“‘I haven’t been here in 52 years,” he says with a tinge of nostalgia. “The last time I was in Cape Hatteras, I was standing right up there with my Dad,'” he explains while extending a finger back toward the beach.” Photo: Shutterstock
Day five of desperation. No waves, but my feet keep carrying me over the dunes in hopes that the buoys are malfunctioning. The Atlantic is a lake. Not even Hatteras’ extended reach across the continental slope can manufacture a surfable wave today.
The legends are apparently true. If you birth a new surfboard into the world, the waves shall go quiet for an indefinite amount of time in observance of the great happening. My face reads “…dammit” and my unridden single-fin waits eagerly beneath my arm. Forged by a homeschooled craftsmen beneath the stilts of my very own home. Sweat and blood in the foam – probably a few tears in the resin. Glassed in the fires of Mount Doom. She deserves better than the flatness that expands before me. Deserves more than the embarrassment of being paddled around in kiddy pool conditions for the past five days in hopes of some divine rouge wave manifesting.
I turn to retreat back inland a few hundred yards, but catch a floating splotch of wetsuit near the second jetty. A chance? A hope. Hell, why not? Maybe he saw something I didn’t. A few minutes later I’m zipping my wetsuit up and tossing my gloves and boots onto the beach. I doubt I will be out long enough to need them. The miniscule amount of swell in the ocean is just barely visible trying to break on the outer sandbar. A sad little “poof” of foam and then a quick death in the deep water.
I paddle out just close enough to the single soul floating on mediocrity to notice he is wrapped in an absurd amount of neoprene and gripping firmly to the rails of a rental, soft-top longboard. I try as best as I can to reserve my judgments. I’ve been backhanded countless times in the past by preconceptions that were completely misguided and unwarranted. So for all I know, this is the most talented surfer on the East Coast. But the aged and wrinkled face beneath the 3mm hood suggests otherwise. At least sixty years have passed since this man came barreling into the world. Back to staring out at the glumness of the ocean and waiting for an ankle high set to bring me back to the beach.
“I drove 13 hours for this!” The solo surfer has drifted closer during my brief comatose. I assume he is just as discouraged and pissed off as me, so I shake my head and laugh in agreement. “All the way from Long Island to be here today!” Finally, I make peace with the fact that at least some conversation will ease the pain of yet another day of surfing in a waveless environment.
“Well, hopefully it will pick up in the next couple of days and the waves will get better,” I offer pseudo-optimistically.
“Boy this is great, huh? Long Island’s just too cold for me. This is just amazing.” I wait for the familiar sting of sarcasm to register in my ears, but it never does. This guy is serious. I kind of just look at him for a moment, not quite sure what facial expression to slather across my face. I don’t want to offend him with the laugh that I’m suppressing in my throat.
“Have you visited here before?” I decide to ask, trying to gauge his definition of ‘amazing’. After all, just a week prior, magazine cover barrels were breaking in the very spot we are both floating.
“I haven’t been here in 52 years,” he says with a tinge of nostalgia. “The last time I was in Cape Hatteras, I was standing right up there with my Dad,” he explains while extending a finger back toward the beach. I realize he’s pointing at the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse. The “East Coast Wave Magnet.” Certainly the lighthouse and the waves were polar opposites today. As I’m caught up staring down that black and white tower of an era long past, I hear a vocalization of excitement behind me. Solo surfer has found a rideable wave and is struggling to his feet. He finds his center of gravity and a semblance of balance and rides the ankle slapper all the way into the sand. Where the hell did that come from?
On his eager paddle back out, I can just hear him calling to me, “that was the best one yet!” and “It’s getting better, isn’t it!?” I can’t help but laugh and dust off a genuine smile at this elder’s pure stoke. He continues exuding good vibes upon me and offers, “Boy, it’s just nice to be out here in the water. Warm water. Keeps you young, it sure does. If I was your age, I’d be out here every day. This is a hell of a place to live.”
Now that suppressed laugh is released, but this time, it is with happiness. The beauty of the situation I’ve found myself in has just knocked back my jaw. My whining and moaning about shit conditions is this old guy’s greatest session ever. Another “set” rolls through and before I realize it, I’m paddling for the peak. What the hell am I doing? Will this pathetic lump of salt water even support my weight? Then I’m crouched in an overly enthusiastic Hawaii 5-0 stance. Dragging my hand in a face that doesn’t really exist. Trying to slide out the tail and laughing my ass off at how much fun I’m having.
I paddle back out with a new perspective and a smile. Everything seems brighter and I share a couple of “yews” with the old-timer as we watch the biggest set of the day stacking up on the outside. Almost tummy-high. But the optimism I’ve stolen from my new friend must be making me hallucinate. The wave looks perfect. Bowling up on the sandbar and peeling. Surely this won’t barrel, will it?
Yeah, it didn’t barrel. But it did give me a two second ride on my infant single-fin. Just enough time to give me a hint of just what I’ve put under my feet. And that’s all I’ve been looking for during these last five days.
“Fifty-two years,” he says. “Fifty-two years since my Dad and I looked out on these same waves. The lighthouse was closer then.” We both are content, wrapped in our separate solitudes and separated by an entire lifetime. I pray that I will be that enlightened if I reach old age. The day fades away behind us in a sherbet haze and I wonder how many more of these sessions he has left. Or I have left.
“It sure is good to be home,” he says. Yes it is, my friend.
