Contest surfing has its moments. This is the story of my last one. Photo: ASP/Kirstin
A rare beachbreak was firing. The sandbank was a perfect, long right-hander, hitting the outside bank at about four to six-foot and running for ages, before doubling up on itself and throwing some fat barrels in the shorebreak. It was the best day at this obscure spot in ages, and we had hooked it for a club contest. It was early and cold and drizzling and there were no freesurfers around, so we set up camp for the day.
As the event progressed, the waves just got better and better. Longer heats, top surfing. Tension rose steadily throughout the day. People were just psyching, sitting in their cars parked sideways on the roadside above the beach, watching the waves, thinking, going through all the different ways of dealing with competition.
All the expected surfers made it through to the six-man semis, along with a few obligatory surprises. The first semi paddled out and for the first time there was some real hassling in the water, and some more determined surfing. Then it was my semi. I was so focused. To win this contest meant so much to me at the time; recognition, possible sponsor upgrades, maybe even enough boost of self-esteem to enter a few of the pro-ams or the pro trials or something. I wanted to win.
I had the proverbial shocker. Missed the first set because I was too deep, then spent an agonizing a few minutes waiting for a second set as all the guys who caught waves sprint-paddled back into position, edging me too deep again. Eventually I got forced into a close-out and rode it to the beach. I was hoping for an inside reform that never happened. My good mate André was my fiercest rival. He was in the heat as well, on his backhand, and was also having a shocker. He had sat with me and had missed the first set and then his first wave was also a close-out. All the other dudes in the heat were just hooking into these cookers and carving them all the way to the beach. Time was ticking away and André and I were just completely out of rhythm. It happens, but it was so embarrassing. My heart was sinking. I was feeling sick. Everything I had done – all the training and early nights – was slipping past me pointlessly.
A set!
André and I sprinted outside to it but it was a big set and we got caught inside again. Ducked under three perfect waves. The other guys who were paddling out all hooked into these peeling wide ones, and just consolidated on their scores.
After the third wave, we were way outside again, and the ocean went flat. There was probably a minute or so left. I looked at him and he stared me down. We turned together and started sprint-paddling for the beach, grunting and heaving. We were both out of the heat, out of the contest, but still fighting to the end. Only one of us was going to come last and suffer the ignominy of it in front of our mates.
As we were paddling in, a solid-looking in-between wave popped up behind us. It slipped over the outside bank and came through unbroken towards us. There was a submerged rock on the inside, and this three-foot swell capped over it. We both paddled for it, side by side. Grunting and swearing and inadvertently smacking each other in our frantic paddling.
The siren went off. The heat was over. My eyes were spinning from the exertion and the stress. We had both missed the wave. I looked over at my mate. He looked at me, and we both just burst out laughing at the utter stupidity of it all. The loudest, most deranged laughter as we saw reflected in each other what we had both become. We rolled off our boards, laughing.
In retrospect, that instant when we started laughing was the exact moment I lost my competitive spirit. I never entered another surfing competition again. Never trained for an event again. Never again put aside a good night out for a contest.
We walked up the cliff together. I came stone last in the heat, and a whole new world of surfing opened up before me.
