The trees still tower overhead. The mud is still mostly bear shit, and the mountains still squat on the horizon, but finding those empty waves at home isn’t as easy as it once was. Photo: Haro
Have you ever heard that if you put a frog in a pot of water and bring it to a boil slowly enough, the frog won’t try and jump out? Supposedly, the frog’s survival instincts are geared toward sudden changes, not gradual ones. Apparently, it just sits there, unaware that the water around it is slowly heating up until it’s too late.
I think I may have frog-potted myself. For the last ten years, I’ve been extolling the virtues of Vancouver Island surf. Winter swells pound their way onto our rocky coastline, turning into reeling points, slabby reef breaks, and pounding shore breaks with enough consistency and variety for everyone. It’s just that there didn’t used to be so many everyones. Thinking back on it, that exaltation was probably a dumb thing to do. I’m not so arrogant as to assume that it’s all my doing, but we probably could have done without my contribution to the chaos.
Somewhere in those ten years, the crowds showed up here on our island. It sits off the Southwest coast of British Columbia (that’s in Canada, for you American folks), with its southernmost point sitting in a strait between Port Angeles and Vancouver, but a good west with some north in it pushes swell through the channel. Its northernmost point is exposed to those heaving winter swell-fests that make summer an endless waiting game.
I never imagined a scenario where crowds elsewhere would get so bad that people might consider traveling to a place where 5 mils are the norm, so I’ve been perpetually boasting about the wonders of home to people in more tropical locales. Home used to be a place where finding a near-perfect, empty wave was akin to stumbling over a fist-sized diamond in your doorway. However unlikely it may seem, it happened. Where monstrous trees tower overhead, filling the air with the heady scent of cedar and pine, where the mud squelching beneath your booties consists of about fifty percent bear shit. Where snow-capped mountains crown the corduroy of Alaskan winter storms. Driftwood floats lazily in the fall kelp beds, quietly threatening to puncture your glass job…or rib cage.
The trees still tower overhead; the mud is still mostly bear shit, and the mountains still squat on the horizon, but finding those empty waves isn’t as easy as it once was. If you haven’t noticed, I’m being intentionally vague about exact locations, lest I make the same mistake twice. We have a lot of coastline on the island; it just doesn’t seem to be enough. But let’s get back to the frog in the pot.
I don’t know whether or not the frog notices the water is slowly heating up. What I do know is that my pot is boiling, and I want to know who turned on the gas. I can’t take all the blame.
I didn’t even notice the crowds until they were so big I could barely paddle without banging elbows. I went surfing recently at a spot that can only reasonably hold five people. I jogged down the path to see chest high rights, with an occasional window for one of these cannonball barrels I never make it out of. From my vantage point up the trail through gaps in the trees, I saw a couple go unridden, so I assumed that fortune was in my favor – as it had been many times in the past. But as I neared my sacred little place, I realized I was mistaken. The waves were going unridden because it looked like a mosh pit in the line-up, and no one knew where to sit. There was a big pile up sitting too deep, paddling in and going straight, while another bunch collected a bit further down the line, taking wave after wave on the head. While it wasn’t even close to Lowers or Pipe, the jig was most definitely up.
I paddled out anyway, trying desperately not to be the cranky, old guy. I was surrounded by kids with brand new boards. Fresh-faced with fresh wax. Everyone was stoked, which I like to see, because it’s a pretty rare sight here. Usually, I see a lot of grim faces staring silently at the horizon. No hoots, no hollers: just silence, which I also like sometimes.
I dropped into one: an easy entry with lots of face. It lined up just right – a bit of lip sitting in line with my head. Unfortunately, as I looked down that face, it was full of people, staring transfixed at the end of my board as it bore down on them. I had to jump off. There was no getting around them. They were positioned perfectly in the way; it couldn’t have been executed more precisely. This happened about four times, and each time, I told them they should try to avoid oncoming objects by paddle out a bit further. Not in a mean way. Just a heads up to the younger crowd. God forbid I ever turn into one of those enforcer types.
So after all these years of overseas bragging, talking story about perfect peaks at home while sitting a thousand miles away, I feel like the water’s been boiling for some time now, and I didn’t even notice. It’s like I sat up one day and realized the gas had been on for too long. The crowds can’t have showed up as suddenly as it feels like they have, but why haven’t I noticed the increasing water temperature? When I remember telling people about the pristine, empty waves at home, I think I was basically turning up the heat. And now it’s too late. The water is boiling, and I’m the frog.
That sucks.
