Words

4 April 2008

daySURFnight

The first sign the day is upon me sings from the beaks of the chirping parakeets, which roost in large groups in the stiff pine trees overhead. The instant any hint of light brightens the horizon they spring to lively action in a cacophony that crescendos, corresponding to the sky’s luminosity, until it reaches a dull roar. By this time it is almost too late. I will not be the first person into the water. But if I hasten, perhaps the second or third. While gearing up, a foreboding rain cloud passes overhead, briefly darkening an otherwise pale sky. It drops a warm morning shower over me, as if warning me of the dangerous sea. I scoff at the cloud’s futile attempt to thwart my activities. “I think I will have a look at the ocean for myself. Besides, do you think getting me wet will stop me? I will soon be in the water anyway.” Gliding gently across the vulnerable beach so early in the morning, the only sound is the noise of fine, tan sand squeaking through my toes. Now I gallop toward the incoming tide, unable to control my excitement for the brisk exhilaration of crashing through the first set of crisp surf.

As I step in, the water tightens around my legs and seems chilly for and instant. Then it quickly becomes bathwater; it retains more of yesterday’s heat than the dawn air. I paddle rigorously on my stomach toward the pounding surf in the distance. A light onshore breeze pushes the crests of tiny inbound waves over the tip of my fiberglass vessel, lightly splashing my face. I wince as the salty brine splashes playfully in my eyes, as if to keep me focused. Farther out, beyond the break, waves peak tall and delicately thin. So clear is the water I am able to distinguish the colors of sunrise through their a-frame design – a pink hue, fading higher in the sky to a dull orange. These colors are skewed by the thin sheet of clear water across the wave’s peak. They take on a momentary purplish tint before the waves fold over upon themselves and collapse into eerie pink foam. Below, the water is perfectly lucent, as if I am swimming thorough air. I glide over sand banks, ten feet under the surface, sculpted in slopes and lined like farmers wheat fields viewed from a great height. Today’s calm and this early hour almost guarantee a swim-by from a pod of inquisitive dolphins, who boastfully perform aerials in the breaking waves, making it clear that I understand they don’t need a board to have fun. They curiously investigate any surfer in the water, surfacing close enough to be touched, and then dive again for a meal, reassured that we are mutually harmless to each other.

Finally out beyond the breakers, after an exhilarating swim, the sun peaks over the horizon; the sky lights up blue; the earth breathes deeply then shudders as it begins to warm; the day begins.

Despite the ominous rain cloud at dawn, the shock of entering the water, and the saltwater splash reminders, I am lulled into complacency by the morning’s wondrous calm. I rest, relaxed, sitting up on my board. I feel in tune with nature, having ignored its cues of just who is in charge. She reprimands me for my negligence. It is almost too late by the time I notice the disruption of tranquility. Seemingly out of nowhere, a powerful, fast eight-foot wave appears 10 yards in front of me. Momentarily I think of paddling furiously toward it, but, sitting vulnerably on my board, out of paddling position, I only have time to brace for its punishment. The wave slams hard over just a few yards in front of me, rudely interrupting the dawn’s peace and my safety. I only have time to dive off my board before the white wash, a three-foot high wall, engulfs me, sending me flipping backwards in a water avalanche and folding my body into contortions a yoga master would be proud to see performed. Spinning in the whitewater as if in a washing machine, I do not know which way is up. As soon as I strain one arm to swim in a direction I am sucked back into the cauldron of churning water. Parts of me briefly graze the sandy wheat fields below, destroying their delicately carved lines, but before I gain orientation I am whipped in another direction.

Finally, when I have almost given up hope of a life above water, the wave releases me from its spiraling torture chamber. Eyes open, I head for the light above me. I realize I am a little deeper than I thought. Even though I am so close to the surface, I have been held under for a bit longer than I was prepared. I enter the phase of panic where I wonder if I will make it before I simply must breathe – how much longer will my hastily-drawn breath last? After what seems like hours I finally break the churning, foamy surface, which once so calm and peaceful, is now a class five rapid. When I am quite sure my mouth is clear of the water’s stirred-up surface I gasp for the biggest gulp of air I can get before…Crash! The next wave in the set demolishes me and I am again tossed uncontrollably, a rag doll, back into the salty spin cycle.

Okay, nature, now you have got my attention. I am fully aware of your force. The complacency of early morning has been spun out of me. I am awake, recovering by sitting on my board and waiting for the next set – now a little farther out. Always a mind game, a surfer must decide with the precision of a physicist where to post up to wait for the rideable waves. Too far out and the wave is not developed enough to paddle into. To far in and, well, I just witnessed the result. Too far to either side and the peak and power of the wave will be missed. With constantly changing tides, winds, sand banks, wave heights and swell direction a surfer is less a jock than a skilled oceanic scientist, wave theorist and meteorologist, visually calculating scores of variables instantaneously.

Today’s conditions are far from perfect. There are shifting peaks, fickle waves and increasing winds, as the atmosphere gains solar energy. I face a dilemma common to novice surfers such as myself: whether to paddle out a bit further to wait for the giant set which might never come, stranding me and my board for an hour without catching one wave; or to stay in and surf smaller, less rewarding waves and get pummeled by the large, outer-breaking sets. Based on the wave that steamrolled me on my way out I choose the former option. I will go for the big sets, as they seem to be coming in consistently enough. I am in luck. Not three minutes after paddling out a bit farther I spot a set rolling in. The first good-looking wave in a set is always tempting to take because you never know what is behind it – maybe nothing – but patience is often rewarded. Generally, its bigger brother is following right behind. I wait nervously for my first take off of the day. However, by placing myself where I currently am, I have already done 95% of the work.

Being in that perfect spot when the wave arrives is the final step to ensure a good catch. If too far back, then the wave is not steep enough to paddle into. Too far in front and the wave crashes over the top of the board and punishes us both. To far from the peak on either side and there will not be sufficient swell to drop into and generate power to move on the wave. This is the moment when the hundreds of hours of wave theorizing and atmospheric examination come in handy. To the untrained eye, surfers look like a bunch of slackers wasting away their lives sitting on their boards in the sun beyond the breakers. What is actually taking place is a drawn-out, exhaustive examination of wave measurement. The surfer predicts the frequency, velocity, period, amplitude and angle of the wave, as well as its progression. He has sat there for hundreds of hours assessing the attributes of these waves under every possible atmospheric condition – so that when the right wave finally comes, he is ready and he springs to life.

I see my wave growing, its curled barrel darkening – a sure sign it will break at any moment. I turn to paddle. It takes a powerful, concerted effort to propel the board forward to the speed necessary to catch a wave. Full force, my arms and legs flap determinedly in a flurry of activity so contrasted from the calm of board-sitting an instant ago. I feel a sloping bulge of water push the back of my board, which is suddenly leaning forward, aimed down a 45 degree grade of dark blue. Now is the point of no return. I either quickly jump to my feet or I am thrown into the gurgling abyss below. Every take off must be treated like it is the last. Absolute concentration is required to muster up the precision necessary for the balance transfer of a human body jumping to its feet while riding on a tiny accelerating board on the face of a steeply angled crest. As I feel the wave pushing me forward there is no need for more paddling. As quickly as possible, I push up from the board and slide one foot up to the tail of the board, one up to the center, while angling slightly left so I don’t flop straight over. I am up just in the nick of time as the wave begins to break over my right shoulder.

Solid. I am planted with a low center of gravity. The angle steepens; I need to get out of the break this instant or I will face the painful penalty of the wall crashing over the top of me. Leaning left, I push my left foot down the slope of the wave and skim down its face through brilliantly smooth water. There is still a steep angle in front of me, but my left turn leaves the continuously advancing break behind for the moment. In full concentration, as my speed increases, the only noises I hear are the wind rushing past my ears and the smooth sound of my synthetic board swooshing through slightly turbulent, nearly glassy water. Whoosh! Ripples vibrate the bottom of my surfboard. I glide into open, flat water, clear of the breaking wave. My speed begins to slow. Inevitably, the quick-forming lip has already caught me and the crest is about to topple over me. I cut sharply left back up the slope of the wave and dive into the water behind it. My five seconds of active exhilaration have finished. But the elation will last much longer.

After a day relaxing and avoiding the brunt force of the sun, it has finally waned and I float lazily in the water again. Nothing is better than a morning surf session – except complimenting it with an afternoon session. A warming glow saturates the atmosphere as the golden sun fades to orange on the horizon. The wind falls to a murmur. It seems to lack motivation, only blowing to keep out dead calm. The water’s silky surface shines luminously, as if lit from underneath. Small waves of tangerine mirrored glass bend and shatter onto the flat, haggard beach, which bear the wear of the tide’s impudence for its well-being. Motionless and nearly silently, I glide to shore, finished for the day, powered by a foamy, churning wave engine. Looking as exhausted as I feel, the sun tucks behind a green forested mountain, splashing the earth with one final palette of waning color. I reach the sandy shore and gear down from the long day. In the calm silence of dusk, above me, the parakeets have reassembled and are chirping away ceremoniously. But as the light diminishes, their decrescendo corresponds, to silence.