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I’d been thinking about Thursday’s swell in California several days before it arrived. Hell, most California surfers had probably been refreshing Surfline over and over to get the latest information. It was a classic El Niño swell approaching from the west with satellite confirmed seas of 45 feet. I made sure to keep my Thursday schedule open thinking that I would have the chance to score some once-in-a-decade type novelty waves in my hometown of Santa Cruz. I set my alarm for first-light, dreaming of the waves I would ride the following day.
When I awoke Thursday morning, I browsed all of the Surfline cameras in town. Mountains of whitewash were pouring into the bay, breaking beyond the view of the cameras in many spots. No one was out… yet. Debris and telephone-pole-sized trees were drifting aimlessly through the surf. The tide was high, adding precarious backwash from the cliffs to the equation. By looking at the thick sea foam, I could see the current was pulling down the coast at alarming speeds. It was apparent that my plans of scoring epic surf were in jeopardy.
Browsing social media, news and videos of the damage caused by the swell surge were starting to circulate. The surf had flooded Rio del Mar Beach and Capitola Village. East Cliff Drive was closed in several low-lying areas, as waves were surging over the asphalt and into lagoons, leaving behind un-passable debris. Other videos showed waves splashing up and over the cliff at Steamer Lane and pummeling the already partly-destroyed pier in Capitola. It was pure carnage.
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I watched the live cams on and off all morning, seeing if anyone was brave enough to paddle out. I didn’t see anyone and figured that if no one had paddled out yet, an average Joe surfer like myself was probably not going to be the guinea pig. Still, I packed up my biggest board and wetsuit and headed down to the coast to see for myself, hoping that the dropping tide would make it more manageable.
En route to the beach, my phone started beeping as a public safety alert was issued to all cell phones. “AVOID THE COAST,” the message read. “A high surf warning and coastal flood advisory are in effect. Powerful waves will pose a threat throughout the day. Avoid beaches and low-lying coastal areas, where flooding and road closures are likely. Stay safe!”
Well, the coast was exactly where I was headed. When I arrived, I saw that everyone else in town was also ignoring the coastal warning. A parade of cars were rubbernecking at a snail’s pace down Pleasure Point to check the surf. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of people had flocked to the bluffs to see the waves for themselves. And when I got my eyes on it in person, it was just how I had imagined on the cameras. Thick sea mist from the crashing surf made it difficult to see the waves breaking on the far outside, but they were out there, hitting parts of the reef that I hadn’t seen produce waves in many years, or perhaps ever. The surge and subsequent retreat of water looked like small tsunamis, gargling around giant trees as if they were toothpicks. And unsurprisingly, there still was not one surfer out.
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As a friend and I leaned against the railing at 38th Avenue, studying the ocean and discussing a potential path to the outside, one brave surfer decided to attempt the paddle. As soon as he jumped off the stairs at 38th, the ocean started sucking him to the east. He started to fade out of sight as I could see him and his red board continually duck diving the incoming walls of white wash. When I drove down the coast to Privates to check the surf, there was the same guy, still fighting the whitewash, well on his way to Capitola more than a mile away.
The tide was still too high, but I knew that things could improve as it drained out in the afternoon, so I stuck around. And when the tide dropped, the paddle out did become marginally easier. There was slightly less current, and less backwash to negotiate at the entry points. Several surfers took advantage and paddled out on their guns, successfully making it out the back where they disappeared behind the marching lines of water. Others who attempted to follow suit were quickly thwarted by avalanches of whitewater, meeting the same fate as the first surfer with the red board.
By around 3 p.m., I could see about 10 surfers spread out across Pleasure Point. But getting in position to actually catch a wave looked like a tall task. Few waves were ridden, and those that were wrangled were bouncy, towering, powerful lumps of water without much wall. Still, the speed of the waves looked pretty fun. I started to feel the itch to paddle out myself.
Several surfers had proven the paddle out was possible, and an even smaller amount had proven that you could, in fact, catch a wave. I started going back and forth in my head. The paddle out would probably be around 30 minutes, assuming you got lucky and didn’t get washed away by a set. Then, once in the lineup, you would have to battle the current and search for a rideable peak. And once you caught the wave, you’d have to find a way out of the water. If you miss the stairs at the Hook, there is only one other staircase to scale the cliffs until you drift a mile away to Capitola. And as I was pondering my decision, two of the aforementioned giant logs capable of decapitation were swirling around with pieces of plywood by the staircase at 38th, making that entry/exit point rather dangerous.
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At one point I thought I had convinced myself. “I’m going out,” I said. “I’ll paddle out at 36th, try to push through the incessant whitewash, and catch one wave to the Hook. That’s all I need. Just one wave.” But the rational side of my brain started to protest. I would have to paddle my ass off on my under-sized 6’4’’, duck dive dozens and dozens of waves, hope that I make it out, search for a rideable wave, and skillfully navigate the floating debris to make it out at one of the few staircases. All that for a bouncy, albeit large and powerful, mushy wave. I decided that the reward did not compensate for the risk and effort required. I turned around and started the walk back to my car.
When I was driving home, I couldn’t kick the feeling that I should have paddled out, or at least tried to nab one of those giant waves. How often do I get that chance in Santa Cruz? However, throughout my nearly two-decades of surfing, I’ve also learned that my gut feeling is usually reliable. One of my lifelong lessons in surfing is that when you check a spot, if you don’t see other surfers getting good waves, there’s probably a reason for that. Unless you are a pro, you probably aren’t going to be getting good waves either. That was most likely the case today. I arrived home, and, of course, switched on the Surfline cams to see if anyone got a wave that would have made me wish I paddled out. I didn’t see any. The swell of the season (so far) lived up to the hype, but didn’t deliver the quality surf that I was hoping for. However, there are still a few months of El Niño remaining. There are plenty of bright days certainly on the horizon.
