The sun is shining. The winds are light and off-shore. And the air temperature is a warm 80 degrees. The swell is high and the tide is low, and I’m sitting on my lanai watching the sets peel off of the reef in front of my house. I’m surfed out and it’s only noon, already a three hour session in the morning. And so I sit, wait for my muscles to have some strength again and sip the beer in my hand. But it wasn’t always like this…
The sea is gray and the sun is never out. The winds are heavy and the water cold. Huge, overbearing northwest swell pummel the coastline with accompanying gale. And we’re putting on out wetsuits. Stretching the neoprene around our feet, and over our shoulders, and pulling wet booties over cold, blue feet. Scrubbing very soft cold water wax on the decks of our (certainly too small) surfboards. Trotting along the crunchy sand and into the gray, tumultuous, ocean. .
As our foursome wades into the shore-break, icy water begins to seep into our thin armor. But nevertheless we continue, pushing past foam and backwash. The water deepens and we start to paddle, mentally preparing for the frigid duck-dives under the outside sets. And without incident we make it out, panting and feeling the repression of the rubber suits which insulate our bodies. Even through the cold, that rain, and the looming close-outs we’re out there. And its fun.
I think I appreciate the waves, weather and wind here because of where I’m from. The cold, the close-outs and the current made me a tougher surfer, and a more thankful one. My home rooted me in sand bottom beaches, and I’ve been trans-planted onto coral reefs.
ross
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Two Feet
The waves never get over two feet. Head-high and barreling…two feet. Ankle-slapping dribble and blown-out…two feet. Epic long-period northwest swell with off-shore winds…still two feet. The waves never get over two feet.
I was shuffling my feet in the foam dust on the floor and looking at a picture of my boss getting tubed on a glassy over-head wave. He came out of the glassing room and catching my gaze, asked what I thought of the picture. “How big was it that day?” I asked with youthful enthusiasm. “Two feet”, he replied, my smile turning up into a confused grimace. “How could that be two feet?” I thought as I shuffled the dust into swell lines on the floor. The wave was over his head, he is almost six feet tall…therefore in my single year of college logic, that wave was eight feet!
That weekend he and I went surfing. We went to a local sand bar that always had waves no matter how asleep the pacific was. Looking at the swell from the cliffs I could see double-overhead peaks exploding onto the shallow sand-bars. “Looks like some fun little two-footers out there.”, as he suited up and strapped on the leash to his 6’6” mini-gun. Once again I was confused, the waves were huge! Bigger than I thought it would be. And me, shaking in the cold clutching my standard 6’0” shorty, “Two feet…” I chuckled to myself as I waded in the shore-dump.
And we fast forward two years, past big swells, two girl-friends, and a year and a half of somewhat attending higher education. I’m 20 years old and enjoying the sun and the warm trade winds caressing the waves on Oahu’s south shore. A new, solid southern hemisphere swell was hitting and i'm getting ready to paddle out. My new friend is beside me, a local boy who to my surprise estimates the wave height at “Two footah, brah”. And again I don’t understand. The sets are almost head-high. Hollow, long rights are screaming along the depth-challenged coral bottom. A very critical wave, if you asked my opinion. But i’m out there, surfing the “Two footah’s.”
The next day, the swell had died, leaving the local crew scratching their heads in disbelief. I brought a long board to try and milk the swell, and curiously asked a new friend how it was looking, “Small kine two’s.”, he replied under a thick pidgin accent. “Out there anyway.” I said as I walked down the staircase to the water. Barely knee-high sets were crumbling, and for the first time I thought two feet was and over-statement.
But, surfing the slop, I came to the realization that all surfers eventually come to. Size is relative and inherently, unimportant. Two feet is the standard, downplayed, optimistic or accurate wave measurement. Two feet can be big, small, hollow or mush but one things for sure… When you ask someone how big it is (your local shaper, or the local in the parking lot) and they say “Six feet”, bring a friend to take pictures, because it will probably be the swell of the year.
I was shuffling my feet in the foam dust on the floor and looking at a picture of my boss getting tubed on a glassy over-head wave. He came out of the glassing room and catching my gaze, asked what I thought of the picture. “How big was it that day?” I asked with youthful enthusiasm. “Two feet”, he replied, my smile turning up into a confused grimace. “How could that be two feet?” I thought as I shuffled the dust into swell lines on the floor. The wave was over his head, he is almost six feet tall…therefore in my single year of college logic, that wave was eight feet!
That weekend he and I went surfing. We went to a local sand bar that always had waves no matter how asleep the pacific was. Looking at the swell from the cliffs I could see double-overhead peaks exploding onto the shallow sand-bars. “Looks like some fun little two-footers out there.”, as he suited up and strapped on the leash to his 6’6” mini-gun. Once again I was confused, the waves were huge! Bigger than I thought it would be. And me, shaking in the cold clutching my standard 6’0” shorty, “Two feet…” I chuckled to myself as I waded in the shore-dump.
And we fast forward two years, past big swells, two girl-friends, and a year and a half of somewhat attending higher education. I’m 20 years old and enjoying the sun and the warm trade winds caressing the waves on Oahu’s south shore. A new, solid southern hemisphere swell was hitting and i'm getting ready to paddle out. My new friend is beside me, a local boy who to my surprise estimates the wave height at “Two footah, brah”. And again I don’t understand. The sets are almost head-high. Hollow, long rights are screaming along the depth-challenged coral bottom. A very critical wave, if you asked my opinion. But i’m out there, surfing the “Two footah’s.”
The next day, the swell had died, leaving the local crew scratching their heads in disbelief. I brought a long board to try and milk the swell, and curiously asked a new friend how it was looking, “Small kine two’s.”, he replied under a thick pidgin accent. “Out there anyway.” I said as I walked down the staircase to the water. Barely knee-high sets were crumbling, and for the first time I thought two feet was and over-statement.
But, surfing the slop, I came to the realization that all surfers eventually come to. Size is relative and inherently, unimportant. Two feet is the standard, downplayed, optimistic or accurate wave measurement. Two feet can be big, small, hollow or mush but one things for sure… When you ask someone how big it is (your local shaper, or the local in the parking lot) and they say “Six feet”, bring a friend to take pictures, because it will probably be the swell of the year.
The Sound of Silence
You’re sick of the crowds. The fucking relentless, frothing, grom-laced, pop-out, vertra covered crowds. Fifty guys taxing two peaks. You’re in the middle of it. You’ve been paddling in circles for two hours, desperately scratching to get something to yourself, coming up short every time, when the John-John look-alike drops in on you. It’s like this 90 percent of the time. It’s either; flat, crowded, blown-out, shark infested or black-balled ... or, its all of those. Fortunately, today, it’s only crowded. You tell yourself it’s the penance paid for days you’ve had it alone …
Woken up early by the ungodly ringing of your alarm. Rolling out of bed using pure hope to thrust yourself into the world of darkness. Your wetsuit is holding true to its name, still dripping with yesterday’s session. You drape a sweatshirt over yourself, and pull jeans over sandy feet. Tripping over the dog, you stumble to your car and head to the haven of am/pm. The clerk mumbles good morning as you make your way to the coffee. It comes out to a buck-seven. You only have a dollar. Seven cents owed to Am/Pm, making a mental note as you slouch back into the wax-stained seats of your car.
The sun starts to win the fight against the night, peeking around the moon as if looking to see if it’s safe. The parking lot is empty sans the old man putting bait fish into a pail. In between the walls, and through the alley you spy a lone knee-boarder duck-dive a clean, head high wall of ocean. It feathers and peels like a wave from Surfer Magazine. Wondering what was in the coffee, you realize that this isn’t a mirage. There is only one guy out. It’s glassy. It’s perfect.
You suit up, and scrub wax on the deck. Amping from the caffeine, it takes you half a minute to make your way out into the line-up. Then you hear it ... The sound that comes when you are alone in a normally crowded place. Hearing nothing when there is normally, abundant noise. The approaching set only whispers as it rolls and breaks into a perfect A-frame. The other soul occupying the perfection has since gone in, leaving you to abuse every wave that comes. Going as vertical as your simple talent allows, you don’t even fall. Endless walls of water catering to every whim and impulse. Getting covered for a moment, traveling back into the womb of the ocean. For five hours, you make yourself a whore to the sea. Alone. It’s quiet. Only the thoughts of your mind interrupt the tranquility.
For two days, the perfect day repeated itself. The swell nor the tide, the wind nor the crowd, changed. Time stood still, with a fiberglass and foam time machine as your vessel. Those moments make up for the days when it’s so crowded you feel worse after a session, than before. The times when all you want to do is hit the lip so hard it rattles the earth, and you’re stuck with ankle high swell. The times when the only thing that matters is being alone, and you are sharing waves with the entire world. We do it for that 10 percent. That’s why we endure the 90.
ross
Woken up early by the ungodly ringing of your alarm. Rolling out of bed using pure hope to thrust yourself into the world of darkness. Your wetsuit is holding true to its name, still dripping with yesterday’s session. You drape a sweatshirt over yourself, and pull jeans over sandy feet. Tripping over the dog, you stumble to your car and head to the haven of am/pm. The clerk mumbles good morning as you make your way to the coffee. It comes out to a buck-seven. You only have a dollar. Seven cents owed to Am/Pm, making a mental note as you slouch back into the wax-stained seats of your car.
The sun starts to win the fight against the night, peeking around the moon as if looking to see if it’s safe. The parking lot is empty sans the old man putting bait fish into a pail. In between the walls, and through the alley you spy a lone knee-boarder duck-dive a clean, head high wall of ocean. It feathers and peels like a wave from Surfer Magazine. Wondering what was in the coffee, you realize that this isn’t a mirage. There is only one guy out. It’s glassy. It’s perfect.
You suit up, and scrub wax on the deck. Amping from the caffeine, it takes you half a minute to make your way out into the line-up. Then you hear it ... The sound that comes when you are alone in a normally crowded place. Hearing nothing when there is normally, abundant noise. The approaching set only whispers as it rolls and breaks into a perfect A-frame. The other soul occupying the perfection has since gone in, leaving you to abuse every wave that comes. Going as vertical as your simple talent allows, you don’t even fall. Endless walls of water catering to every whim and impulse. Getting covered for a moment, traveling back into the womb of the ocean. For five hours, you make yourself a whore to the sea. Alone. It’s quiet. Only the thoughts of your mind interrupt the tranquility.
For two days, the perfect day repeated itself. The swell nor the tide, the wind nor the crowd, changed. Time stood still, with a fiberglass and foam time machine as your vessel. Those moments make up for the days when it’s so crowded you feel worse after a session, than before. The times when all you want to do is hit the lip so hard it rattles the earth, and you’re stuck with ankle high swell. The times when the only thing that matters is being alone, and you are sharing waves with the entire world. We do it for that 10 percent. That’s why we endure the 90.
ross
Stealing Surfing
I'm hurt… deep down torn, at the very core of who I am. I’m feeling as if everything I am, is cheapened, and stolen from me. My identity has been stripped and processed into a mold where it can be re-produced at the flip of a switch. And it all started with three words; “yeah, I surf”.
The threesome of words entered in my ears, bypassed my brain and stuck firmly in my heart. It was so casual, so easy to say, and so hurtful. As surfers we are separated from the masses and connected with the ocean. When someone infringes on our connection… we feel used. And when someone utters a phrase that we certainly know to be untrue, it hurts.
I can’t explain to him what he just said, and how much he has affected me by a careless choice of words. I lower my head and try to swallow the rising lump in my throat. Fighting back a flood of emotions, I’m using a surge of self-control to keep from hurling a barrage of expletives at this poser.
But at the same time I stop, take a breath, and realize something. I can’t explain to him why this hurt me so much. He won’t understand. He has never seen the beauty, the perfection and the power of the sea. And in a way I dint want him to know, surfing is mine, don’t steal it from me.
ross
The threesome of words entered in my ears, bypassed my brain and stuck firmly in my heart. It was so casual, so easy to say, and so hurtful. As surfers we are separated from the masses and connected with the ocean. When someone infringes on our connection… we feel used. And when someone utters a phrase that we certainly know to be untrue, it hurts.
I can’t explain to him what he just said, and how much he has affected me by a careless choice of words. I lower my head and try to swallow the rising lump in my throat. Fighting back a flood of emotions, I’m using a surge of self-control to keep from hurling a barrage of expletives at this poser.
But at the same time I stop, take a breath, and realize something. I can’t explain to him why this hurt me so much. He won’t understand. He has never seen the beauty, the perfection and the power of the sea. And in a way I dint want him to know, surfing is mine, don’t steal it from me.
ross
For my Father
A lot of dads surf. Mine doesn’t. But, the lack of having him in the water with me makes thoughts of him ever more present. I think of it when, after a session I see some kid peeling off his wetsuit with his dad there helping the cumbersome process. In the water the father-son bond is even more prevalent. Hooting your progeny through a floater, or even sharing a wave with a parent, evokes feelings that I haven’t been able to feel. The bond between son and father is multiplied when the medium through which they are connected is something as spiritual as the ocean.
You could say i'm jealous, maybe even a little cynical towards the family surf session. But more than resentment i've learned to show my father what surfing means to me. He may not be in the water, but he is still there in spirit. Ill tell him about the waves I caught, the dolphins I saw, or the new friends I made. I explain swell, wind and tide to try to paint a better picture for him. And slowly, my dad starts to be there with me. The post-surf briefing no longer starts with a comment from me. He engages and asks about the conditions, how I did and what I saw.
He may never get to experience what it feels like to get tubed or the first breath of air after getting held under, but he can live those things through me. No longer do we search for that common ground for conversation. We have made our own ground, and found it with the sea. I am a surfer, and my dad is not. And, we can still be stoked together.
ross
You could say i'm jealous, maybe even a little cynical towards the family surf session. But more than resentment i've learned to show my father what surfing means to me. He may not be in the water, but he is still there in spirit. Ill tell him about the waves I caught, the dolphins I saw, or the new friends I made. I explain swell, wind and tide to try to paint a better picture for him. And slowly, my dad starts to be there with me. The post-surf briefing no longer starts with a comment from me. He engages and asks about the conditions, how I did and what I saw.
He may never get to experience what it feels like to get tubed or the first breath of air after getting held under, but he can live those things through me. No longer do we search for that common ground for conversation. We have made our own ground, and found it with the sea. I am a surfer, and my dad is not. And, we can still be stoked together.
ross
Thank You,
The ocean reflects my mood with its color. The sky mirrors the sea. Both a gun-metal gray, in sync with how I feel. Its early April, a day that in the coming years I will not forget. My parents divorced today, and for condolence I have turned to the coast. The break from land to water seems to understand its symbolic look. My family is breaking in two, and once again I’m looking for the answers in the waves.
It’s clean, but foggy. Chest-high rollers calmly crumble into foam of white-water before re-forming into the shore-break. It’s far from perfect, but perfection is something I don’t need. I unload my single-fin egg and without a leash, plunge into the brine. I sit alone for a while not even paddling at the available swells. Just being immersed, my mind awash with pictures and talks of my two new families. As my mood darkens even more, a four foot siren lures me away with a lone peak about to break. Two swift strokes and I am gliding across the smooth face of my own personal counselor. No turns, just slow, effortless movement on water. I kick out and slowly make my way back to my tranquil state of mind.
The surf erases my worries, my fear and most of all my hurt. And for a while, I feel better. Somehow lulled into a sense that everything will be ok. And for this I thank you, giving praise to something that has been; a parent, a teacher, a friend, an addiction and a blessing. Nature’s therapist and my personal savior; the ocean, the sea and the waves.
Thank you,
ross
It’s clean, but foggy. Chest-high rollers calmly crumble into foam of white-water before re-forming into the shore-break. It’s far from perfect, but perfection is something I don’t need. I unload my single-fin egg and without a leash, plunge into the brine. I sit alone for a while not even paddling at the available swells. Just being immersed, my mind awash with pictures and talks of my two new families. As my mood darkens even more, a four foot siren lures me away with a lone peak about to break. Two swift strokes and I am gliding across the smooth face of my own personal counselor. No turns, just slow, effortless movement on water. I kick out and slowly make my way back to my tranquil state of mind.
The surf erases my worries, my fear and most of all my hurt. And for a while, I feel better. Somehow lulled into a sense that everything will be ok. And for this I thank you, giving praise to something that has been; a parent, a teacher, a friend, an addiction and a blessing. Nature’s therapist and my personal savior; the ocean, the sea and the waves.
Thank you,
ross
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