My home break is one of the southernmost beaches in Israel. It’s a bowly right with a totally makeable pace that breaks off a rock groin. Probably one of the best beachbreaks I’ve ever found, especially on the Mediterranean coast. When it’s on, it can get really good. Unfortunately, with the Mediterranean’s fetch, those times aren’t as frequent as I’d like. Lately, I’ve been lucky enough to surf it with just a few friends, but this seclusion is a double-edged sword.
As much as I’d never complain about the lack of a crowd, it also means I have almost no evidence of the waves I surf. There’s no one on the beach taking pictures and Surfline never bothered to set up a camera outside of Tel Aviv. This leaves me with just my Apple Watch and my recall as a record of the waves I’ve ridden. But my memory is not the most reliable source for these things.
I black out in big waves. Just like Dave Wassel reported of his epic ride at Cloudbreak, I too don’t remember high-adrenaline situations. It’s as if my mind goes on autopilot in those intense moments, and when the ride comes to a close, I have little to no recollection of what just occurred. I’m not sure why it happens; I’m not even sure how I make the waves, but I don’t regain cognition until I reach the shoulder. This has been a constant in my life, except for one of the biggest waves I ever surfed years ago during a Nor’easter.
The day in question, I arrived at the boardwalk in Long Beach, New York to a foggy first light. Uncharacteristically, there was a group of locals mulling around, watching the waves. I decided to do the same. I figured maybe they knew something I didn’t. It clearly wasn’t small but, as always, it was tough to gauge the exact size with an empty lineup.
I watched for a few minutes, perplexed that no one seemed motivated to take it on. “Well, I didn’t come here just to watch it,” I figured, so I decided to suit up. On my way to the car, I asked one of the bystanders, “Should I take my 6’6″ or my 6’10?” (Keep in mind, this was well before boards dropped dramatically in size.) Six-six, he replied. I took his advice, even though he seemed no more qualified than I was at assessing the conditions. I’m still not sure if it was the right call.
As I paddled out, it was immediately clear that it was a lot bigger than I had anticipated. To make matters even more intimidating, I didn’t recognize a soul in the water. You know it’s big when the regular crew is too rattled to go out. I still can’t figure out how these fair-weather surfers can take on the biggest days with no water time logged in between. Maybe they have the luxury of traveling often.
Once out the back, I waited a long time to choose a wave. Whenever it’s big, I become super picky. I’ve got to be certain I’m going to make it. What looked like a shoulder-high wave was coming my way, so I decided it’d be a good way to start. I lined myself up a bit off-center of the peak to ensure I’d make it. The wave was moving fast, so I put my head down and paddled as hard as I could. Total commitment.
Just before I popped up, I glanced down the line and noticed I had horribly misjudged the wave. Unlike normal growers, it didn’t stand up. Instead, it attempted a Teahupo’o imitation. The bottom dropped out, and now I was staring down something that was well overhead and the peak had tripled in length. I was way deeper than I wanted to be. I’ve never been much of a barrel rider.
But by this time, I had fully caught the wave, and it was about to barrel. I had to make a choice: dive off and get annihilated, or pull in and pray. I was way too committed. There was no pulling out the back of this one. In that split second, I decided to go for it.
Instinctually, I threw my arms forward as I dropped in and got one pump off before pulling in. I’d like to tell you the view was amazing, but at first, I didn’t see it. The adrenaline blackout had taken over. Unlike past occasions, however, it only lasted for a short while. The foam ball smacked the bottom of my board and rattled me awake. At first, I wished it hadn’t.
It was the biggest, darkest cavern I’d ever been in. A real standup barrel. Everything was in slow motion, but not because it was euphoric. It was because I was all but soiling my wetty.
The exit looked miles away. And at that moment, someone who seemed the size of an ant paddled up the face of the wave. He peered in towards me and let out a hoot and a fist pump, cheering me on. All I could think was, “Just hold your line and maybe you won’t die.”
Miraculously, I came screaming out of the tube — both in speed and in vocal volume. I let out a bellow and fell backward off my board. I couldn’t believe I was alive.
Memories like this are few and far between. Perhaps that’s the point, though. Even if I had video footage of all the waves I’ve ever ridden, would I even watch them beyond the initial viewing? Maybe, like all of our life’s memories, our brain is meant to naturally weed out the unimportant and leave only the truly monumental occasions. I just pray I’ll have a few more foam balls to help me remain present, both in and out of the water.
