Tag Archives: surfing the Straits of Juan de Fuca

Various Shots of Various Secret Surf Spots

Posted on by under northwest surfing, real surfers, secret surf spots on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, surf photos, uncatagorized

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[ABOVE] Offshore winds on a northwest shore. Photos by Stephen Davis.

[BELOW LEFT] Manageable (and average-sized) crowd at above average Westport. Photo by Adam (Wipeout) James.

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[ABOVE RIGHT] Another Stephen Davis shot from classic West End Washington State.

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[ABOVE LEFT] Another secret point break on the Straits of Juan de Fuca. Or, if it isn’t a secret; you try to find it at exactly the right time and tide and swell to do a little side-slipping into deep cold water. Photo by Keith Darrock.

[ABOVE RIGHT] A sunrise photo from Cancun by Carol Christiansen

December’s Lost Boards- Swami’s ’69, Straits ’14

Posted on by under northwest surfing, secret surf spots on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, surf adventures, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing in Washington State, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing Swamis, uncatagorized

lostboardimagephoto by Steve Kohr, stevekohr.com

12/28/14- FORMERLY SEMI-SECRET SPOT- STRAITS OF JUAN DE FUCA.
It would be half an hour before the winter sun would rise, and even then it would be blocked for hours by the Olympic Mountains, then the nearer tree lines. In fact, at this time of year, on the north shore of the west coast, the sun merely hugs the mountains like an all-day dawn. At 7:30 am, what could be seen was grainy, almost colorless; headlights in the parking area, semi-clear sky, the water was the color of drowning, of death at sea.
And I was in it trying to swim, side-stroke, one hand on my paddle; and I hadn’t even caught a wave yet.
Yeah, it’s over-dramatic; but I was the one caught in it, swimming because I had tried to cut across the usually waveless channel, the deep spot between two reefs; so confident; thinking I could snag an inside left on my way out to a lineup in which the first members of the dawn patrollers were trying to find the perfect place to take off in a crazy sea.
Sure, I’d seen, even in the dim light, the sets breaking on the outlside indicators, the roll-throughs, the waves that closed out the channel and the ones that could provide those storied rides that start on the outside reef and end up past the parking area, past the fence.
“I ended up way past the fence, man.” “Whoa.” Meaningful.
But this is my favorite spot on the Straits of Juan de Fuca; I’ve surfed here (first time, 1979, next time 2005, if this means anything) in every condition, from low tide rights you couldn’t catch with a regular board, fin clicking across rocks; to those just-mentioned left peelers; to bouncy just-after-a-storm surf, waves blown by winds from sideshore squalls, rain or sleet, cold offshores from fresh mountain snow; fun, user-friendly conditions- but I’ve also surfed days with these outside roll-throughs, almost out of control, where the hard part was not panicking, holding my position, waiting for the reef to catch the bottom of the swell, to shape it properly.
Big Dave had been on the wave, dealing with an inside close out, almost directly in front of me; the wave that ripped the leash that, evidently, hadn’t had enough Velcro ‘bite.’ It wasn’t a big pull; my board was just gone.
Oh, I could see it, tantalizingly close, just out of reach; then, another wave, and it popped up again, farther away.
I was only yards from the beach, but I knew the waves wouldn’t help push me to shore. The tide was too high, washing up on the river-rock bank; pushing up and rolling rocks and foam uphill. Then there were clackity-thunk sounds as the energy tumbled back down, crashing into the next surge. I knew there would be no bottom to put my feet on to take a last leap forward.
still, not panicking.

swamis69actual shot from ’69

DECEMBER OF 1969- SWAMI’S-
It was the second day of the famous swell. I had survived the first, seriously undergunned with my regular short board (probably around 6’6”) in well-overhead waves with an unusually strong Santa Ana offshore. Yes, I was one of those guys hanging on the shoulder. In my memory bank’s version (probably in a Super 8 format- still), I was out very early and the tide was at that height where there is no inside and outside; merely a long wall that required a crazy-late takeoff, offered a crazy-long barrel past the shoulder-hoppers, and rewarded the best surfers with the best rides Swami’s could possibly offer.
I know I didn’t do a ‘paddle (in) of shame,’ but I couldn’t say I caught anything but a few insiders.
But, on the second day, the waves only a bit smaller, on a different, longer (still round-nosed- hate a pointy nose) board, the weather was stormier, the tide lower, the waves more broken up, and I was attacking the inside lineup, lined up on the palm tree on the cliff, that below the solid line of onlookers at the edge of the parking lot; scratching into waves that ‘went wide’ and peaked on the inside lineup or had closed out on the guy riding from the outside peak.
Still, I was looking for the smaller waves. I caught a few, but it was rough. I did keep getting caught inside, part of the crowd the riders had to navigate. The thrashing-to-riding ratio wasn’t really going my way, and too many waves I wanted went to others. “One more wave” I told myself.
And I caught it. If you know Swami’s, particularly the inside section, you know there’s a drop and a wall, then an area to cut back, cruise back and forth, and then, over the grassy finger slabs inside, often there’s another little section. Maybe I was too far outside. I made the drop and was totally in position for the wall. Too far back.
It wasn’t like the worst wipeout/holddown of my career, another wave at Swamis where I fell from the top (of note: On a turn, not dropping-in), to the trough, had the wind knocked out of me, came up seriously out of breath, sucked in part of twelve inches of foam. This was more a whacking, a full-body punch, the energy as much out as down.
I wasn’t panicking. I was swimming. “Fine,” I thought,” I’m done for the day.”
STRAITS- After a couple of shorepound knockdowns I found footing, slogged up the steep beach, my paddle in my hand; breathing in deeply, coughing out. The water, probably 45 degrees or so at the nearest buoy, is so much colder when you’re between two streams coming off fresh mountain snow; and seems even colder when you’re swimming.
My board was not on shore, however. It had drifted down past the fence and was headed out. I hurried down the beach until I was even with it. In that time it had moved farther out, headed toward the other reef. Tim Nolan, who, for once, I had beaten to the beach, was ready to paddle out. I was too far away to yell at him to help me and a bit too shaken up to swim, my board now a hundred yards out. I threw the paddle up onto the higher beach and thought, “Maybe it’s just not my day.”
FATE AND KARMA- Each of these seems to be about things in life kind of evening-out. My own philosophy is somewhere in there.
Maybe it was because I had thought it amusing when I saw someone in a car with a longboard getting a ticket over by Discovery Bay when I was on my way home from working in Port Townsend that, earlier this very morning, I had gotten a speeding ticket near Port Angeles. Maybe it was fitting that several of the folks in the rigs in the parking area had passed by us (Stephen Davis, Keith Darrock also in my car) in front of the car with the flashing lights, maybe it was only right other surfers should mention it, chuckling as they did.
Maybe there’s some wicked form of Fate/Karma in that, cruising up Surf Route 101, we chanced to be behind someone either sleepy or drunk, weaving across the center line, then across the fog line; and Steve called 911, and we gave them the license number; and I had Steve tell them the car would be behind a white car with several boards on top; and, when the officer returned with our tickets (Keith got one for no seatbelt- also, really my fault), the drunk-or-sleepy guy drove right past.
“I hope he gets home all right,” the State Patrolman said.
That karma’s on him. Maybe. Oh, and maybe it’s this: The last time I was out in similar conditions in the Straits, the first (and only) guy out that morning tried desperately to catch an inside wave, caught the third he tried for, came in, ran up the beach, and, wide-eyed, asked, “Is it always like this?” “It’s never like this.” Another surfer and I, both on longboards, started paddling out, he a bit closer to the reef. A wave closed out immediately in front of us. I turned turtle. When I came up, he had lost his board. I kept paddling.
At least he was close to the reef.

swamis69two another retro shot; I’d be further to the left.
RESOLUTION-
IN 1969, not finding my board on the rocks or beach, members of collective crowd on the bluff were pointing and yelling, “It’s in the rip!” It was. I looked up, looked out, swam almost to the inside lineup, climbed on my board, caught one more wave. A good one according to my Super 8 file; and went in, did better the next day.
THE OTHER DAY I almost thought I’d lost my board forever, thought I’d be watching Keith and Stephen deal with the Dawn Patrol Syndrome, watching the waves get more and more crowded. But, Big Dave left the lineup, paddled over, grabbed a hold of my board, started paddling it in. Push, paddle, push. When he got close to the inside waves, I swam out. I still had a bit of trouble getting it and me in. When I did, I dragged it (by the leash) up the beach, took a break, reclaimed some (not quite all) of my usual confidence. Four hours after Keith was the first one in the water, the day now sunny, the tide more normal, the waves more in control, way too many people in the water, we all agreed it had been, ON BALANCE, a great session. Each of us had a few good ones, a few ‘past the fence.’
Maybe not for everyone (there were some words exchanged among others, at volume, in the water), but for each of us.
THANKS, Big Dave; I owe you (another) one.

 

A Couple of Mysteries On and Beyond the Straits of Juan de Fuca

Posted on by under northwest surfing, secret surf spots on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, surf adventures, surf illustrations, surf sessions, surf stories

I’ve been working in Port Townsend for the past week or so, hoping some waves come down the Straits of Juan de Fuca and grace the local shoreline. This is frustrating business, and, with windows in which actual waves actually break small, I just missed a couple of times. Tide too high, swell too south, not enough prayer, whatever.

On Tuesday evening, having already checked earlier, I pulled into the parking area in a downpour to see both of the guys out catch a couple of waves each… then, waiting, waiting… nothing. I went to the Penny Saver and talked with a guy I’d seen at the beach. His name (I asked later) is Will, and he’d just moved from the ‘West End,’ knew a few local surfers.

Nothing hitting on Wednesday. Or Thursday.

I did go out on Friday. One other guy, Tim (I ask names but usually forget them)who had cruised around and had been skunked on the Straits, thought he’d found some. He was wrong. I hit a few rocks, did a pull-the-fin-sideslip a couple of times, paddled in, gave myself a 6.5 for the dismount.

On Saturday, a few actual waves were showing, and the crew that would show up at the best-guess time for waves wasn’t around, evidently headed west to the Far Straits or the Farther Coast. Keith Darrock was out, and an electrician (Brett or Brent) who said he and I had ‘shared blood’ on job sites, and the waves were, indeed, slightly larger. Still, they pretty much disappeared after an hour or so, but, later, Keith already dressed, the set of the day came in. Then, waiting, waiting… ready to go back out… nothing.

On Sunday I listened to the Seahawks, did some repairs after the previous week’s rain and wind.

On Monday I was supposed to go west with Stephen Davis. I punked out,  now having to catch up on work missed while hanging around looking for surf, talking surf. The swell was WSW, not conducive, typically, for the Straits.

On Monday night, working late, Trish called me to say the Port Townsend fire department was conducting a search off Port Townsend for someone who had said he was suicidal, and whose car was found in the parking area at the very beach I had (sort of) surfed so recently.

Later Monday night, Stephen Davis sent me this photo. No information. Maybe it’s that spot Steve and I had promised each other we’d hit, a spot I’d heard about for years. You now know as much as I do. Now. Another mystery spot.

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It’s Tuesday. I checked the buoys, checked the forecast, checked my hotmail, wrote my friend, Ray Hicks, my longest-term surfing friend (off and on, known him since 6th grade), checked ptleader.com for any update on possible drowning/suicide. Sadly, there was something; a body had been pulled from the water half a mile or so down the beach from the place I’d so recently surfed.  The name hasn’t been released yet. It’s tragic.

Mystery. Mysteries. I’ll find out more about this wave, whether Stephen surfed it; how much I missed. Later. If all is never really fully revealed, frequently enough is.  Meanwhile… meanwhile we wait. Or we go looking.

 

Celebrating the Wave

Posted on by under northwest surfing, surf adventures, surf illustrations, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing art, surfing tales, Uncategorized

realsurfersNotMagic 001

Other than hydrosexual (in love with all sports water-in any form-related) Stephen Davis and me, there were only two other surfers out on this particular section of track. Track, I say, partially because Stephen described the inside section, after the late-takeoff-only drop, after the first bowling portion, as a ‘racetrack.’ Yeah, but this was a morning when the dark swells approached, lining up way up the point, and advanced toward us like high speed freight trains, heavy. spinning.

I’d love to make some comparison to cement mixers, though they’d have to be backing up, the barrels moving, counter-clockwise, one just to the right and behind another, picking up the chalky water flowing out of the Olympic Mountains, approaching, closer; and as each wave did, it would pick up that gray-green color characteristic of cold, cold water.

With the sky threatening, layers and splotches of muted greys, near-blues, and the surface glassy, reflecting those subtle tones, and another four wave set (one each) moving steadily toward the little point in a long sweep, one of the other two guys, looking up the long lines, gave the wave the universal gesture of celebration, of jubilation, of appreciation.

A bit farther down the track, I turned and paddled.

Alternate ‘Power Couples’ with Larger Drawing (same drawing only larger)

Posted on by under northwest surfing, surf adventures, surf illustrations, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing art, surfing tales
There are some surfing power couples I really like: Gordon and Lynn, Cash and Tanya... okay, I'll add my former surfing trip friend (he has new friends) Jeff and his wife, my daughter Dru's childhood friend, Ruth, now, since she learned at a Holly Beck-led surf camp in Costa Rica a few years ago, also a surfer. It seems that more women are getting into surfing all the time. And more are competitive with their men. That's all fine. That I find some surfing couples interesting and amusing. An example would be the couple that cruised their mini-van into a parking spot at a spot (non-secret) on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, The woman dealt with the children as the man threw on a short john wetsuit (it was summer, water still cold), grabbed the SUP off the roof, ran out, caught two quick waves, raced back in, stripped off the wetsuit, switched over to watching the two kids as the woman donned the same wetsuit (I'm pretty sure), walked down to the water, picked up the SUP, headed out. "I got to surf Westport last Saturday," the husband said, "It's her turn." When I cleared my throat as a sort of question, he explained, "I was just showing her where to take off." "Sure." Then, like individual surfers I find annoying, sometimes surf power couples (and I have called couples out, they always denying or amused by the 'power' part) can have that, "We're so cool" type of self-conscious/aware that seems... okay, nevermind; don't want to seem petty. Or, maybe, jealous. Now, my power woman, Trish, will tell anyone that she actually rode surfboards before I did. It's true. Okay, I have nothing more to say on the subject. Maybe later.

I actually started writing this before I wrote the article now behind it on my site; really more a session report than something on power couples. Please check it out, also. I just wanted a larger version of the drawing and most of the copy below came with it. Still, I can’t seem to create new paragraphs since this is really a (protracted) caption.  So… There are some surfing power couples I really like: Gordon and Lynn, Cash and Tanya… okay, I’ll add my former surfing trip friend (he has new friends, better friends) Jeff Parrish and his wife, my daughter Dru’s childhood friend, Ruth, who now, since she attended a Holly Beck-led surf camp in Costa Rica a few years ago, is also a surfer. Go Ruth!
It seems that more women are getting into surfing all the time. That’s fine. I actually prefer women (probably didn’t need to say that).  And these new surfers seem to be sort of, um, competitive with their men.
That’s all fine. Initially starting the drawing because I find some surfing power couples (the ones that are just too cool- as if they bring the cool to surfing while, obviously, surfing, like wearing really fashionable clothes- adds to their joint coolness- I feel the same way about individual surfers) annoying, I find others interesting and, sometimes, amusing. An example would be the couple that cruised their mini-van into a parking spot at a spot (non-secret) on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, The woman dealt with unlatching their two children as the man threw on a short john wetsuit (it was summer, water still cold), grabbed the SUP off the roof, ran out, caught two quick waves, raced back in, stripped off the wetsuit, switched over to watching the children as the woman donned the same wetsuit (I’m pretty sure), walked down to the water, picked up the SUP, headed out. “I got to surf Westport last Saturday,” the husband said, “It’s her turn.” When I cleared my throat as a sort of question, gave him a nod that, at least, he already caught two waves, he explained, “I was just showing her where to take off.” “Sure. Great.”
I have called couples out, they always denying or amused by the ‘power’ part. I’ve  only done this on the beach, after I’ve surfed myself out, when they can’t decide whether to surf here, head for Neah Bay, or cruise back to Joyce for brunch. If I haven’t surfed yet, I always recommend Hobuck. Or brunch.
Now, my power woman, Trish, will tell anyone that she actually rode surfboards before I did. It’s true. Okay, I have nothing more to say on the subject. Maybe later. Next I’m going to draw something on ‘bro-dads,’ a variation on the classic surf expression (in case you missed it in Surfing 101), “Hodads,” folks who have all the trappings of surfers, like to hang out at the beach, but never seem to make it into the water.  If you’ve read this far, please go back and read the alternate version. And thanks.

O

 

 

Trina Packard Takes (a few) Waves

Posted on by under northwest surfing, surf adventures, surf sessions, surfing tales

Somewhere, probably six or seven years ago, still rather early in my surf comeback, still trying to get to a reasonable level of ability and style (and I’m still working on that), I encountered Trina Packard on the inside at my most-frequented spot on the Straits. It was an above-average day (the real, every-day-counted average probably somewhere close to flat), with quite a few rigs in the parking area, and it was a session in which I noted, and, no doubt wrote to my old surf buddy, Ray Hicks, I caught eight waves before I ever actually made it to the outside lineup.

I was pretty proud I had improved enough to go to my old approach; taking a few on the head, dodging a few surfers on waves, dropping into a few.

Paddling along the rim of the lefts, both Trina and I were picking off waves surfers couldn’t quite catch, or couldn’t make the section. “If no one else wants this one,” Trina said, possibly a veiled message of ‘back off, old guy’ inherit in the phrasing (and the determined ‘going-for-it’ look), “I’ll take it.” And, of course, she did. Several times.

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A year or so later, in the same parking lot, Tim Nolan (still older than i am) and I discussing why the waves could have been here, should have been here, but weren’t, after I’d recited Trina’s quote back to her and Tim, and, because we must all apologize, sort of, for sessions in which we’re a bit more aggressive than average, Trina explained that she’d just returned from Australia and was pumped up. At this time she had been working in graphics and web design in the Port Angeles area, but said she might have to move to the Seattle area (area).

“Oh, too bad,” Tim and I, no doubt said, thinking of all the surfers we run into, most of whom disappear to somewhere, possibly even worse than the big city across the Sound. “I’ll still be surfing,” she said. “Of course,” we said.

I ran into Trina two different times at the Surfrider Cleanwater Surf Contest in Westport (with a year in between in which I didn’t volunteer to ‘help’ and assist the judges- great fun for me). This is really like me running to the bathroom, her ready to go into a heat. “Good luck,” or “How’d you do?”

So, it wasn’t really too surprising, a few weeks ago, on a day when the coast was out of control and the Straits over-crowded; while I, already surfed-out, was taking the ever-longer walk out to check out what the dam removal had done to the surfing spot at the Elwha River, I passed Trina and a friend headed back to the parking lot. She has moved to Westport, she said. She did well at this year’s Cleanwater (second, as I recall, in Women’s Longboard). There had, evidently, been some discussion that some volunteers had hogged the judging assistant spots, and I missed this year’s contest. Maybe next year.

So (again with the ‘so’), here’s why I care: I also have a background in art. I appreciate anyone who can be good enough, persistent enough, gutsy enough to make a living at it. It’s hard. Like another surfer-turned-actually-professional artist, Todd Fischer, who I first met when he was a plumbing contractor working on some of the same projects I was doing the painting on, Trina seems to have figured some way to make a living from art AND live close to the beach

And, again; good luck.

“Hey, So… WHAT’S YOUR DEAL?” Called Out In the Parking Lot

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Yeah, running around from side to side of my car, unhooking straps, grabbing wetsuit pieces, turning to comment (positively) on the glassy waves, and on the six surfers already out on the lefts (mostly negatively), I was called out by the young Port Angeles (I asked, he told me) in the driver’s seat of the little (as in not full or over-sized) white pickup that just pulled in beside me; called out for being over-enthusiastic, over-amped, over-coffee-ed, grumpy, and (I’m trying to imagine what I looked like), but, somewhere after I said I didn’t want to be one of those guys who gets all aggro over small waves… “but these waves are… (I may have hooted at this point)… I’m going to go after some rights, before…”

“Hey,” he said, with the emphasis, somehow, on each of the three words, “What’s YOUR Deal?” So, maybe the emphasis was mostly on the ‘your.’  My response was something like, “I’m old, I’m excited, I’m…” I guess he didn’t want to listen, or maybe the waves weren’t good enough, maybe he was heading to one of those fabled (or even, ‘secret’) Straits of Juan de Fuca spots farther west, and maybe six surfers already out this early on the lefts and me on the rights just didn’t seem too enticing; he backed out with me still ranting and running around the car, and pointing, and hooting, and…

“I’m old, and I’m… I’m just excited… just…”

Yes, it was what I was thinking about while (mostly clumsily) surfing the rights, the tide already a bit high, alone. Oh, I do long to be mellow, but I had wanted, somewhat desperately, to go the day before. Rumors of waves two feet bigger, glassy, maybe without that ‘wonk’ from overnight winds; phone calls of surfers hitting it three days in a row; the forecast showing a dropping swell on this day, the buoys showing a swell in that ‘iffy’ range, angle-wise, the ‘race’ (in my mind) with the SUV with two boards on top through Port Angeles, me in front, then “nooooo….” he was ahead  of me on Surf Route 101, then behind him all the way out on 112, until… “Oh!” He had to pull off, “Probably to whizz.” Ha! “Oh!” Yeah, now I had to pee. Desperately.

I barely made it, the SUV pulling in a few moments later. I had wanted to ask the driver why he had a “PB” decal on his back bumper, but now knew it was Dave, “Big Dave,” a grom in Pacific Beach when I moved there in 1971. Big Dave who rides an SUP as a regular board. And he was going to the lefts. I knew, when the tide got higher, the rights would go away and I’d be moving over to join the group on the lefts.

Knowing I, my promise to myself that I would surf until I was exhausted (or the waves were) and I would possibly add to the frustration of surfers who were not catching enough waves, I did paddle over after twenty or so unshared waves. I was actually kind of surprised when, paddling for my second wave (first being an insider everyone else missed), a long line outsider, no one challenged me, starting paddling for in down the line.

Later, when I mentioned this to Dave, he said he had overheard surfers grumbling that it had been mellow, but was getting ‘aggro.’ “You mean when I came over?” “Pretty much.” “Hmmm. Do I just look so intense?” “Yeah; guess so.” So, I apologized to several surfers as I passed them, looking for (yet) another set wave. And, on the beach, I told Rajah (hope the spelling’s right) that, “it’s exhausting being a dick.” He seemed to agree.

There’s more to this story, but you’re probably backing away, ready to move on, still not sure what my deal is. “Yeah, I’m just excited.”

The First (Highly Forecast, Hyped, Anticipated) Swell of Fall, and…

Posted on by under surf adventures, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing art, surfing tales

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…and all that entails. This is a photo sent to me by my friend, wandering Hydrosexual (explained in an earlier post), Stephen Davis. It’s a point in Northern California, and the image may belay the size (and hide many of the rocks in the lineup).

My most recent conversation with Stephen, the day after I shared the road to and from the Straits of Juan de Fuca, and the parking area, over the weekend, with pretty much every surfer in Washington State who has a computer with the capability of picking up Surfline, Magic Seaweed, or any other surf forecasting site, or, maybe, heard about a ‘high surf warning’ on the TV weather, or maybe a friend who used to surf a lot gave people a call, and/or…

Okay, I’m not going to whine (any more than I already have) about surfers trying to surf. When I found out Saturday, with waves out of control on the coast, the swell didn’t really move far enough north to penetrate and wash the points and coves with four-to-six foot peelers, I thought, if I got up early enough, I could get a few of Sunday’s bigger, cleaner… second ‘Okay,’ I did get waves to myself while many of the surfers camping in their vehicles were still sleeping or making breakfast on grills that, magically, were pulled out of the back of SUVs, and others were watching the four longboarders floating around on the ‘I’d-be-exaggerating-if-I-said-kneehigh’ lefts. I got a lot of waves, actually, little rights, with at least one ride to add to my memory bank, one of those where the chances of making the first, then the second, then the third section were less than assured; swoop and lean harder into the wall… and make it.

So, I did fine. I’m not sure everyone did. I hung out on the beach a while, chatting with surfing power couples, a guy who remembered me from an earlier session, who said he was trying to contain himself, with visions of overhead waves, on the way to… okay (number 3) some of the waves were a bit over knee-high, and there was always the hope the swell, 16 second intervals, would move just a hair farther north, the incoming tide would bring that fabled ‘push,’ or, maybe, at some other cove or point, maybe not with the easy access, there were those (again) fabled Straits peelers.

I checked one of those spots on my way back home, still, if I didn’t doddle, in time to watch some of the much-anticipated Seahawks/Cowboys football game. There were as many surfers making the trek out to the lineup as there were in the glassy waves, and as many tired surfers making the return trip to their vehicles. And then there were the surfers, as I was, dressed in their on-land clothes, hiking out to check out a spot a friend of mine asked me not to mention, as if it is a secret.

I will return there; the waves were definitely worth it; on one of those non-weekend days when the forecast is a little bit ‘iffy,’ the hype a bit… probably no hype at all. Hopefully everyone driving up and down Surf Route 101, out on Highway 112, on the sideroads heading north from their, on the paths and beaches, hopefully everyone caught at least one memorable wave; drop, lean, rise, swoop, blown out the end, clean.

And I have to go, but I’ll get back to the Stephen Davis story… always more, always something coming. As for the Seahawks, next weekend, man.

The Last Saturday Surf Session of Summer

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waikiki-crowdsIt seems to be important to me, because I’m self employed, because I don’t HAVE to be a WEEKEND WARRIOR; that I avoid surfing on the weekends. However, and there’s always a HOWEVER, sometimes the swell peaks on a Saturday. This is not just true on the Straits of Juan de Fuca; it’s true at the beaches you want to surf. So, on the last weekend of summer, to mitigate the situation with everyone checking out the same forecasts, making the same decisions, and because Trish was out of town, I got up at four am on a Saturday, checked the buoys, loaded up my stuff (if the buoys had looked more promising, I would have done this the night before), fooled around enough to determine if the swell had already peaked, and headed out.

I arrived at my (current) favorite spot before the sun. DAWN PATROL. I probably favor this spot because no hiking on trails and down cliffs is required, my vehicle is in sight from the lineup,  and usually (if there are waves) there are easy paddle-outs around the waves rather than through. There were four other rigs in the parking area when I pulled in, four other surfers suiting up. I leaped (why is ‘leapt’ incorrect?), glanced over at the rights which I’ve called ‘slow motion Malibu’ at their (almost) best (full speed at the very best), and saw it was breaking, so, naturally, I asked the others, almost suited-up, where they were headed.

“Oh, the rights look good.” “No, no; it’s deceiving. They’re really only, like, ankle high.”

So, here’s the thing about doing the dawn patrol: You get a few waves and then more and more surfers join you. When there aren’t that many waves and those who arrive are trying, as you are, to get in a maximum number of waves before… before whatever they have planned, you can get a bit anxious, perhaps irritated; and, if that is irrational, uncool, non-mellow, maybe resentful; man; that doesn’t mean you don’t have these feelings. Really, only two other surfers came over to the rights while I was there, but, on the lefts, which are longer, a crowd was beginning to grow. And the parking area was filling up with other surfers waiting for the right signal before entering the water- a bigger set, a few waves breaking on the outside indicator, perhaps waiting for their fast and/or ferry food to settle down.

Because I’m self employed, and because the other reason I went so early was because this wasn’t a weekend for me, I had to go back and work; I was looking for a good wave to go in on. I got one; one of those ‘to the parking lot’ rights, but…

…but I wanted a few more waves, so I moved over to the lefts. Usually featuring long walls, the more crowded side seemed to be offer slightly bigger waves. I caught a few, but had to share each wave with others. I caught a few more. With several sections and quite a few other surfers of varying skill levels vying for each wave, of the ten or so I caught, none were solo rides. If I got into one early, another surfer might catch it farther in but closer to the reef. I’d try to allow room, make a section, be alone for a moment until someone else took off inside. Fine. At least no one yelled, “PARTY WAVE.”

There was kind of a party atmosphere; and I did try to go with that. I’m sure my smile looked genuine. “Waikiki!” I’ve yelled in similar circumstances, tight to the wave with two people paddling just beyond the next section, one I would have every intention to make.

Just wanting this last wave to go in on, and already standing, a guy who had done this to me already turned around to do the ‘take off behind’ thing again immediately to my right. “That’s not right” I said, paused just a moment, sped into a section, turned, and made it all the way to the parking lot, at least two shoulder hoppers backing off as I, spontaneously, rather than the “f___k, f___k, f___k” I’d muttered (probably) a little loud in the last similar circumstance, broke into the classic soul song, “I know you want to leave me, boom, boom, boom…”. I should have been happy with the ‘to the parking lot’ ride. Actually, I was; but, discussing the situation in the parking lot with Clint, a boat repair guy from Port Townsend, with whom I’d had a bit of a non-race race with in the traffic lights in Port Angeles, he said he was just about through with this spot.

It gets crowded, not just because sometimes (in answer to someone else’s prayer) a swell sometimes peaks on a weekend, but because this spot is so user friendly. Everyone else is there for the same reason I go there.

And I don’t want to be is the angry guy, willing to get hostile over knee high waves. Maybe I’m ready for more challenging waves. I asked one of the guys who moved their car into a beach side spot next to mine when someone else left why they didn’t go all the way to the coast where the same swell would no doubt be producing overhead, maybe ten foot waves. “I’m scared of ten foot waves,” he said. “Oh.”  I have other excuses; time, um, a certain amount of, possibly, laziness.

But, right now; I’m planning, scheming, getting ready. There’s a swell forecast that’s too south in direction to make it to the Straits; long period, overhead. The first swell of fall. I’ll let you know how that goes. Meanwhile, Clint went back out, trying the lefts, the party atmosphere continued, someone pulled into the spot I left beachside, I passed at least eight board-topped rigs headed out on my way to go to work. Later, Clint surfed a secret(ish) spot near Port Townsend with one other surfer out.

 

You Should Have Been There an Hour Later

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fatguy setting up

Thanks to Jeff Vaughan for the photo of the guy on the unbroken wave that, also, looks like it might not break. Jeff is a longshoreman, loads ships all over Puget Sound, down to Aberdeen. On this day he was working an afternoon shift in Port Angeles. I was the first one out in waves that would have been difficult to catch on a regular long board. The tide was a little too low for the slow-motion-Malibu rights.

A little later, though, the tide came up, pushing (I don’t always believe this surfer theory) the swell up a bit. By the time I’d  caught a bunch of dribblers, and some other surfers came out, the lefts on the other side of the little bay, totally flat at dawn, were starting to work. Honest. Lined up, spinning, I caught a few before I had to, had to go to work.

As did Jeff. But first he took a few shots of waves hitting the outside indicator. Maybe he’ll send those to me. Oh, sorry; if you’ve never surfed the Straits of Juan de Fuca, this is really as big as it gets. Oh, and, I guess Jeff missed my cutback, set up bottom turn, sidestep to the nose. Maybe next time.