Apr 18

Apr 18 Good Saturday

The more I reflect back on what happened last Saturday, the less I believe it was real. Like, how on earth did that happen?

I spend an exorbitant amount of time monitoring these things. I am a devout and faithful follower of wind, swell, weather and the days of the week … I consider and observe all the subtleties that come with being a Southern California surfer. Everything from time of year, weather, parking lot crowds and water texture factor into my equation of when and where to go surfing. I kind of already know what to expect at the beach at any given moment should a window to surf arise. We are freaks in this way.

Last Saturday something that has rarely, if ever, happened. I was greeted by waves so far from what I anticipated that I’m questioning my entire program. It was nothing short of a miracle.

To begin with, it was a weekend. In spring. Usually that would narrow my options down to a few special locations unless I'm dawn patrolling in the dark. Parking lots fill with inexperience and it’s a general shit show if you don’t arrive before 9 am. On this particular day, our forecast was grim. It was a Saturday (crowded) with a dominant south wind (garbage), and it was the first decent sized south swell (walled) of the year (even more crowded) and I was on pancake duty at home (lagging). Little did I know that would be to my benefit.

By the time my family and I finished our pancakes, I had learned there was some windswell breaking up the straight south lines and a few locations came to mind that might provide cover from crowds, parking and humanity. The south wind and drop in temperature had chased away the previous week’s fog, but that wind was bound to just get worse, right?

I loaded up the family, threw my board in my wife’s car haphazardly (actually put a scrape down the deck because I was being so nonchalant) and tossed in the Octo tote with everything I might need should I surf. I was not really thinking I'd even surf to be honest. I was more excited to hang with our daughter and see if the sand crabs had returned.

When I arrived, what greeted me were some of the best waves I’d ever seen in my hometown. Wind models be damned! This was about as close to flawless as it gets: glassy peaks spitting both ways. I’m sure you’ve seen some clips from the surrounding areas on Surfline. It looked like that second slide, but with no one out. It was surreal and bizarre. What happened? I started twitching and fidgeting and freaking out. Luckily, my wife can now identify this symptom of stoke and encouraged me to get out there. Even Agnes said, “Daddy, get tooooooobed.” Which has become one of her (and my) favorite lines.

For the next two hours I was essentially alone, choosing whether to get tubed going left or right. At a spot known for being crowded, it was just me and a few other lucky souls scattered across the lineups. My wife and Agnes watched on from the beach, sensing the euphoria radiating out of my head as I skipped up and down the beach begging for one more go out. It was so unlikely and so perfect even they couldn’t help being stoked. “You’re giddy,” my wife said as we drove home, noting my mouth’s inability to stop smiling. “It’s cute.”

The following day I drove back down to the same spot, lowering my expectations, and it was actually still good, although it was not Saturday. I packed in another 3 hour session with a few pals and came in cooked. Smirking again.

The real reason I wanted to tell you all this is because this week has been one of the gloomiest, lowest, least enthusiastic weeks I’ve had in some time. The spike in whatever kind of joy and stoke the weekend brought has created a hangover the likes of which I have rarely experienced. And I’ve had some doozies.

Monday morning, looking at the ocean, where forecasted south winds were actually delivering, I watched flat and deflated, depressed, opting for acupuncture and recovery. The dumps I fell into this week are a great reminder that what happened last Saturday was in fact real. And years and years of faith in the promise that maybe it could happen are what fuel the monotony of the everyday. A reminder of the possible miracle.

This will likely not happen again anytime soon. Which is kind of the point I guess. But our belief that it might and can happen is enough. I’m not sad that it’s over, I’m just happy it happened. And could possibly, one day, maybe, happen again. Do you have faith? —Travis Ferré