The Surf Sweats
My in-laws are in town — and contrary to how that might sound to some — this is a nice and good thing. In fact, a few months ago, they decided they would rent a house on the beach for the whole family to spend time together to end the year. We have a new daughter and they live across the country so this all made great sense to me. The beach they chose however is notoriously…flat. It’s heavily shadowed by the Channel Islands and more known for surf schools, juvenile white sharks and some big name celebrity compounds. It’s surrounded by waves though, so who am I to complain? We’re at the beach, I’m happy. I can drive to surf.
Well, as it turns out, their visit coincided with the “Day of Days” and we found ourselves on the oceanfront for a seriously historic swell event. I pulled up with my boards strapped to the roof the night before the swell and spent the evening assuring them (as best I could) that the house wouldn’t float away (island blockage), explaining what a gale is and how big this particular one was that would be sending the waves our way. El Niño! By the end of this fireside chat they were as excited as me for the morning. I’d be on it first thing…right?
Early on the morning of the swell (yesterday), everyone in the house looked at me: “Where you going? When are you going? I can hear the waves out front already! It’s so loud!” I finally over-thought my boards enough and gripped a new step-up and loaded up the car (solo) and headed out for “daddy’s day of riding the wild surf!” As we all know though, these swell events can turn into tail chases very quickly. They had high hopes I’d return with an exciting tale to tell.
My coffee was strong and my playlist extremely heavy (Botch to be exact). I maintained an intense glare and had a hoodie on, I knew my first spot check and headed out, waving at them as they all bid me farewell like a sailor going off to sea. Farewell family!
The first spot was covered in debris and basically flooding. Already overpowered. Hmmm ... Second spot was pumping but the sets were already way bigger than I had anticipated they would be and it had some serious high tide lump. *My quiver of pintails was already overpowered. By now I was sweating coffee and nerves and my anxiety was through the roof. Where should I go? I couldn’t go back without surfing. They’d all be so disappointed. At this point, the swell was overpowering everything. Should I just go to Rincon? The helicopter flying above it and line of cars along the freeway dissuaded that. I can’t do the scene so I will remain a Rincon virgin. I had to go back to the house to regroup. Failure!
When I walked in my wife told me I stunk. I’d been driving around anxious and uncertain, quaking like a lost puppy with no other option than to dribble down his leg. Everyone in the house looked at me. “What are you doing? Isn’t it going off? Instagram and the news showed surfers riding the giant surf!” I was blowing it and everyone knew it. I walked out front and stared at this notoriously flat beach breaking a mile out in total chaos. What was I going to do?
Off in the distance I saw a point with some whitewater. Binoculars showed a wave, a little overhead and kinda firing…I did some research, drove around, asked a few locals questions I probably shouldn't have but I was desperate. Suddenly I found myself alone, barefoot in my wetsuit walking illegally through a storm drain toward what I assumed (and was told) would be the wave. I arrived at the wave with bloody feet and nervous sweat mixing with damp mildewed wetsuit. My aroma must have been toxic. The final leg of the walk required me to wade thigh-deep through sewage and debris before I got my first look at 6-foot firing rights. I didn’t know adventures like this could happen in the middle of Southern California. How have I never heard of this fickle wave? And how did I end up here today?
The session was a dream. A rarely surfed gem copping enough of this hulking swell to fire off some long throaty waves along a cobblestone point. I watched a local paddle out so I knew where to go and after taking a heavy foamy double up on the head and (luckily ducking it smoothly), I made it out. I waited my turn and realized the crowd was mellow, I took off on a solid set with no hassle and did more turns than I can count, (my wife even swears she saw through binoculars back at the house) and my father-in-law had walked down from the house a few miles and was (I think) impressed at my mission and ability to “ride the wild surf.” I returned home a hero.
I ended the day on the patio oceanfront with a cold beer in hand recounting my adventure to the in-laws as the ocean put on one of the most spectacular displays I’ve ever seen. It was the day of days and somehow it started with the stinky surf sweats at a place that never breaks. I thanked my mother-in-law for booking the place and said we should definitely come back next year.—Travis Ferré
[Above art: Sea of Desire, (1983) by Ed Ruscha]
