Could you potentially surf the exact same energy in two spots? Puerto Escondido to Malibu. Photos: (L) Doug Falter (R)Kevin Jansen
Waves are interesting things. When you really think about what you’re actually riding when you stand up on a surfboard, it’s pretty much a miracle. That lump of water took a whole lot of Mother Nature’s power just to end up under your feet. From thousands of miles away, energy from storms whips up the ocean, forming waves. If a storm is too close to shore, those waves aren’t all that great for surfing; choppy and mixed up, they don’t often offer anything other than a few steep drops followed by a whole lot of nothing. If, however, those storms are far away, the waves have a chance to comb their hair and put on their party dresses, so to speak. The further they travel, the more organized they become and the more we like them.
One of the coolest things about a big swell is watching it light up different spots as it makes its way along a coastline. So let’s say, for the sake of saying something, that you wanted to surf the exact same energy that created a wave in two very different places–surfing one wave in one place, then jumping in a plane and beating the leftover energy to another place. Would that be possible?
Of course, it all depends on the speed the wave travels and where you’re going to be surfing. So let’s just assign two random spots that both work on a south swell: Puerto Escondido and Malibu. A storm starts swirling its way north from somewhere off of Chile. Shit is going nuts down there–huge waves are pounding the rocky coastline, and much of it is unsurfable. This is a big storm. But, as the waves it produced move north up the coast and into Mexico, they’re not so cranky. They’ve had their morning coffee, and all that nastiness has morphed into perfectly groomed lines, marching north, like a watery bird migration.
Wave speed, however, depends entirely on the period of the swell. According to wave genius Sean Collins, “the speed of travel of the deep water swell group will be 1.5 times the swell period.” So, for the sake of our hypothetical, let’s assign our swell a period of 20 seconds, because we’re making it up, and that would be awesome. Also, for the sake of the story, I’m going to make you into the best surfer on the planet, because I like you.
Swell period is the time between two waves passing the same stationary point. The longer the period, the greater the distance it has traveled, and the more powerful it is. Puerto Escondido at 20 seconds would not be a place for the faint of heart, but it’s easier for my shitty math skills to figure out that a 20 second period works out to be a wave speed of 30 nautical miles per hour, and you’re the best surfer on the planet, so you ain’t scared.
Since nautical miles per hour aren’t the same as regular miles per hour, we’ve got to convert that to see just how long it’s going to take for that same swell, once it passes Puerto, to reach the point at Malibu, where Laird will undoubtedly be waiting on his SUP. Thirty nautical mph works out to just about 35 mph. With a distance of about 2400 miles from Puerto to Malibu, that same swell would trip over Malibu somewhere around 68 hours later.
So you’re at massive Puerto Escondido, trading huge barrels with Mark Healey and Greg Long. You are scoring like you’ve never scored before. Mark and Greg and stunned by your courage. After you casually pull out of one particular giant Mexican tube–which, in reality, was the best wave of your entire life–you make it to the sand, where a bunch of adoring tourists are awestruck by your surfing prowess. You will remember that wave for the rest of your life, but you’re tired of massive beach break, and you’d like to surf a perfect point. This swell is going to be perfect for Malibu.
From the beach to the international airport (PXM), you’re looking at about a half hour of travel time, if you do it right. Your flight is booked, because you are the best surfer on the planet, and someone is looking after that stuff for you. After waiting for, say, two hours, you’re sitting on your plane, taxiing for takeoff, sipping on a rum and coke while saltwater pours out of your nose onto your customs form.
For the sake of the hypothetical again, you’re sitting on a Boeing 747–a pretty common international plane with an average cruising speed of 550 mph. Since you got out of the water, it’s been about three hours. Your flight will take an average of eight hours, because although you’re the best big wave surfer in the world, your sponsors aren’t springing for a Learjet. That puts you at Los Angeles International around 11 hours after you were spat out of that heaving barrel at Puerto. Mark and Greg are still back in Mexico, eating fish and talking about how great you are at surfing, and how they wish they could surf like you. “Balls like a bull!” says Greg, fish bones and cilantro between his teeth.
After you land, you taxi around the mess that is LAX for an hour. Then you walk through customs, and since its LAX and you’ve just come from Mexico, you spend two hours waiting in line and trying not to look nervous although you have nothing to be nervous about. It has now been 14 hours since Puerto, and the first fingers of the swell you were surfing are working their way steadily closer. You can almost smell it.
Since you had your phone turned off in Mexico (those roaming charges are a bitch!), when you turn it on, you’ve got a message from Laird Hamilton. He just won’t stop calling you. Every time there’s a bit of swell in Los Angeles, he’s blowing up your shit like you’re best friends. But you need a ride, so you call him back. From Laird’s house near in Malibu, the drive to LAX is about an hour and a half. He’s there in two, because he had to comb his hair and stress over which shirt he should wear for you. After a two hour drive back to Laird’s place (traffic leaving the airport was bad), you’re sitting on his porch drinking some kind of healthy blender drink full of kale that he made for you. It has now been 18 hours since you left Greg and Mark with their jaws somewhere at the bottom of the Pacific.
After a ten hour sleep, Laird’s very beautiful wife, Gabrielle Reese, wakes you up with fresh squeezed orange juice and a plate of scrambled eggs that Laird made for you. He watches you eat it from the foot of your bed, legs crossed, chin on hands, asking you over and over if they’re good enough. Twenty-eight hours after you became the mayor of Tubetown, Mexico, you’re in Laird’s guest room eating eggs, and Malibu is just starting to light up with the forerunners of that same swell.
You’re early–the same window of swell that you rode in Mexico won’t hit for another 40 hours, but you’re well on your way. After a day of warming up on increasingly bigger and better waves, Gabby’s pampering, and Laird showing you how many pushups he can do, the day is finally upon you: You can potentially surf the exact same energy that created that wave that was the best wave of your life in Mexico.
You and Laird hop in his matte-black Hummer (or whatever he drives), and head down to Malibu. It is firing, á la Hurricane Marie. Waves are stacking from Third point, connecting all the way through, and Allan Sarlo has already shot the pier nineteen times. Somewhere out there, you think, that same Mexican energy that created the wave of a lifetime is sprinting towards you… and you will be on it. Same energy, two different spots.
Laird paddles out on his paddleboard, looking stoically toward the horizon, flexing his triceps and making sure you’re still behind him. “How you like those tris?” he asks. “Do I look good from behind?”
After a few hours, a certain feeling comes over you. Checking your watch, you count backwards. It has been exactly 68 hours since that Mexican barrel. Conditions are nearly perfect: Double overhead waves are pouring through, with relatively easy drops. Taking a high line rockets you through the sections at Second Point and towards the pier, where beautiful women have been throwing their undergarments at you while you surf. On paddling back out, a set different from all the rest darkens the horizon, and you just know: this is the same run of stormy energy that gave you that perfect wave in Puerto Escondido. Sprint-paddling for the peak, there’s no one around. It is your wave. A quick spin, a perfect drop, and you set your line, pointed towards glory. You are surfing the same wave in Malibu that you surfed in Puerto Escondido, some 68 hours before.
Your brain is alight; all your emotions are on hyperdrive. Adrenaline is flooding your brain, endorphins are spilling out of your ears. You have done it. Then, out of nowhere, Laird appears, stroking hard, his paddle flashing through the misty, salty air. There is a pause, and time slows down. And then it happens. Laird drops in on you.
