wave that I couldn't see behind me was a churning monster. I reached the bottom, and pointed to shore. The closing face crashed on both sides of me like a movie explosion in surround sound. The board buckled under my feet, but I kept my knees bent and my weight centered over it. I rode the foam to shore.
That's big enough.
Back at the cars, Brett and I confessed to each other that we both hoped tomorrow was a little bit smaller.
More Later.
-Travis
Copyright 2004 Travis R. English
It's actually a pretty common question.
I like to lie.
"Yea. I like it when it gets to about 10 or 15 feet high, you know. 8 feet is kind of weak surf for pansies. anything less than that is, like, totally boring. Every now and then, I like to surf some 30 or 40 footers, you know, at the outer breaks."
They nod, as if they know what they're listening to. Wow. That's really cool. I understand you. I've seen people like you on TV.
Reality check.
A ten foot section of a one foot wave (with a two foot face) contains about four hundred pounds of salt water.
A ten foot section of a "head high" wave, with a six foot face, contains over one thousand pounds of water.
So, when a surfer takes a fall on a head high wave, lands in the flats and get churned into the foam, they're getting tossed around by a thousand pounds of moving water.
When you start talking about waves that are "head and a half" or "double overhead", that situation gets pretty serious. A ten foot section of a double overhead wave with a 12 foot face contains nearly 2,500 pounds of water.
That's like getting hit by a liquid mid-sized car.
So, when you see a picture of Laird Hamilton carving a giant bottom turn across a giant 20 foot section of a 40 tall foot face, you're looking at a man surfing under the power of 16,000 pounds of moving water.
This is not something that your average beer-gutted longboarder does on a Saturday.
There's a term in surfing called "tombstoning". Tombstoning is when a surfer falls into the belly of a big wave, and the wave pushes the surfer down under water. The surfboard, a wonderful floatation device, comes up to the top, but the surfer is constantly pulling down on it so that the surfboard sticks straight upright out of the water, like a nicely waxed tombstone.
If this doesn't terrify you, you are either a really strong swimmer who is convinced in your ability to hold your breath for some unspecified period of time while a wave drags you around under water - or you're an idiot.
As someone who has spent all my time surfing on weekends in mediocre Southern California chest to head high waves, I can afford to be honest. And, the truth is that when the paper says anything over five or six feet, I start to get nervous. A six foot swell will have outside set waves with faces up to twelve feet high.
This morning, Brett and I paddled out into some head and a half high sets. It took me nearly ten minutes just to make it out past the white water to the breaking zone.
Brett never made it.
Held down by one of the set waves, his leash snapped, leaving him swimming to shore in some pretty big surf without a flotation device. He got to shore and found his surfboard. Surveying the leash damage and discovering that he wouldn't be able to repair it, he decided not to try again.
I made it past the outside breakers by paddling over the peak of one of the largest ones. I saw the wave coming towards me, it's steep face reflecting the morning sun ominously, and started paddling as hard as I could with no regard for breath or arm strength. It started to break just as I pushed the nose of my board through the crest of the curl. Hurling all my weight forward, the board slapped down on the back side of the wave and slid down to the flat water behind as a hurl of spray came back towards me from the pitching crest.
I looked back. The wave was four to five feet tall on the back side, meaning the face could have been anywhere from eight to over ten feet. To me, that's a big wave.
I looked right and left. I was alone. While a few other surfers had already entered the water with Brett and I at six twenty, none of them had made it past the brutal white water trails. I looked to shore. By the ruler of the length of the beach, I had drifted the span of two lifeguard towers since getting in. Watching the big sets come in, I leisurely paddled southward, opposite to the current.>
At just after six thirty I spotted the familiar white rash guard and thick upper body of Jeremy. I paddled towards him. He sat, waiting out a few sets cautiously. I got close enough to wave, and Jeremy greeted me.
"Whatsup, Travis?"
I suddenly felt really good that we had exchanged names a few days before. It felt good to know someone out there. With Jeremy to the south, I paddled into a medium sized right as a warm up. The wave caught me, and I popped to my feet and started a clean line down the face. About halfway down, I saw that a closeout peak was going to cut the ride short. Rather than surf straight into a certain end and a possible trip back into the whitewash, I pointed up the face and shot out over the crest of the wave.
Not bad, I thought. In and out, no damage.
Slightly more confident, I swam further into the current. Jeremy drifted past me, but some of the other surfers were making it out now. I paddled into a good sized left, got a bottom turn and again pulled immediately out to avoid a close out section.
Those count, I told myself. That's two.
A shortboarder was paddling over towards me, looking like I had felt, the wary fear and excitement mixed in his eyes. His need for conversation was obvious, so I obliged, exchanging a few greetings and comments devoid of any useful content, but full of communication that neither of us was alone.
Brett was gone from the shore. My alarm went off.
I could see number three building. I paddled over to what looked like a very clean left shoulder, and pointed towards shore. Underneath, the surface of the valley dropped as the wave picked me up. I stood to my feet, angled to the left and took a drop that felt like a falling elevator. I made a powerful enough bottom turn, and shot back towards the crest of the wave, leveling off for a smooth top carve and re-entry. On my second drop down the wave, I noticed another surfer paddling out and watching. His face told me what I already knew - The wave that I couldn't see behind me was a churning monster. I reached the bottom, and pointed to shore. The closing face crashed on both sides of me like a movie explosion in surround sound. The board buckled under my feet, but I kept my knees bent and my weight centered over it. I rode the foam to shore.
That's big enough.
Back at the cars, Brett and I confessed to each other that we both hoped tomorrow was a little bit smaller.
More Later.
-Travis
Copyright 2004 Travis R. English
posted by travinator @ 1:15 PM
1 Comments:
At 9:45 PM,
Brett W said…
I told you it is always a little bigger at 17th street
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