Day 89 - (Virginity)

After Brett's leash breaking incident, fear crept in. At 88 days, I felt that it would be a real shame to stop two days short of 90 just because the surf got too big and scary. but the reports were unquestionable. the swell was growing. afternoon and early evening reports from hunting beach quoted double overhead close-out waves. The buoy swell model on the internet confirmed the same picture.

I spoke to Chris and Larry, two surfers whose opinion I respect.

Chris recommended "Go to Blackie's, bro."

"Brett" I say into the phone, late Monday night. "We need to move tomorrow. Supposedly, Huntington is just getting bigger and uglier. My friend, Chris, recommended the north side of Newport Pier. He says that it's more west facing, a softer wave, and has a shorter paddle."
Brett agreed. We figured out some directions, as neither of us has surfed there before, and hung up.

I couldn't sleep.

Sure, this new beach might be smaller, but smaller than what? was Huntington getting pounded with 8 foot waves all night? and I was going to go running to the safety of the Newport Pier, only to find 6 foot waves that still scared the crap out of me? What about the wind? If conditions became big and choppy, I would have to pass and break the streak. Swimming around in big surf is one thing, but swimming around in big choppy ugly surf is something else.
I woke up sporadically. When my eyes popped open just before five, I got out of bed just to stop playing games..

The wind was howling through the trees outside.

"Strong wind in Anaheim could mean anything", I told myself. "besides, it's not even five thirty yet. a lot can happen at dawn."

I got to the beach ten minutes before six o clock. it was still nigh time. the sky hadn't even started to turn blue with twilight. One thing, however, was perfectly clear. The waves were crap. They were less than a foot high and turned to mush by the high tide and strong offshore winds.

I walked the beach to the pier, strolling over the water on the wooden structure. a photographer was standing on the south railing, camera hanging around his neck as he looked out over the water.

"I thought there was supposed to be better waves this morning." he told me.

I couldn't offer him any explanations.

Wandering back to my truck, I meet a middle aged man gazing out into the darkness at the whitewater, casually drinking a cup of coffee.

"so much for that big swell" he said. "My friends had told me there were these giant waves out there."

"there were." I told him. "I was at Huntington yesterday. they were big and scary."

"ah, Huntington.." he sighed, clearly remembering something. he reminisced to me about Huntington beach in his youth. he told me how the only good spot was north of the pier, and with the crowds, he'd just stopped going there.

"I like this spot, now." he told me. "the people here are real nice. sometimes, there's a rude guy. but, for the most part, it's just a fun spot. most days, you'll find a group of peaks out here." he pointed to the water with a waving motion "But, it doesn't look like you're going to get much this morning."

I nodded, turning away. Brett's car had just pulled into the lot.

Brett and I quickly assessed the situation: there was no surf here, but I didn't have time to drive all the way back up to seventeenth and still make it to work in time. we agreed on 56th street, at the north most of a series of rock jetties fingering out into the water just south of the Santa Ana river mouth.

the one mile drive took less than a few minutes. I pulled quickly into an open parking spot in the small, metered parking lot behind the racquetball courts.

Across the street, a row of beachfront houses blocked the sightline to the water. I jogged across the street, joining a crowd of people standing at the edge of the sand in an alley between houses. For a moment, I guessed that they were surfers, checking the conditions. Then, they gasped, one laughed, and one hooted. They were spectators.

And Newport Beach was the show.

Across the sand, I could see head high waves pitching into barrels under the force of the offshore winds.

These were the Santa Ana winds, the west blowing desert winds of Southern California's autumn.

Suddenly, a puzzle came together in my mind. Strong surf plus strong offshore winds was the formula for barrels. the force of the wind on the face of a breaking wave adds an extra element of friction and causes the top to pitch out, creating the postcard wave shape so often shown in advertisements and magazines.

I'd never seen Newport Beach like this. I watched a few guys drop into the fast waves, making tight turns on the face to try to stay in the pocket of the curl. Some of them didn't make it. But, some did.

There was a lull between sets. The waves died down for a time. During the lull, I decided that we could make it out past the foam if we timed it right. I decided that I could handle this.

My decision made, I raced back to my car and put on my wetsuit. Brett was just parking and looked my way for approval. I gave it to him with a nod.

Moments later, Brett and I stood at the edge of the shore.

"Well," I told him. "If you get into one, that's it. You'll never have a better chance at finding a barrel."

We walked forward, waiting for a lull in the waves, and paddling hurriedly out past the white soup to the line up of surfers.

And then they came.

They were powerful, scary. They broke fast, pitching far out to create the tube shape. Every big wave that broke against the offshore wind sent a spray of water back over the top which rains on the surfers behind.

Pulling together confidence, I paddled after one. Checking to both sides, I saw that no one else was paddling. It was mine. It loomed behind me like a giant liquid vampire, arms out and cape extended, waiting to bite. I stood up. The drop down the face of the wave was fast.... really fast. I crouched low and leaned back towards the wave to hug as tightly as I could to the wall of water. It worked. After a fast initial section, a wider section opened up and I was able to make a few quick turns before ending the ride.

Pumped full of adrenaline, I paddled back out.

The second wave I caught was big. I was in the right place at the right time, and nobody else had claimed it. As I pushed my board down to get to my feet, I was completely blinded by the mist of spray, like a sprinkler hose of cool salt water steam in my face. Blindly, I pushed my front foot forward and shifted my weight to the left.

Had I gotten a look at the shear steepness of the drop, I might have backed off out of fear. As it was, something in me knew that the time for questions had passed. I bent my knees and leaned hard. Halfway down the face, instinct and the memory of a Layne Beachly video kicked in, and something told me to put a little bit of pressure on my back foot. Just a little stalling - to let the wave catch up.

At that moment, I lost my virginity.

Don't get me wrong. For nearly a decade, I've been surfing these beaches - Newport, Huntington, Sunset, San Diego, San Onofre, even a few trips to Baja, Ventura, Santa Barbara..... and I've loved every minute. I'd repeat it all starting tomorrow if you gave me the chance.

But, that first ceiling of water moving over my head, arching, round, like a thick piece of glass, light blue, glimmering, translucent, coming down on the other side of me, surrounding me with blue and green games of light, surrounding me with the noise of churning, crashing, moving ocean, water spraying in my face, my knees crouched all the way to my chest......

I know that my mouth was open, because I distinctly remember, as if the whole thing were slow motion, taking a breath of moist air.

....And then the wave ate me.

More Later.

-Travis

copyright 2004 Travis R. English