Cold, windy and sharky. But it’s my spot.
My spot sucks. You wouldn’t like it. The always-grey skies, frigid water, and howling winds compliment the steep, eroding cliff and dull beach below. It’s heavily localized, sharky, and completely out of the way. The swell never hits well and the storms keep destroying the inside sandbar. The long paddle through the thick kelp forests is dreadful. The water is murky and mysterious boils make me worry what mysterious creatures are lurking below. Here, there are no convenient channels to expedite surfers to the lineup. Taking multiple sets on the head and having to constantly duck dive is absolutely exhausting. By the time I finally reach the peak, my head is throbbing and I have no energy left to paddle. The stiff lines of swell that roll in through the fog have an unyielding presence that command respect. It’s here that my surfer friend, who is deaf, heard his only sound – the sound of a crashing wave that absolutely ravaged him. The takeoff spot is behind a foreboding rock, and only the most stupid and brave will go deep enough for a wave on the outside. I am proudly one of them. Last season, I caught a rail and the lip slammed me into my board, which was sandwiched upright between the rock and me. The incident snapped my clavicle bone. Being far from nearest doctor, I self-remedied. I applied cold seawater for swelling and drank beer for the pain. At my spot there are no sun-bronzed knockouts here. No Hawaiians strumming ukuleles and no fruity cocktails. No happy, chatty surfers. Only observant, territorial surfers with an eye for big fins and the tomb-stoning of boards. My spot sucks, but I’ll never say where it is.
