Whatever it is that gets you there, I hope you go. Photo: Jay Kleman
The question of lay-day activities has rippled through surfing’s generations with little to no solution to the matter. Sure, the lay-day is a welcomed old friend, if you’ve been logging a solid twenty-plus hours of water time a week. But what if your lay-days seem to be endless, suppressed by weather patterns excruciatingly far from the realm of human control? What do you do to keep sane? I have, personally, found a solution in a place that is as far from the ocean as you can find.
The lay-day adventure has always been the back pocket plan B to any subpar day of conditions. Nothing has given me the slightest, infinitesimal hint of pleasure and intensity that surfing has given me over the last seventeen years – until recently when I was invited on a short climbing trip to West Virginia.
The oceans and mountains share a stigma; a gravity of greatness and raw unobtainable un-relinquishing power. That power attracts a certain breed of people, a community which peruses the same result, although the modus operandi is significantly altered – a step outside of one’s comfort zone and a step towards personal growth.
In a better-late-than-never scenario, I was exposed to rock climbing through my brother and a dismal five day swell forecast. We had many shared interests growing up, but we mainly grew up on surfing. I was fortunate; I always had someone to surf with, someone to push me; the positive but persistent competition of brotherhood. Being his senior, I was naturally exposed to things before my brother and I gladly assumed the role of coach. As we got older, the role of teacher and student found its equilibrium, giving and taking from each other symbiotically. I found myself completely ignorant towards climbing and all that it entailed. Luckily for me, I’ve known my coach for my entire life.
Instantly, I became the student – another small, but substantial step towards the boundaries of my comfort zone which unknowingly doubled as the goal of my current lay-day excursion. I tenuously watched my brother set the anchors for my first top rope climbing experience on Balcony Jr. – a lesser known rock face in Harper’s Ferry, WV. This climb is measured at 67’ totally exposed (due to a clearing for power lines near the base of the climb) on top of a 200′ hands-and-knees scramble up a boulder-laden mountain side. Needless to say, I was petrified. When asked if I wanted to rappel down this dark, eerie rock, I mechanically replied, “Sure.” Acutely unaware of what I had signed up for, I began to secure my harness. The same anxiousness that bubbles up as you approach the crest of the dune crept through my body.
I fixed my rope for the rappel properly – although tentatively – through my borrowed ATC device (used to create friction on the rope to ensure a steady decent or to safely catch your climbing partner during a fall). I felt the slow, steady rise of my pulse as I stepped closer and closer to the 67’ foot precipice. Even as I write, I can feel the slickness of sweat on my palms. As I stepped over the main ledge and into the void, my legs began to shake. As I caught my first breath of wind on the tiny exposed face, the slight tremble turned to a mild stomp, as if I was imitating Elvis Presley himself.
My body’s natural survival mode kicked in; it was telling me I shouldn’t be here, not unlike surfing in this moment. I was outside of my element. Too novice and too terrified to release my death grip on the anchors, I hoisted myself back on to the main ledge with an intact, but shamefully bruised ego. I then watched my brother causally dance down the 67’ foot rappel. I was in awe.
That intensity of being hopelessly out of my comfort realm is precisely what I was seeking. All lay-days should feel like this. It’s what I came for. It’s that same intensity, excitement and danger that made my 8-year-old self wide-eyed and giddy.
As surfers, we endlessly and hopelessly read map after map, check forecast after forecast. Jump between NAM and GFS models (“what about that European one..?”), flip between NOAA, Weather Channel, Accu-weather and determine, by our own personal checklist, which is least likely full of shit. We anticipate that feeling of intensity, and when we don’t get our fix, we become cranky adolescents who can’t steal the Wi-Fi password. Ask anyone who is close with a surfer, and they’ll tell you the same. We need intensity. We seek it out.
Since I started surfing, the only other time I felt that intense surge of excitement was when I strapped on my pack, my rope, knowingly carrying only what I needed to survive for a few days, and headed into the mountains with my brother. The systematic technique of rappelling, climbing a new route; the feeling of being encapsulated by nothing but the weak fluid dynamics of moving air high above the ground and the feel of the slow, persistent cool nervous sweat diffusing through my skin is what I was searching for. That moment where the present and the future collide head on and explode into euphoria. In that moment, we are conquerors. Time is paralyzed, like exiting a deep locked-in barrel. The next moment may be the opposite.
There is an astounding realization of one’s fragility and finiteness from these moments. The realization that, long after we have left the graces of Earth, the waves will continue to break and the mountains will continue to rise. There is a certain comfort that comes from having that awareness. Yet, it is the feeling of being finitely defined that we as people seek these places out, places that are not naturally kind to the likes of man. We can’t help it; it’s rooted in our DNA.
Yea, that’s what we came for, that’s the rush we need. Even on our “lay-days.”
Whatever terrifies you – I hope you pursue it. The pursuit of our boundaries helps us grow and evolve. Opportunities are all around us, lay-day fun can become a passion. For your sake, I hope you go – when it’s onshore and flat, the mountains are always overhead and clean.
