Fog, Waves, and Chase
( Day 106 & 107 )
After a week of small surf in the beginning of October, a swell came in on Friday, generated from a storm in the north Pacific. Excited by the overnight surf reports, I went to the garage and grabbed the shortboard.
When I exited the 22 freeway and turned into Huntington Beach, I drove into a thick morning fog bank. The dense white cloud obscuring all visibility less than a hundred feet away. At one intersection, I strained to see the traffic light on the other side.
I arrived at the beach to find Brett getting into his wetsuit. From our parking spots on the inland side of Pacific Coast Highway, we couldn't see the water, the sand, or even the top of the staircase leading down to the beach.
Two other surfers pulled in and parked. Out of habit, they crossed the street to look at the surf. This ritual is fairly common among the surfers. I didn't think anything of it. Brett, however, started laughing.
"What the hell do you figure they'll see?" He asked.
He was right. The sidewalk vantage point where they stood was one hundred or more yards from the shore line. It was still dark, and the water would be completely obscured by the fog.
We walked down to the waterfront, fog illuminated by only the barest twilight filtering over the invisible eastern horizon. By the time we reached the water, the street lights of the coast highway were completely obscured.
Paddling out into fog came with some uncertainty. The waves that we were swimming through could have been the whitewater shore break, the medium sized waves, or the largest set waves. There was simply no way to tell. I had the thought that I could paddle forever and never know how close I was to making it to the line up. Only when we reached a calm section did we assume that we were at the line up. From where we
sat in the water, visibility was less than fifty yards in any direction. All we could see was water and fog.
We waited.
"Are we drifting out?" I asked Brett.
He shrugged. We could be halfway to Catalina Island or Long Beach, and we'd never know it.
There were a few other surfers. Some of them were whistling and calling to each other, trying to find their friends in the fog.
"I think there's two guys over there." I told Brett, pointing to the right.
"I think there's someone over there, too." Brett said.
"No." I answered. "That was the shark."
(When a couple of surfers are feeling alone in the water at peak feeding hours and land is nowhere in sight - somebody's got to mention the shark, just to break the ice. Even though the chances of a visit from "the man in the gray suit" are very slim, we're all thinking about him in the backs of our minds.)
Naturally, catching waves in extreme fog conditions is a challenge. Seeing the wave coming, judging where the peak will be, adjusting and finding a spot to paddle into the wave are all greatly inhibited by the lack of vision. Nonetheless, the waves were the best that they'd been in over a week, and catching the first was all it took to
convince me that this was possible. Of course, seeing a handful of other surfers come into my field of vision helped out, too.
I stayed past seven to get a fourth ride, and raced to make it to work by eight.
The following day, Saturday, was clear of fog with better waves. The morning was cool and windless. The waves were chest to overhead high and breaking in a hundred shifting spots up and down the beach. For Huntington Beach, this is as good as it gets.
Dan is a surfer who lives nearby the break at seventeenth street. He normally rides down to the beach on his beach cruiser bicycle to check out the waves at half past six in the morning. He leisurely rides around the block, often nodding a good morning while Brett and I put our wetsuits.
Saturday morning, Dan stopped at our cars. "It looks really good out there." He said, his eyes beaming. Dan is tall, with tan skin of a racially indeterminable origin, distinct features, and short cut, dark, but lightly graying hair. His features are such that, at a glance, Dan can sometimes appear to be scowling. Once approached, however, Dan is a perfectly cordial fellow, whose face gets sporadically intense and happy over good surf or the possibility of good surf. On that morning, Dan was visibly exited. When he rode off on his bike, Brett remarked "Wow. I've never seen him ride that bike so fast."
"This is the perfect size" Brett remarked, lingering on shore nearly two and a half hours later when I crossed the street back to my truck.
I had to agree. The chest to head high waves offered a surfer in my skill level the best of both worlds. It was non-threatening enough to be encourage lots of rides, and powerful enough to allow a shorter board and faster maneuvers. Additionally, with the swell coming into the beach from the north, the waves broke in peaks which offered both rights and lefts with fairly long rides.
A good portion of the crowd of regulars were there. Dan had quickly suited up and was in the water less than ten minutes after we saw him on his bike. Venice paddled out just past seven on her shortboard. "Hey, the longboard is great." she said, "But only when necessary."
I spent most of the time paddling around with Chase, a surfer whom I'd spoken to on many occasions over the summer. I had told Chase about the every day surfing streak sometime in the middle of August. Ever time we'd see each other, Chase asked if the streak was still alive. "And, you say you've got a wife?" He would always ask. "Man, she must be pretty cool."
Chase is of medium build, in his mid thirties, married with one child, and also a commuter to Huntington Beach. Chase lives in La Mirada, on the north end of Orange County. "I make it here in about thirty five minutes." he said, "as long as I leave early enough."
Surfing with Chase, I found out that he is also a brave practitioner of the late take off. The late take off is when the surfer pushes the envelope on the timing of catching a wave, risking a trip over the falls and attempting to catch a wave as it is breaking. When surfers catch waves, it is normal to be on their feet just before the wave starts to pitch and break behind them. Of course, timing is everything in the act of catching a wave, and surfers learn to recognize the look of a wave in each microsecond stage before it breaks. If a surfer tries to catch the wave too late in the process, the force of the pitching water can throw board and rider forward into the foam without allowing the rider to get to his feet.
Chase does the late take off very well, even in head high surf. Several times, he positioned himself right in the curl of a breaking wave. He leaned back, pulling most the mass of his surfboard under water where its bouyency could act like a coiled spring. When the wave started to push him forward, he let the spring out, jettisoning his board and his body out in front of the wave for the split second he needed to get to his feet.
Surprisingly, he was continuously successful. I got to chiding him about it. During one set, we were paddling out into some of the larger waves, and Chase dove through one just in time. Slightly behind him, the wave broke right on top of me. After a few seconds of fumbling in churning water, I recovered, and continued paddling out to where Chase was sitting in wait.
"You could have made that one." I told him.
Chase laughed. "Hey..You know I like the late stuff. But, there's limits."
More Later
-Travis
copyright 2004, Travis R. English
After a week of small surf in the beginning of October, a swell came in on Friday, generated from a storm in the north Pacific. Excited by the overnight surf reports, I went to the garage and grabbed the shortboard.
When I exited the 22 freeway and turned into Huntington Beach, I drove into a thick morning fog bank. The dense white cloud obscuring all visibility less than a hundred feet away. At one intersection, I strained to see the traffic light on the other side.
I arrived at the beach to find Brett getting into his wetsuit. From our parking spots on the inland side of Pacific Coast Highway, we couldn't see the water, the sand, or even the top of the staircase leading down to the beach.
Two other surfers pulled in and parked. Out of habit, they crossed the street to look at the surf. This ritual is fairly common among the surfers. I didn't think anything of it. Brett, however, started laughing.
"What the hell do you figure they'll see?" He asked.
He was right. The sidewalk vantage point where they stood was one hundred or more yards from the shore line. It was still dark, and the water would be completely obscured by the fog.
We walked down to the waterfront, fog illuminated by only the barest twilight filtering over the invisible eastern horizon. By the time we reached the water, the street lights of the coast highway were completely obscured.
Paddling out into fog came with some uncertainty. The waves that we were swimming through could have been the whitewater shore break, the medium sized waves, or the largest set waves. There was simply no way to tell. I had the thought that I could paddle forever and never know how close I was to making it to the line up. Only when we reached a calm section did we assume that we were at the line up. From where we
sat in the water, visibility was less than fifty yards in any direction. All we could see was water and fog.
We waited.
"Are we drifting out?" I asked Brett.
He shrugged. We could be halfway to Catalina Island or Long Beach, and we'd never know it.
There were a few other surfers. Some of them were whistling and calling to each other, trying to find their friends in the fog.
"I think there's two guys over there." I told Brett, pointing to the right.
"I think there's someone over there, too." Brett said.
"No." I answered. "That was the shark."
(When a couple of surfers are feeling alone in the water at peak feeding hours and land is nowhere in sight - somebody's got to mention the shark, just to break the ice. Even though the chances of a visit from "the man in the gray suit" are very slim, we're all thinking about him in the backs of our minds.)
Naturally, catching waves in extreme fog conditions is a challenge. Seeing the wave coming, judging where the peak will be, adjusting and finding a spot to paddle into the wave are all greatly inhibited by the lack of vision. Nonetheless, the waves were the best that they'd been in over a week, and catching the first was all it took to
convince me that this was possible. Of course, seeing a handful of other surfers come into my field of vision helped out, too.
I stayed past seven to get a fourth ride, and raced to make it to work by eight.
The following day, Saturday, was clear of fog with better waves. The morning was cool and windless. The waves were chest to overhead high and breaking in a hundred shifting spots up and down the beach. For Huntington Beach, this is as good as it gets.
Dan is a surfer who lives nearby the break at seventeenth street. He normally rides down to the beach on his beach cruiser bicycle to check out the waves at half past six in the morning. He leisurely rides around the block, often nodding a good morning while Brett and I put our wetsuits.
Saturday morning, Dan stopped at our cars. "It looks really good out there." He said, his eyes beaming. Dan is tall, with tan skin of a racially indeterminable origin, distinct features, and short cut, dark, but lightly graying hair. His features are such that, at a glance, Dan can sometimes appear to be scowling. Once approached, however, Dan is a perfectly cordial fellow, whose face gets sporadically intense and happy over good surf or the possibility of good surf. On that morning, Dan was visibly exited. When he rode off on his bike, Brett remarked "Wow. I've never seen him ride that bike so fast."
"This is the perfect size" Brett remarked, lingering on shore nearly two and a half hours later when I crossed the street back to my truck.
I had to agree. The chest to head high waves offered a surfer in my skill level the best of both worlds. It was non-threatening enough to be encourage lots of rides, and powerful enough to allow a shorter board and faster maneuvers. Additionally, with the swell coming into the beach from the north, the waves broke in peaks which offered both rights and lefts with fairly long rides.
A good portion of the crowd of regulars were there. Dan had quickly suited up and was in the water less than ten minutes after we saw him on his bike. Venice paddled out just past seven on her shortboard. "Hey, the longboard is great." she said, "But only when necessary."
I spent most of the time paddling around with Chase, a surfer whom I'd spoken to on many occasions over the summer. I had told Chase about the every day surfing streak sometime in the middle of August. Ever time we'd see each other, Chase asked if the streak was still alive. "And, you say you've got a wife?" He would always ask. "Man, she must be pretty cool."
Chase is of medium build, in his mid thirties, married with one child, and also a commuter to Huntington Beach. Chase lives in La Mirada, on the north end of Orange County. "I make it here in about thirty five minutes." he said, "as long as I leave early enough."
Surfing with Chase, I found out that he is also a brave practitioner of the late take off. The late take off is when the surfer pushes the envelope on the timing of catching a wave, risking a trip over the falls and attempting to catch a wave as it is breaking. When surfers catch waves, it is normal to be on their feet just before the wave starts to pitch and break behind them. Of course, timing is everything in the act of catching a wave, and surfers learn to recognize the look of a wave in each microsecond stage before it breaks. If a surfer tries to catch the wave too late in the process, the force of the pitching water can throw board and rider forward into the foam without allowing the rider to get to his feet.
Chase does the late take off very well, even in head high surf. Several times, he positioned himself right in the curl of a breaking wave. He leaned back, pulling most the mass of his surfboard under water where its bouyency could act like a coiled spring. When the wave started to push him forward, he let the spring out, jettisoning his board and his body out in front of the wave for the split second he needed to get to his feet.
Surprisingly, he was continuously successful. I got to chiding him about it. During one set, we were paddling out into some of the larger waves, and Chase dove through one just in time. Slightly behind him, the wave broke right on top of me. After a few seconds of fumbling in churning water, I recovered, and continued paddling out to where Chase was sitting in wait.
"You could have made that one." I told him.
Chase laughed. "Hey..You know I like the late stuff. But, there's limits."
More Later
-Travis
copyright 2004, Travis R. English
posted by travinator @ 9:15 PM
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