The Waves Not Taken, The Road Not… Wait; I’m Going
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- This is the black and white drawing for the story on waves not taken
This is the black and white drawing for the story on waves not taken. I’m not sure how I got it to this point- almost posted, hopefully; all very technical; and now I’m thinking about other drawings, like this one, only with some (not too much) color added. If I get it figured out, well; I’m thinking WordPress will do something new to confuse me.
If we’re talking about waves not taken, I should mention that I don’t have to be on location for my next project until one pm, and, if I’d gotten up earlier, checked the buoys, seen there was a possibility for something at my favorite Straits spot… well, I’d be there now. I have to apologize for not having the realsurfer spirit. Oh, but I do. Gotta go.
Waves Missed, Drops Not Taken, Regrets
This image goes with a previous piece. The photo was taken by Rico, passed on to Keith, passed from him to me. “Send it to my email address,” I always say.
WordPress has a new formatting deal. I’ll get it under control. Next time. Let’s see if this works.
Nope; sorry; I found the illustration for this story, but can’t seem to get it from there to here. And I’m out of time. Maybe tonight. Meanwhile, I’m not giving any more hints as to any more secret mysto spots, but I did surf the above-featured wave the other evening with Rico Moore and Keith. No, Adam, it wasn’t head high.
Having already told me how awesome his latest surf session had been (the waves are always, it seems, ‘head high’ when he surfs) Adam ‘Wipeout’ James called me back to say he’d missed some waves.
“What? I missed that.”
Adam usually calls from the road, his shellfish business taking him to multiple locations among the tentacles of the greater Hood Canal and Puget Sound. He has a waterproof cell phone and it usually sounds as if he’s actually underwater. It wasn’t, apparently, that he missed waves he was out of position for; too far in, too far over; it was that he could have taken off and didn’t.
Or maybe I heard that wrong.
If it was that, missed opportunities; then yeah, I understood that. There are the waves you want but someone else is on them; nothing to do about that. Slight regret, maybe; like the time this guy was sitting way outside, resting, or enjoying the ambiance, or something, positioned at exactly the (my) big set lineup spot, but, since there hadn’t been a big set for a long enough time that I abandoned even thinking about it and went for the insiders. Several. And then, the big set approached, set of the day, wave of the day, and I was scrambling out and over for it, and the guy, without adjusting his position at all, just casually turned and took off as if he’d been expecting this special delivery.
I couldn’t be angry with him for waiting; I was upset with myself for not.
Wipeout’s situation was different. He gurgled a description of head high (of course) glassy waves at a classic walling, wedging point/cove break out the Straits of Juan de Fuca near Neah Bay; the ones he caught and, specifically, the waves he could have and didn’t.
“Adam,” I said, “I didn’t take off on a wave at Warmwater Jetty in 1969 and I haven’t gotten over it yet.”
“Huh? What?”
It was the only time I ever surfed there, paddling around the fence, feeling the warmer water coming from the Carlsbad power plant outflow. It was an hour or more before work would start and was the only one out. It wasn’t head high, but it was glassy, and, after several quick rights, I was poised to drop into another one. Too steep, might close out, the calculations went through my mind quickly, and, quickly, I backed off, feet splayed to slow me down, to keep me from going over the falls.
And, watching from the back, the wave peeled perfectly, perfectly, a bit of spray off the feathering top.
Instant, and lasting, regret.
Maybe it’s those regrets, maybe almost as much as perfect rides remembered, that urge us on, push us into conditions a little too big, a little too rough or out of control, talk us into attempting a late drop that we clearly can’t make, freefalling, hoping something, fin or rail, catches, somewhere, and we can speed run down, inside, and, if we make it… great. If we don’t… no better place to wipeout than inside… rolling, rolling… and, later, the memory is not one of regret.
“Next time, Adam,” I said.
“Yeah,” and I’m pretty sure this is what he said on the other end of the bubbling cellular connection, “Next time.”
Slightly Altered July Fourth Surf Photo
This is my daughter Drucilla’s shot of super low tide Seaside Cove, using one of many filters that she got as an App on her phone. The bigger blob is me, paddling my SUP from my knees, waiting for one of those fabled hundred yard rides. We were also waiting for my sister Melissa Lynch and her son Fergus and husband, Jerome. And there was talk (actually part of Trisha’s selling of the trip) that my former daughter-in-law, Karrie, would show up with our grandsons, N8 (Nate) and Tristan, and Tristan’s girlfriend, Stormy, all of us ready to share my three boards and primed (and properly fitted in rented wetsuits) to challenge the (obviously) classic conditions.
“It was a blast!” Melissa would text me later. Fergus, who packed his dad’s wetsuit rather than something he really needed, and who had surfed before, had now doubled his experience level. Jerome, seeing his wife and son have so much fun, took back his wetsuit, borrowed my SUP (no paddle), and stood up on the very first wave he (ever) caught.
So the Lynches were all stoked. Karrie, however, got lost somewhere in the heavy Seaside traffic, and her sons, who spent most of their trip from Idaho in the pool at the place on Long Beach, didn’t want to challenge the ocean. This reticence may have been related to the tragic news that an eleven year old girl (actually from very near where Trish and I live) had drowned at Long Beach July 3rd after getting caught outside, pushing her younger brother toward shore and telling him to “swim as hard as you can.”
So, though I gave seventeen year old Tristan a certain amount of grief about it, I was fine.
Yes, I knew the surf would be small and the tide wrong for Seaside; we had a big celebration of my father’s 90th birthday to attend when the tide came back in and the surf approved. Seaside has a heated shower; quite a selling point. I had, however, somehow lost my boxers while suiting up in the nearby restrooms, and, though showered and salt free, I did have to attend the event commando.
Well, I did have socks on with my sandals in the classic northwest style, also a throwback to Fallbrook High’s dress code; Mexican sandals were allowed- with socks. It just seems civilized.
Anyway, as soon as I can find them, I’ll stick a couple more photos from the trip on the site. Worth mentioning, perhaps, is that, due to several unrepaired tears in my wetsuit, I no longer go in the water commando, though, unlike when I got my first wetsuit, I also no longer wear the trunks on the outside. Less modest, perhaps?
What I shouldn’t mention is how fortunate I feel that I don’t usually have to surf beachbreak (and the Cove was behaving like a beachbreak). My best ride was a left that didn’t close out as most had, and, when I wrapped a big cutback, the group of kids who were out on their boogie boards and rented softtops (some with their own boards and suits), all kind of cheered. Or maybe they were just being patriotically inspired.
Magical Mysto Surf Spot
Ever since I moved to the Pacific Northwest at the tail end of the seventies,I’ve had dreams of waves breaking, perfectly, in some secluded cove, protected from the onshore wind; wrapping around a small headland, clean while, offshore, whitecaps bump against each other.
Of course, in my dreams, the waves are rights. Maybe it was a transference from San Diego, some extension of the Mysto spot, Ralphs, at the end of Point Loma, a remembrance of working at the submarine base, imagining some big south swell finding its way into the depths of San Diego Harbor, maybe hitting at the little pier where the Navy divers hung out. Maybe the dream was based on a remembrance, fondly saved, of waves on the island offshore of Lupe’s Left Loopers in Mazatlan; a real south swell with waves wedging themselves between the main island and another one yards away, peeling past the rocks in absolutely clear little waves, wrapping, wrapping, dreamlike.
The Straits of Juan de Fuca act as that island, cleaning up Pacific storm-born swells, taking that ‘lump’ out of them, and, with the right swell, the points and headlands and hooks created by the rivers running off the Olympics groom these swells into… well, they’re mostly lefts. Still.
But, sometimes, the west wind howling from way out in the open ocean, still crazy passing Port Angeles, still out of control approaching Port Townsend…
Mysto.
But for the Occasional Distraction, Life Would be…
…way more tedious.
I copied the first Little Mermaid drawing, then, and this was probably a mistake, continued filling in the background on the copied version. Oops, all the pencil lines are now permanent, the detail is less detail-ish, and, as always, I, and probably you, can see it’s just lines and dots.
Lines and dots.
Now, since I always seem to go on about my latest surf session, and I did surf some SUP-only sized waves yesterday, Tim Nolan and I being the only ones catching any, the paddle providing as much of the power on some rides as the wave, and Archie Endo, who turned down the chance to go with me to low tide Favorite Spot, texted me late last night he ended up surfing two to three foot peelers for three hours near dark on the high tide at Backup Spot, and there were many opportunities to talk surf in the parking lot; I will, instead, in keeping with the theme of distractions, and working toward the eventual story of surfing as the ‘other woman,’ I will, instead mention that, while cellphone shopping with my wife, Trish, at Costco, there was a call from Stephen Davis, hydrosexual (that story also coming soon), who had not returned my 6:30 call inviting him to go along, and, when I mentioned this incoming call to Trish, somewhere between the bananas and the peaches (white or regular?), she asked, “Can’t you, for once, put me ahead of surfing?”
Oh, yes; of course.
And I did, And, forced to make a choice, I almost always have.
Almost always. Of course, I’d rather it not be a choice of either/or.
Lines and dots; either and or.
(Pick an adjective) Distraction (or is it an adverb as distraction is an action)- Part One
I plan to put in some magnificent surf in the background. I meant to make the “Little Mermaid” statue less, um, rendered. Once I made the face too dark, I was stuck. Maybe I’ll make the magnificent surf all junky and crowded with surf class kooks. Maybe I’ll edit out the last line. I meant novices in the life-affirming sport/lifestyle/whatever you think it is of surfing. Probably I’ll eliminate all the above.
I should at least get credit for eliminating the real background.
Stay tuned, and thanks for dropping into realsurfers.net
Not a secret spot. Quite.
Oceanside with Lightning, Ice Cream, and Melvin Glouser’s Farmers’ Toes
So, when I get around to it (soon), I’ll put in the story. Or, you can check out the story in the next piece down. It took me wayyy too long to get the illustration from the new (son Sean’s old) printer to here, so, maybe I’ll (it’s technical speak I really don’t understand)… just stick the story in here and delete the previous piece.
I could explain the drawing and how I really wanted to make it trickier, maybe with the parking lot actually being the glassy waves and the Oceanside Pier, and the lightning, and the ice cream, and… and, and, we all want to just be better, don’t we?
Oceanside Pier awaiting lightning
I’m working on a story from my high school era (also working on dividing my long surfing career into segments), after friends got licenses and cars, days when we’d speed to the beach after school. And, surf-whore that I was, I’d ride with pretty much anyone who would drive. When I had access to a car, I’d probably (likely) ask for some gas money.
In this story, probably in the spring of 1967, Melvin Glouser was the driver, Phillip Harper and I the passengers. The surf was small and extremely glassy. We’d parked in the free (then) lot by the first street south of the pier that went down to the beach. There were rumblings in the sky and lightning in the distance, possibly moving closer.
“If lightning strikes whatever is highest in the vicinity, and, other than the pier, that would be us,” I postulated… A couple more rides and we got out.
En route home, Melvin, who I frequently accused of having “Farmers’ Toes” because of stubborn follicles, particularly around his big and next digits, nevertheless treated Phillip and me to ice cream at 31 Flavors ( I mean Baskin/Robbins). Phillip and I each got two scoops, but Melvin, since he was buying, got a three-scooper.
It was raining and completely dark as we headed back to Melvin’s parent’s car. Maybe lightning struck nearby, maybe he slipped; whichever, all three scoops dropped to the wet pavement. We all just looked at them for a minute.
Then, no doubt, Phillip and I looked at our own scoops, probably took a big bite; one of us calling “Shotgun” before the other. Or Phillip just got in the front seat. Or we finished our ice cream cones, Melvin his cone, just to keep the car a bit neater.
Like I said, I’m working on it.
Or maybe, if I get time to do a drawing… three scoops falling, dramatically lit by the lightning, just a hint of some hairy toes on the black asphalt… and I do have at least a couple more stories involving Melvin. Later.
Late (Very Late) Evening Glassoff
“All good surf trips begin or end in the dark,” I told my friend Archie Endo as we each tried to feed frayed straps of the soft racks through the buckles in the rapidly-spreading darkness. “I agree,” he said, moving to the middle (regular, Home Depot type) strap (stops that bounce when big rigs pass). I slammed the back door on the extra lengths of the back two straps, and added, “Preferably both.”
It was well past 10pm, and the waves were, at last, almost totally glassy, the wind gone from howl to whisper, the blacker, broken-wave-front of a rain storm still to our west. We had scored. 8:10 to 9:50.
Still, several hours earlier, it seemed more likely we were going to suffer another Straits of Juan de Fuca skunking. No, I wasn’t going to be skunked. I’ll surf ankle-snappers, exposed-rock peelers, even wind-blown peakers- and I have.
Keith Darrock had been right. As he had predicted early in the morning, the afternoon westerlys had pretty much blown out everything on the Straits, and he and Rico had scored glassy peelers at the sheltered semi-secret spot. If the Straits are a place to smooth out disorganized ocean waves, there have to be some sheltered coves where crazy windswell…
“Yeah, yeah. Uh huh, lined-up; barreling. Oh, and even Rico got some good rides. No, we haven’t given up. Not yet.” Keith, of course, had called me AFTER Archie and I decided against our favorite spot (and not just our favorite spot), had back-tracked ten miles, only to rule out the backup spot. We had also failed to gain access to (even to check) a wind-sheltering, secluded cove.
Sure, it’s their right to deny access. This isn’t California, or Hawaii, or even Oregon. “You can own beach in Washington. It just takes money. I had used Archie’s new smart phone to call the number on the sign that denied us access. The woman was polite. A person could rent a cabin, but they’re booked up. “Yeah, okay; but, um, how does the surf look?” “Oh, it’s rolling in.” “Rolling?” “Yes.” “But you’re booked?” “Yes.”
I was pissed, irritated, steaming like a Bolshevik, like an uninvited socialist, from the denial of access, and well aware of the wind’s refusal to abate, and well aware of the odds against finding anything close to perfect waves (ever), when I repeated to Keith, from our conversation earlier in the day, “Maybe we’ll (still) all get lucky.”
Heading back west, I told Archie that, because we had been discussing music and the possibility of him backing me up to at least record several of my songs (Archie and the V2s is all Archie, talented on guitar, bass, keyboards, and drums- I would just play harmonica and sing, and, anyway, I know a guy who might be able to slightly fix the results, once recorded), we’d forgotten to do ‘the sign of the cross,’ my favorite thing about being a convert to Catholicism (Trish gets the credit or blame), to which I add (on surfing trips mostly) a sort of ‘gang sign’ flourish at the end. Like a hoot-out, like, “Yea, God!”
Archie isn’t Catholic (or practicing Buddist), but he is intrigued with things religious and/or mystical; so he will join in; usually with a chuckle. And, if it helps… well, that’s just pragmatism (different religion- maybe).
To back up a bit, again, the reason I was able to gamble on the chance for an afternoon session was because Trish had given my spot at an evening cultural event (a Mozart Mass performed by world class presenters) to her friend Diane. So, once I said I could pick up ‘the heavy stuff’ at Costco, and check out a possible painting project in Sequim; I was in. Archie was up for it and… Port Townsend? No, that option was over (tide shifts, subtle swell fluctuations) before Keith had called.
Another Backtrack: Adam “Wipeout” James had also committed to surfing this afternoon. He met up with Nathan Jones of Pirated Surfboards Company in Sequim to pick up a board shaped for him. Adam, Nate, and a guy from Seattle (Ian, I think) had been the only ones out when we arrived at First Choice the first time. Adam got out of the rip-and-wind-torn lefts to show me the Nate version of a classic Simmons twin fin.
Now, hours later, the wind still blowing but the faces considerably smoother, Nate and Adam got out as Archie and I suited up. “If you catch more waves per hour,” I said, “you wouldn’t have to stay out so long. I was saving that up for you.” “Good one. You guys are really going to score. It’s finally…” “Yeah, look, Archie already caught two.” “Yeah.”
The session was a workout. The push was all west to east. Amazingly strong. While there was an audience, especially, maybe Adam, I wanted to do… better. Yes, I always want to do better. Bet-ter.
And then they left, and another guy, headed to Neah Bay to do some filming, parked, watched, and eventually came out, mostly, he said, because Archie and I seemed to be having so much fun. We outlasted him- ever glassier, cleaner, better, darker.
On the way home, the rare full moon on a Friday the 13th (next one, Trish says, is in 2049) was rising over the trees and the Olympics. “Here’s a pagan deal,” I told Archie, prying my wallet out of my back pocket, opening it, waiting until the moon was fully in view; “Fill ‘er up, fill ‘er up, fill ‘er up. Thank you.”
I don’t know if Archie tried it. I called Trish as we drove through Joyce. The concert had been “wonderful, great, Diane thought it was just sooo beautiful.” “Great. The moon?” “It’s not showing. Raining.” I repeated the pagan ritual, for her.
The next day, when Keith texted he was hoping for a repeat, I told him we had all gotten lucky. When Adam texted that Archie and I had been like the old bull who said “let’s wait and catch them all,” I had to call him back. “It’s not ‘catch’ them all.” “I know. Man, Archie was killing it.” “Yeah. He always does. What about me?” “Yeah, um, well; you know… sure.”
Prayer, voodoo, pagan rituals… whatever; sometimes we just get lucky.
And sometimes we all get lucky.
