#2. I’m not planning to make a habit out of writing in second person, but for the sake of making these surf-related posts somewhat less repetitive, let me try to tell you what it would have been like if you were there.

You haven’t surfed in weeks and before that hadn’t surfed in weeks. You’ve drifted into starting the day checking Facebook instead of the buoys. You walk past your surfboards on the porch daily and feel almost as guilty as when the unwalked dog would quiver as you were leaving. “Are you going to take me? Are you? Are you?” But no, you were only going to the car, not the beach for the dog, not the beach for yourself. Just to work or the grocery store or the gym. You should sell it all, you’d mutter. Give it to someone who actually surfed. A surfer. Not like you, some chick who owns some boards and never uses them.

But the holidays passed, you survived, and the swell, someone said, was a nice, fun-size. Also you need to take your teenage son out, give him something constructive, physical, outdoorsy to do with his time. “We’re going surfing after school,” you tell him. And then you make it happen.

But first, you get hung up at work, complications on a phone call. He’s loitering in your office reading Savage Henry magazines. You’ve got to get out of there and into the waning day. Blue skies all week, so calm the bay remains glass, even into the afternoon. You finish, drive home, long shadows stretching across the cow pastures, the dunes, your driveway. You throw the longboards in the truck — you’re both out of practice and 5 at 7 sounds like it’ll be fairly small and maybe mushy — wetsuits, booties, gloves — the water temp’s hovering around 49 degree you noticed when you looked at the buoy earlier.

You can’t see the sun as you motor down the peninsula. It’s still winter-south and too low in the sky. You power out the back road, not needing 4WD and park below the fog horn. It sounds every couple seconds, blaring over your head as you and your son race to the top of the dunes to scout the waves. The sun has set. You see surfers. Conditions appear a little on the junky side, but there are waves and people on them and no time to wonder. The two of you suit up, traverse the sand, plunge in. New booties and gloves — you’re toasty, even in the 49 degree water and 40 degree air.

You step toward the rocks until you’re waist-deep, then slide on your board and paddle for the channel. The rip current pulls you out. You’ve passed these rocks hundreds of times. You love this place, but  you never confuse the ocean with something sentimental. You love it, but it doesn’t give a fuck about you. You don’t mind at all. It doesn’t need to. It just is. This beautiful, terrifying, roiling, mysterious, populated-with-bizarro-creatures entity that covers 70 percent of our planet — we’ve polluted it, trashed it, exploited it, celebrated it and here it is, feeling like home even as you know you’re completely out of your element. A broken leash or great white would remind you of that, you think, and then you’ve reached the line-up and shake the philosophy and the bad memories right out of your head.

The sky darkens in the east, glows yellow-green along the horizon, stretches orange and pink from east to west, all of it softly morphing from one color to the next so imperceptibly, so gently, you feel your breath stop, just for a moment.

A wave comes, you go. And like that, you’re up. It closes out, you falter, fall, climb back on, paddle around. You want five waves, you told your son. Four rights and then a bigger left in. Another waves comes almost immediately. This one’s a left, so you change your plan. The left peels and peels and peels some more. You slide up to the top of the wave, drop back down, repeat. It continues. You’re grinning, you’re flying. This is the wave that made it worth it.

And then two more fast steep rights. The first one, you catch yourself bending at the waist to not fall, 90 degrees of kookdom. The second, you bend at the knees – what a difference a proper stance makes.

The horizon is still orange, but darkness is settling in. You wave at your kid, “We need to go in soon!” He agrees. The last wave curse kicks in. You sit. You shiver. You worry about the night coming on fast. You paddle back into position – the current pulls you north again. Finally, a set. Your son catches a left. You follow on one of your own. It goes and goes and then goes right. You make it almost to shore, ocean so shallow that when you jump off your board, you’re only knee-deep.

The last bit of sunlight wanes as you pass out the gate. The magic lingers.

#3: Fun morning session under a blue sky.

#4: Fun morning session in dense fog.

Losing track again. Drowning in obligations, fun and otherwise, and too busy trying to breathe to breathe.

#51: Crescent City, too hungover from my friend’s annual Dia de Los Muertos party to  truly revel in the perfect, warm, sunny, windless weather or the lovely head-high glassy rights and lefts the ocean served up. A shame. 

#52, #53: The fall continues to boast gorgeous skies and an astonishing lack of wind. 

#54: Tried out my new birthday board. A bunch of friends pitched in and presented me with the orange-and-polka-dotted Flying Fish board I’ve been drooling over for months. Shorter than what I normally right and I need a proper leash tie, but it paddles as beautifully as it looks and gets into waves with ease. Riding it requires some adjustment – and by adjustment, I mean, I’ll need to get better. I feel like a rewarding relationship is in the future.

I’d planned on surfing yesterday – the buoys, the wind, everything was spot on. But I went to the gym in the morning because I hadn’t been for a while and then just after noon the text messages and phone calls started in: Shark.

The Times-Standard did a good job covering it. Here’s today’s story.

Conditions lately have been exactly like they were about this time of year back in 2004, when BK was hit while surfing the same location. Can’t say I haven’t noticed and been thinking about the similarities. That classic fall swell, so clean, no wind, clear water, balmy days. Earthquake weather. Shark weather. But even here, odds are rare, driving to the beach is statistically more dangerous than surfing, yadda yadda. So I go. We all go, or at least most of us, uneasily wondering not if, but when.

#49: Those were some solid-looking sets, I thought as I suited up. And then I tried not to think too hard about it. Yeah, that was definitely double-over and that guy on it is taller than me, but I’ll hug the jetty and stay on the rights and I can do this, I’ve done it before, and I can always come in if I get too intimidated. Thus was my thought process as I paddled out. I did hug the jetty, dodging the set waves while admiring the guys going for them and catching a couple baby waves in between. (more…)

#44, #45, #46: These were all variations on the same theme. Small height, long interval swell – it must be fall! – provided clean, head-high waves all over. Parking areas along the spit overflowed with surfers anxious to get out and get some. I surfed various beach breaks to the same effect; fun, but not memorable. I caught waves, but the ones I found myself on tended to mush out or close out, making rides short and paddling back out long. I was reminded how lazy I am about fighting through whitewater to get to the outside. Spoiled by usually having a channel, that’s for sure.

#47: Found a channel – and some juicy overhead waves. Still glassy; we’re exhilarated by the lack of any wind but south. I’d been cleaning and organizing the house all day, watching the sunshine light up the outside world, felt the air grow balmy and my impatience to get out similarly expand. At last I found myself on the beach, tugging on a wetsuit as clouds gathered above. There goes the sun…. Paddled out, managing to navigate my way through the exploding whitewater and find myself far off the beach nodding at the couple other people in the lineup. Caught a wave, caught a wave; happiness surged through me. And then the fog rolled in. (more…)

#40: I arrived in Ventura after shipping one daughter off to Italy at SFO and visiting another in Long Beach. As I’d driven from the Bay Area to the LBC, I’d passed by miles of perfect surf, unable to stop due to lack of time. Now I’d returned to slightly less ideal conditions, predominantly an offshore wind strong enough to muss my hair. But the sun shone and waves rolled in a-plenty, so I decided to suit up and paddle out. Wait. Strike that. It was 80 degrees out. No way was I tugging on a 5-4 wetsuit. Board shorts and bikini top, here we go.

The times I’ve surfed sans wetsuit are few: once in Leucadia and while in Taiwan. Taiwan was tropical, heavenly. Leucadia boasted warm air and brisk water. This session was like the latter; the water’s chill evaporated in the sunshine.

My board lacked wax, the result of an enthusiastic de-waxing moment I’d engaged in during one of Humboldt’s rare and freakishly hot days. I thought I’d layered enough new wax before paddling out, but without a wetsuit’s grip, my legs slipped when I sat up on the board. I hoped this wasn’t an indicator that I’d fall.

Success is not falling. That’s all I hope for in a session. If I make a pretty bottom turn or pull a bit of a floater or remember to stay low and tuck in, that’s the proverbial icing on the cake. Foam on the wave. Whatever.

I didn’t fall. (more…)

Still glowing from the previous day’s success, I set out for a spot to the north. The Mendocino coastline is known more for fickle conditions than for fine. Scoring two days in a row seemed more than I could hope for. But the wind never grew beyond a breeze and the buoy reading suggested something head-high, and, most importantly, when I pulled up, the number of surf vehicles in the lot confirmed I was at least looking in the right place.

I strolled out for a peek, sunshine overhead, toes growing dusty as I walked down the trail.

I was a shy child, terrified of looking awkward in front of others, preferring silence and nonparticipation to public embarrassment. Deciding to surf meant I’d finally gained enough confidence, grown comfortable enough in my own skin to decide the payoff of learning something was well worth the risk of dorking out along the way. But remnants of shyness remain; every time I insert myself into a crowd of strangers, a certain amount of self-encouragement comes into play. Arriving alone at a popular surf spot calls for a level of cool that I don’t naturally possess. Fortunately, as I rounded the turn, I recognized a friend’s son. Relief allowed enthusiasm to take over.

After a brief chat about how the surf was (“fun”), I suited up and paddled out. (more…)