STAYCATION SESSIONS--TRESTLES: WED 8.10.2011 EVE

Crew: Solo
Conditions: 3-4 ft., light evening wind, inconsistent, light overcast with patches of sunlight.



Thought moves us to action:


    My phone alarm goes off. It’s 1845. I sit up in the tent and see that some clouds have moved in. There’s still onshore wind, and the texture over the bluish, gray water looks cold. I surfed earlier. I could just pass on this evening session. However, the thought of being on a wave has me thinking. So what if it looks uninviting? I don’t even need a turn. Going down the line on a nice shoulder, the more I think about it the more I feel like I’m missing out. It’s out there, that wave that I’m picturing in my mind. Why not go and get it?



Heaven might be right here:


    As I’m walking up to Churches the wind starts to weaken. Finally. Even though the bay is gloomy from cloud cover, beams of light shoot through empty patches along the sky. I see Lowers in the distance and the black dots massed around its peak, but watching the waves roll through so perfect and consistent makes me appreciate nature’s gift. There’s not one drop of anxiety in my blood at the sight of the crowd. Instead, the mellow evening has me over anticipating my paddle out. The trail is empty; I’m the only walker going to or from the breaks. Everyone that’s in the water is staying to wrap up their last session until the sun goes down, and no one that’s dry wants to paddle out so late. I can’t help myself. I paddle out just north of Churches to see if I can catch anything. Despite the scenery, scenery doesn’t make waves. Just like the last couple days, Lowers is the only place with any real shape. As I make my long paddle towards the wave machine I note the colors and shapes of the water. The gray ocean and reflections of pink from the sun make shiny, glistening spots of light in the midst of the wrinkled surface. It almost looks viscous and gooey, but my hand enters feeling nothing but fluid substance. Meanwhile, the wind is still dying, and each stroke towards Lowers is a stroke closer to ideal perfection. I’m tired, so I catch a wave in at the BP and walk closer.



Surf Scavenger:


    So I have my technique down. I sit just south of Lowers. On a good day, random peaks shift outside of the main pack. If I’m lucky, the main peak won’t connect with the peak on the side. These are the waves that I go for. Sure, the rides aren’t as long, but those rights still line up well, and you can catch them without five people going for them at the same time. Where’s the sun? I can only assume how low it is, but it’s obvious that its power is leaving and going beyond the horizon. As the evening crowd thins, I scavenge unridden waves from the main peak that roll in my direction. The lulls are long, but each wave is far from a throw-away; each ride is worth keeping. Even though it’s a shame that the swell hasn’t produced scattered peaks everywhere, one can’t deny how the wait is worth riding a perfect Lowers right-hander, a scavenged one that is. The minutes tick away as facial features become dark blurs. Surfers leave one by one, walking up the sand to call it a night. Some still catch rides all the way to shore, never breaking rhythm as they turn around for more. I can’t give a breakdown of each of my waves, but one stands out in my memory the most.



Feeling:


    Squinting at what looks like a bump, I can’t tell how far it is or how big for that matter. All I know is that it looks rideable. Away from the main pack, I’ve been engaged in my own existence. They probably never noticed that I was there, and on this wave I might as well be all alone for hundreds of miles. In my own little spot I’ve made a paradise for myself; who cares if no one knows I’m alive. I turn, paddle, and I feel that the lip is actually lifting to angle my board down. Popping up, I look down the face, but I only see bold, dark green. I bottom turn where the pocket should be and can only see small splashes of white that my wake is leaving. The lip’s crumbling white as well. My senses tell me to pump down the line, but I top turn and still keep momentum. The turns feel critical and late, and with my lack of vision it appears that I’m riding on smooth, dark green glass.

    Any traces of light are now faint and dissipating. Barefoot, I walk the trail back with only my last wave in my mind. It’s the perfect way to end the session. To non surfers, we find it hard to relate our reasoning and drive that makes us paddle out. Surfing is intimate, as it can mean something different for each individual. For me, it’s all about the sensation that I get from being on a wave. It’s too bad that words can only explain it so much.