…and maybe you recognize the stance, even the spot, quite a bit different now, and changing as we speak. The shot was taken by Archie’s friend, and mine, Stephen Davis, making use of his water housing.

While a favorite surfing spot recovers from over a hundred years of being restrained, Archie, hopefully, is moving toward recovery. Steve and I, and some of Archie’s many other friends (not all at once) are waiting and ready to slide a few sparkly rollers with him. Again, not like a party wave, but, after a ride, watching from this very angle, maybe hooting just enough to embarrass him.

…the ones that, you know, make the waves.” Having just made it out through the shorebreak and the impact zone, the only-somewhat-younger man was directing the comment to the oldest surfer in the lineup.

No answer. The oldest surfer was scanning the horizon, blinking in the glare as he checked the indicators, a bump to the south, a change in color in the kelp beds. “I mean,” the younger surfer said, loud enough for the others to hear; the alpha, closest to the point, those too far up to make a wave when the next set comes; those sitting on the shoulder, some afraid to challenge (the bigger waves or the three or four most-competitive surfers), others eagerly awaiting that wave where someone falls on the takeoff, gets taken out by the first section. “I mean, you, you must’ve heard them… you know, when you could hear and shit. I mean… I think, I think I hear them… now. You?”

There were no sets approaching.  Even the dominant surfer of the moment, the alpha, looked over for an answer. After a moment, his back to the horizon, the answer came:

“Oh,

I’ve heard the click and clack of an albatross, the subtle swoop of pelicans skimming updrafts, heard seagulls argue,  whales sing and seals bark;    I’ve heard thunder roll and crack, heard the music of rain on moving water, I’ve heard rocks grind and sand squeal; I have heard the squall and the growl and the stadium roar of waves, the boos, the ‘no, no, no;’ and the hiss, and the whistle; and sometimes, I’ve heard the low whisper, ‘okay, okay, okay;’ and sometimes,  even rarer, the laughter. And… more. But, the generators…”

The oldest surfer out looked to the north horizon. A cargo ship, outbound. He closed his eyes and listened. They all listened, though for just a moment, the moment the oldest surfer, quietly, stroked ten yards over, turned, just the other side of the peak, and took off.

It’s been a couple of weeks since the swell of the summer, and reports and stories have verified that just about every spot that can get waves did; and just about every surfer who tried, got a few sliders somewhere, some semi, top, or totally non-secret break.

So, since I did write a Part One; I probably should have a Part Two:

To recap; I went out on Friday, caught a lot of empty little righthanders before the tide came up and the swell, momentarily, dropped off. I spoke to Kyle, on the beach, who had checked out the usual spots on the Strait all week, and hadn’t surfed. Kyle said he’d been at this well known spot when Raja (and he’s gotten way more props for this than ridicule) stuck my lost SUP paddle in the pilings, where it remained for two weeks until my friend, Hydrosexual Stephen Davis, climbed up, jammed it back down.                                                   Raja did confess, eventually, and I guess we’re kind of friends. ‘Friends’ with an asterisk. Adam Wipeout, when I called to gloat, said Kyle, who claimed not to know Adam Wipeout (I always ask, usually people do know Adam, even in the south part of Washington state), identified Kyle as “The guy you call ‘big arm movements.'”                                                            Oh, it made sense; Big Arm Movements was the only surfer still out when I tried (and this was probably the most embarrassing part) clumsily (it’s okay to wipe out, it’s not cool or okay to be clumsy) to retrieve my paddle; and Kyle was nice. It’s just, I’d never really seen him out of the water, without a hood. Smaller arm movements.

The swell was already on the increase; as Kyle had said when I mentioned that no one had even been checking it out, surfers were headed to the Strait for the weekend. Though I prefer not to surf on weekends, Trish was out of town; and I was planning on hitting it early.

SO. SATURDAY: Not early enough. When I got to the pullout/lot at 6:30, it was pretty full, SUVs were backed up toward the water, some folks were standing and looking at just-after-dawn lines, and there was one guy out. Tim Nolan. I slid in next to a brown Suburban I recognized, slammed on the back of it in a friendly kind of way, and woke Raja up. “Man,” he said, when he climbed out, “you should have seen the boards on the ferry last night.” Raja was joined by another one of his (don’t call them hipsters) friends, both deciding to go elsewhere. “What? How can you pass this up?” Somewhere else might be better; the tide was a little low and the waves were closing out between the reefs. “Excuse me; you really want stand around talking next to a naked old guy?”

I would have been the second surfer in the water if a guy hadn’t suddenly appeared, walking over the exposed river rocks, and paddled out ahead of me. So, for an hour or so, it was Big Dave, Tim Nolan, and me, with a gallery on the beach. Two hours later it was Big Dave, Adam Wipeout, me, and an increasing number of other surfers, including Tugboat Bill and his entourage of the day, with still more vehicles arriving. I think there were 18 people in the water when I pulled out, more heading out, and someone’s surf rig instantly taking my spot in the lot.

MEANWHILE: Keith Darrock and Brett the electrician were battling the rip at the Waterpark, later to make the trek to a semi-secret rivermouth, and the swell was heading into every little cove and point, also creating some fun and havoc on islands in the Strait.

EVEN Hydrosexual Stephen Davis, who had to work in the morning, caught a few sliders in the late afternoon north and west of Port Townsend, sharing a session with, guess who? Tim Nolan.

NOW, this week, I tried to surf at Double Dose; but it was foggy; couldn’t talk myself into it; hung on the beach a while chatting with Concrete Pete and Tugboat Bill. Bill had a different entourage, two kids from a surf camp at Neah Bay, one Tim Nolan has something to do with, and, incidentally, Tim and and another guy (I’ll find out more on this) were, on this day, completing the last leg of their SUP trip from Port Angeles to Neah Bay.

NOT WANTING TO GET SKUNKED, I did find some waves elsewhere. And now, checking the forecast. Hey, it’s summer; there are no waves in the Strait in the summer.