(Note: That isn’t me on the left. I wish it were. That guy looks like he’s about get spat out, not whacked in the head. That is, however, me on the right. Pretty cool, huh?)
It happened on my last wave of the trip. Of course it did. It’s just one of those things, I guess. You have a perfect trip, then at the very end, just hours before heading to the airport, you get seriously injured, bathed in your own blood, rushing to the hospital to suture up an open wound, and left worrying whether the staples in your head will sound the alarm as you go through the TSA metal detector. At least it didn’t happen at the start of the trip, right?
We’d been sent on assignment, the rest of The Inertia crew and I, to brave the North Shore during the wintertime, the pinnacle of surf world circuses. Like the flocks of other surf media on the Seven Mile Miracle, we were tasked with securing as many handshakes, interviews, news stories, scoops, and scandals as possible. It’s hectic. If it wasn’t for the brutal humidity, my anxiety would’ve gone much more noticeable, on account of the constant nervous sweat stains under my arms.
Over the course of the trip, we scored a variety of waves. Perfect head-high barrels, flat like a lake, and unrideable outer reef mush balls. When it was on, the entire industry, it seemed, convened on Rocky Point, where we were staying, with lenses pointed at Noa Deane, Dane Reynolds, Stephanie Gilmore, CJ Hobgood, Miguel Pupo, and many, many more pro surfers. As you can imagine, it was hard to find waves.
Towards the end of the trip, I’d grown accustomed to sitting deep at Rocky Lefts or further down towards Gas Chambers, if the crowd was really heavy. But on the final day, I had woken up late, missing the morning session – a throbbing hangover from our event with Kelly Slater and Rob Machado at Turtle Bay was to blame for that. Despite the typical morning-after regret, it seemed to work in my favor. Around midday, after four Advil and a hair-of-the-dog beer for good measure, the crowd had thinned out. The tide dropped. The wind shifted. It was ON.
Up and down the point, the handful of surfers in the water were getting draining barrels. As a goofy-footer, I was eyeballing the lefts. I got one, pumped viciously down the line towards an incoming section, pulled under the lip for a quick tube, then got spat out. After, I got another left. And another. A few more barrels and my confidence was running high. I decided to go for a right; I hadn’t successfully made it out of a backside barrel the entire trip (a few close ones, but I always got clipped). One swung wide. Strider Wasilewski let it pass. I was in position. And I took off, under the lip as soon as my feet touched wax.
I tried to pump because I was a little too deep, although I was still pig-dogging, grabbing my outside rail, so it felt (and looked, I’m sure) a little awkward. I seemed to be covered for decently long time, as it always does to the person in the tube, but it probably was much more like a head dip. Eventually, I saw my exit. One last foolish pump. Almost there.
But no. Once again the wave clamped on me and I was pushed down towards the shallow and sharp reef. I’d hit the reef a few times on the trip already and I was sure this was going to be a scar to add to the collection. After tossing and turning for a solid amount of time, however, I remained unscathed. I was struck with relief. Unfortunately, around the same time, I was also struck by my board. In the head. Bad.
You know that feeling when you hurt yourself but you have no idea how bad it is? You could’ve just stubbed your toe. But there’s a split second when you wonder whether the pain will go away (as it always does) or if they are going to have to helivac you out of your apartment. Yeah, that’s where I was. When I came up from the water, blood was dripping from my head. I started to make my way in, hobbling over the low tide rocks. As I neared the shore, my entire stomach was soaked in blood. It was in my eyes; I was seeing red. People started gathering on the beach.
Since the house we were staying at was so close, I rushed passed the group of concerned beachgoers. I didn’t want to deal with this on the sand, make a scene, and embarrass myself. I politely waived and went on my way. When I got home I walked right inside, dripping blood, and upon a preliminary glance from my coworkers, was told that a doctor was necessary. The closest was in Kahuku, thirty minutes away. Four hours until my flight in Honolulu. Was my stuff packed? My shit together? Negative.
Luckily the doctor saw me right away. Within seconds he had a needle in the wound to numb it, then minutes later, it was sutured up with five staples. We were in and out within 15 minutes. Another guy in there was ran over by Taylor Knox at V-Land – “He better bring me a case of beer and a board,” he said as blood seeped from his leg in the waiting room.
The Hawaiian local, who drove himself to the hospital with a gash the size of an Iphone, made me realize how minor my injury was. It has been a harrowing season on the North Shore with some of the best surfers in the world including Evan Geiselman, Owen Wright, and Bede Durbidge taking some life-threatening beatings out at Pipe. I escaped with a petty scratch. But it still reaffirmed the notion that the ocean is a humbling place. If you get cocky, even the slightest bit, she will show her teeth.
Oh, and the metal detector didn’t go off. So, yeah, I felt like a real p*ssy.
