Any time you see this pose, this line, you know there’s a cool shape of foam under those feet.
Something felt off the moment I took off on that left. It wasn’t the swell, because that was a fun, though unspectacular southwest that had been spitting out two and three-foot faces for me all morning. It wasn’t the weather, settling into the high-60s without a cloud daring to blemish the huge expanse of blue sky above. It wasn’t the water, clear as can be and finally starting to warm after a long, chilly winter season. But something was certainly off, and as I finished my bottom turn and tried to drive up toward the lip, I knew. I knew it was over. I surfed the wave, managing a pair of meager turns that lacked any of their typical exuberance.
As I kicked out I felt the urge to just paddle back into the lineup; I didn’t want to look. Knowing I had to, I sunk into the water, allowing my head to slowly submerge as if the beloved Pacific would cleanse me of the dread that had seeped in, just as it had washed away countless troubles before. This time the feeling remained. Water ran into my eyes as my head broke the surface and I did nothing to wipe it away. I did not want to see what I was about to see.
With a deep breath I flipped over my cherished 6’0” twin fin fish and surveyed the situation. It was then that the nightmare became a reality. My eyes settled on the massive indent in that gorgeous blue epoxy, crude fissures outlining the section of the stick that must have taken the reef in a seemingly innocuous wipeout one wave prior. This was no ding. It wasn’t something a little resin could take care of and nothing a trip to the surf shop could remedy. This was a kill shot.
My heart sank. The session was over, but it was more than that. It was the end of a four-year love affair that saw me ride a single board whether it was two feet and mushy or six feet and hollow. I gave away my thrusters, content to live aboard my smooth machine for what would be an eternity as far as I was concerned. I needed no quiver. I needed no fancy fin setups or hybrids. My fish took to the ocean like a shortfin mako, sleek and swift, racing down the line just in time to get to that closeout section for one last thrash.
I can barely recall the wave that took my fish away. The next wave is the one that’s burned into my brain, leaving me to feel the powerlessness of my vessel. That wave is etched in my memory as clear as some of my most treasured rides.
I’ll miss that fish forever. It was more than just a surfboard; it was a part of my life and a part of me. Whether it’s weaving in and out of crowds of summer waders or duck-diving that first wave of a frigid February dawn patrol session, I have the fondest of memories of my friend. But it’s absence will haunt me for a while. The void is palpable and the what-ifs unbearable. What could have I done differently? What if I hadn’t paddled for that wave? How did it happen on such a small day?
I’ll never know, but there is one thing I am sure of; there are other fish in the sea.
