One minute you’re Kelly Slater, the next, well…. Photo: David Klaasen//Unsplash
As I walked down the beach, I spotted a lone wolf out among the jumbled, overhead swells. I strapped on my leash and watched him drift far right of what I know as the normal takeoff spot, then snag a decent right. A skilled surfer I’d seen out before, he rode the wave well — but a voice in my head said that in a few minutes, I’d grab the same wave and surf it better. After all, I’d been on fire lately (at least, as on fire as a guy surfing a mid-length in his 40s can be).
I took an onslaught of waves on the head as I paddled out, and that should have tipped me off. Yet, caffeine rumbling in my veins, I made it out the back and spaced out, watching the plovers scoop fish for breakfast. A few minutes later, I picked off a fun wave which quickly snapped shut, and I darted over the falls. I quickly grabbed another wave, a fast, fun right, and paddled back out, all the worries of my morning gone up in smoke.
Way over to the right, that guy I’d seen just sat there, not scoring. It confused me: why was he sitting way out in right field? It didn’t look like he was catching anything, and when he did, the offerings over there didn’t have much size. At the same time, everyone has theories and ideas that guide their positioning. You often see someone turn around and ditch the lineup for an imagined curl in the distance. It wasn’t that crazy.
Maybe, I thought, I was simply a better surfer now. Maybe I’d improved enough over the last five years to own it; to move deftly on waves, to not be intimidated by size or currents or the arching swells that seemed to build by the minute. Most importantly, to know where to sit and when.
Maybe I’d arrived.
A bigger set came in and I didn’t hesitate. I barely needed to paddle, just glided into a steep left that welled up behind me. I could already see the wall opening where I’d paint my masterpiece. Now, here is where, looking back, my story begins to unravel. I barely made the steep drop, my feet landed in the wrong place, and when I tried to move them, I lost my balance and pitched back, diving through the glass as the booming crash rattled my brain.
I looked over with a conspiratorial grin — I almost got crushed, you see that? — but the guy was absorbed by a sick left. I watched him rip it all the way to shore, then paddle back easily, a tiny dot far to my right who I could almost see smiling.
My turn again and I inexplicably went right on what probably should have been a left, ducked under the rolling whitewash, and cannonballed out the other side, enjoying a nice frontside carve. The problem this time was that I got greedy and hung on far too long.
I should have known what was coming.
The biggest, tallest, nastiest set of the morning began delivering prime Mike-Tyson-style blows to my head in short succession. After my 100th duck dive, I lost steam and shouted a garbled “Are you f’n kidding me?” then I sank beneath the foam and drifted backwards to wait out the set.
My wounded ego urged me to make it back out the back, but here’s the best part: I paddled back to the same spot. The guy, still to my far right, didn’t notice me. He was up on another wave, moving with purpose and grace. In my memory, his face is dry, his eyes wise, his mouth forming the words: “You’re an idiot.” He may have even tipped his hat.
I sought salvation. I wanted to tame the biggest wave in the set to erase the vile memory of not only being jammed inside that day, but of being stuck inside so many times before. The shadow of the surfer I used to be clung to me, and I sought to break free and to become the surfer I could be. The unknowing, probably super-nice guy next to me began to epitomize all the other surfers over the years who were more skilled, informed, graceful; in short, better, than I was.
I remembered being a kid in Rhode Island, paddling out into a wall of groms who made sure to let me know I was a rookie. I remembered getting lectured by a seasoned pro during a hurricane swell in Maine about where to be right before being smashed against a jetty (with my “close” friends, safely on said jetty, chuckling). I recalled many frustrating sessions when I first moved out West, one where in response to a guy asking, “how is it out here?” I said “I wouldn’t know, man – I’ve been in the wrong place the entire time.” I remembered years ago in Costa Rica, when I latched onto the only wave my then-girlfriend would see me ride, and instantly tumbled down the face (she got a clear picture of that one).
Apparently, the pain of my early surf career had never quite healed (yes, I’ve got some issues and no, I’m not in therapy. Yet.)
A wave came and I was paddling before I even scoped it. As it cranked up behind me higher and higher, an inexplicably high voice in my head said: “Hey, are we really doing this? Don’t we want to possibly think about….”
“Shut up, Brain.” I was in.
This would be my redemption song, sung in many firing sections — and then I’d cruise to shore, grinning. I could almost taste the crispy crust of the empanada I’d fire down on the way home — until the bottom fell out and I watched my board disappear down the drain. I free-fell down the wall, rag-dolling down the face, getting absolutely battered.
After a few minutes, I eked out an inside wave and made it to shore. As I did, I saw the guy from earlier on the beach, gesturing wildly to a couple of guys who were headed out, telling them where to sit. Telling them exactly what the waves were doing in their specific spots, and where not to be. As I jogged by, he waved, as if to say, “fun out there today, right?”
I wasn’t upset that he hadn’t told me he had the spot and swell dialed. I hadn’t paddled over. More importantly, I hadn’t taken the time to observe, or considered that things had shifted since yesterday, and that the typical spot can change at any time. I also hadn’t considered that I could be wrong. I just bore straight ahead with force instead of knowledge, like trying in vain to turn a stripped screw.
As is often the case with surfing, every time we think we’ve got it figured out, the ocean lets us know who’s in charge. I learned multiple things all at once about myself that day: about being observant, about ego and human nature and exhilaration and pain. Surfing tries to teach us valuable lessons every day. The question is: do we listen?
I’ll paddle out tomorrow with a new mindset, less id and more ego.
I’d go back out today, but my back is telling me it needs a day off to lick its wounds.
And maybe I need to listen to what it’s telling me.
