Almost ready to paddle out, except that there are still a few more things to do. Most of us have become conscious of excessive sun exposure. In balmy Florida water temps in the eighties, I scarcely needed a wetsuit, but wore one, a “shortie”, for sun protection and to act as a rash-guard; without this, or some type of jersey, the acts of paddling out and sliding on and off your board can deliver a considerable rash.
Standing ankle-deep in the water, I took note of three more key factors: wind-direction, avoiding nearby swimmers and the location of the “lineup,” the latter two being important facets of surfing etiquette. You don’t want to get plowed into by anyone body-surfing or boogie-boarding toward you, nor do you want to “cut into” other surfers who have priority while waiting “outside” in the “lineup” to catch a wave, an offense as gauche as cutting in line at the supermarket. In super-popular surf spots where “localism” reigns, local regular surfers feel they “own” such favored spots, sometimes resenting “newbies.” Awareness of wind direction is crucial, as, in a prevailing onshore northeasterly, for example, I didn’t want to drift any farther south down the beach, thus having to trudge fatigued, gripping the rails of my heavy surfboard a quarter-mile up to where I left my beach things.
All that whitewater rushing toward you, scary, for sure; facing the pounding shore break. But your aim is to get “outside” the breaking waves; you’re prone on your board, so your view is very limited. With a wave right in front of you, you scarcely see the one right behind it. If you make it outside, there, astride your board, you bob around rather like a teabag, awaiting the next wave set, then, turning yourself around and-with perfect timing- start paddling furiously. You catch a wave as it crests or peaks underneath you. Then, with luck, popped up on your feet, the sudden frisson of jetting over Poseidon’s realm in that sublime moment of, well, grace.
Plopping my board in the water, pushing it out until I stood in waist-high water, I wasn’t quite prepared for the force of the first and smallest of countless waves to hit me. I gripped the side rails of my board toward the “nose” or top, and strode out against fierce backwash, with each step, the undercurrent tugging at my legs while I stared, terrified at the enormity of the next wave falling, crashing ahead of me, an almost deafening sound.
Suddenly, I was awash in foam and spray, my board ripped from my grasp. I plummeted backwards, down, down to a free tour of the ocean bottom, my board flying overhead out of sight behind me straining at the leash. When I surfaced, gasping for air, I spotted a fellow surfer flying into the air, probably trying to execute what surfers call a “kick-out. He was tossed like a rag-doll from the curling maw of the giant wave he’d been trying to ride. Intermittently, smaller rolling blue-green, less mean waves roll toward you; your board glides gently over the top and you flop down the back side, only to face the next thrasher—eye-level now– aiming at you.
And this is how it goes. Terrifying at first, I began to realize that, as each wave approached,I could jump up, a tight grip on my board, and let the waves roll under me. In deeper water, you slide onto the rear two-thirds of your board and paddle rapidly into the face of the next wave, always a tight grip on your rails, a cowboy on a bucking bronco. More than once, I was tossed over backwards and wiped out. Earlier, I had noted local internet surf-cam sites reporting “predominant surf patterns at 6 to 8 seconds”, meaning that every 6 to 8 seconds, there’s another wave plowing at you. I knew I would be in a seething cauldron. At my Brevard County beach lifeguard tower No.3, the bright red high-hazard flag was up, the sign cautioned:
Listen up. Today’s conditions are rough. Stay close. Stay
away from the pier. Heavy south drift. Beware rips.
Other surfers and many swimmers’ heads bobbed now and then above the rolling and breaking waves, the surfers attempting to paddle outside, that is, to slightly calmer water beyond the lines of breakers. There, they could idle, sometimes for a quarter hour, riding their boards as if on horseback, possibly to see a pod of dolphins, or simply, pivot around and grab a wave back toward shore, while popped up in that quintessential crouching surfer stance. It’s usually a long way out, and a quick, exhilarating ride to shore.
Not wanting to deprive myself of the advantage of having a surf lesson from a local pro surfer, I signed up under the tutelage of Ron Jon Surf School’s “Larry”, a tanned, blond, lithe 24-year old. I picked up pointers about proper toe and foot positions for the pop-up, how to keep my hands and elbows in a “chicken-wing” position, how to steady myself, two techniques of carrying my board, and how to safely wipe-out. With him, I had my first genuine stand-up. I recommend surf lessons highly. “Once you commit to catching a wave,” he urged, “dedicate yourself to it.”
It was my fate, however, to be caught inside the shorebreaks, seldom able to make it past the tumult of waves in the impact zone. Given the rough conditions, at one point, with a solid foot-plant in four feet of water, then taking a step, I stumbled down into a surf-gouged pit almost over my head, my board lofting above me, mouth full of saltwater. I realized, however, that the initial terror of those unstoppable waves crashing toward me, could be surmounted with growing confidence. I knew, too, that as long as I was tethered to my surfboard, even with its yawing and straining around my ankle, I would survive the thrashing, grateful for that once or twice in a week’s time, when I managed to stand up and actually do something called surfing.
