In the end, the hunt pays off. Photo: Matt Aden
After four years in San Diego, I have one month of access to a legendary wave on a military base in California before I move to Panama City Beach, Florida, and then to Virginia Beach for three years. I plan on making the most of my time here.
I walk towards the bursts of spray erupting over the wall of boulders. Past the 1960s abandoned lab where government testing was performed on the bodies of washed up surfers. Through the clouds of mosquitoes kind enough to suck all the blood out of my veins to keep me safe from sharks, and I’m there.
It’s a mosh pit. Waves criss-cross and double up, pitching over into spitting barrels that smash into the rocks. They’re all over the place, pummeling the beach. It’s going to be a long month.
Day 1: Two people in the water. I paddle out into the mess, very unsure of myself. And it shows. Waves roll under me, they pitch me over the falls, and generally have their way with me. I barely emerge with a couple rides after 2 1/2 hours and a better understanding of where not to wait for sets.
Day 2: More of the same. The current is ripping. A couple guys are getting shacked wave after wave for their third session that day. Their happiness pisses me off. I shy away, pouting by myself on the more inconsistent waves out of their way, trying to shut up the voices in my head and desperately in need of a pair. After a few mediocre shoulders, I go in, well after the sun, and sprint the half mile back to my camper with the whine of thousands of mosquitoes on my heels.
Day 3: The swell really came up. Wasn’t able to get in the water because of work. Not because I was still skittish. Not at all.
Day 4: Swell is still holding. Well overhead spitting lefts are pumping through. I wait until most people are gone and then I get crushed. I can’t figure these waves out. The nice ones roll under me, stalling right as I pop up and roll towards shore laughing at my feeble attempts. The mean ones just throw me over the falls, reunite me with the ground I should have stayed on, and hold me there to consider what the hell I’m doing. My pop-ups become more hesitant as the voices get louder. The sun is down. The seals are laughing at me while they fish. It’s dark, rocky and just feels sharky. I’m done.
I’m never going to get this wave. I’m never going to grow a pair. I’m never going to get barreled.
I decide to turn to the only things you can reliably turn to when you’re truly lost – beer and Google: “How to get barreled.”
Article one: “It’s all about the confidence.” Well, shit. I watch videos and read articles late into the night. I make a choice. I’m going to see the green room on this wave in my last month on the left coast.
Day 5: Surf check says still big. Back in the camper I wrestle with my self doubt. I meditate. I visualize and notice I immediately see myself doing my typical timid, board-stalling, straight-legged, off-balance pop up. I’ve been trying to fix this for four years, and nothing in my life has been more difficult. I keep visualizing. Eventually, the images blend with the ideal, if faintly. Time to go.
After a few failed attempts in the water, my monkey mind is back in full swing. Screeching, laughing, mocking, throwing poo. “They’re all gonna laugh at you!” it screams.
I hate those damn monkeys.
I tell myself to slow down, be here now. And maybe, just maybe, enjoy it? Don’t take myself to seriously? That sounds ridiculous.
Finally, I catch a good one. It wasn’t pretty, but it was enough to put a smile on my face.
Day 6: Still hesitant to go out. It’s big, and there are a lot of people out there who really know what they’re doing. I decide not to force it. I’ll go watch. I see where they’re lining up. I realize it’s not just me who has trouble in these waves, who misses some or gets pounded here and there. Weird. Then I see an older guy perfectly pop up, with confidence and aggression, and then he just rips it. Something clicked in me. I felt his movement, his attitude, and it stuck. I’m ready to surf.
I catch a couple little guys, nothing special but starting to get close to a rhythm. It’s getting dark. The swell is dying. I wait. I get pulled out of position. I get caught inside.
Then I see it.
This one’s mine.
Yup.
Mine! Paddle, paddle, paddle NOW!
Boom.
Perfect position. Knees bent, weight centered. Perfect. It felt like sex. I can’t believe it, and I almost fall off. It’s short, but the fastest wave I’ve ever caught. I’ve been dreaming of this feeling for four years. I’ve worked harder and been more frustrated with it (and myself) than with anything else in my life, and it was better than I could have ever dreamed.
