Classic Ocean Beach, nearly double overhead. Don’t even try and paddle out without finding a rip. Image: Ferraris
When I first moved to the San Francisco Bay Area I immediately sought out a beach. Mostly because I had a dog who loves to swim and run free, but also because I enjoy the tranquility of being close the ocean.
Ocean Beach, the six-mile long beach that stretches the whole west coast of San Francisco, isn’t exactly a place you soak up the rays and sip fruity drinks. It’s often foggy with rough surf and dangerous tides that habitually and tragically suck people out into the cold abyss, never to be found again. Even with summer on the horizon I am out there with my dog, wearing a parka and pants while it’s foggy and drizzling. Many days it’s completely deserted here, save for dog people like myself and the loyal talented surfers who brave these icy waters and big waves OB is known for. After a few months of watching them I made the decision: I’m going to get out there and learn. I can sit on the shore no longer as an onlooker. It looks too fun, and I can’t fight the FOMO any longer.
So I signed up for a lesson—not at Ocean Beach, but 20 minutes down the coast in the calmer waters of Pacifica. Of the ten-person group surf lesson I was the only one to show up. After the first 30 minutes I was up on some whitewater with a huge grin until losing my balance and flopping off. Hands and feet numb from the 50-something degree water and pure childlike bliss, I surfed that day for three hours and didn’t have enough arm strength left to peel off my wetsuit. But I was hooked.
For several months I would go out to that spot nearly every weekend and it was mostly not great. Some days it would be so huge I was basically just getting smashed around the whole time, or couldn’t paddle my big board through the impact zone. Other times it was flat like a lake. Occasionally it would break right on the shore. There were windy and choppy days. There were days where the beach was closed from contamination, and even a day where the coast guard spotted great whites traveling in a group nearby. I would check the reports day after day, only to see it was still 10+ feet and sometimes even 20+ feet (thanks El Nino), which is great for good surfers but bad for beginners like me. After a winter of many bad days I questioned my whole surfing life. I had put in so many hours. Every time I came home from surfing my husband would ask how many waves I’d caught, and quite often the answer was “zero.” The whole reason I started surfing is because it’s fun. But I wasn’t having fun anymore. I was sitting in the ocean, often at the crack of dawn, cold and frustrated that I wasn’t progressing. I wanted some good waves, damnit!
Finally, it seemed we were done with El Nino (sorry to all you good surfers) and the surf started to settle into its normal conditions. I went out last weekend and had an epic day, catching too many waves to count. I surfed until my arms ached and I couldn’t paddle back out any more. At one point, as I was cruising into shore, I caught myself grinning like an idiot and thinking how I couldn’t wait for my husband to ask me how many waves I’d caught. It turns out all those days of getting tossed around and paddling out hard against big surf payed off. Once a good day rolled around, my arms were strong and I knew what I was doing—finally. I had my timing down and could easily pop up…and stay up…and even turn.
As I struggled to peel off my wetsuit afterward I was already planning the next session, and probably still grinning like an idiot. It just took one good day to make up for the bad ones. And the fact that the whole process was so difficult for me makes it that much more rewarding.
I can’t wait to get back out. Maybe some day I’ll even get out to Ocean Beach…eventually.
