Surfed Again, Had A Tough Time

I surfed again! Heck yeah. 

I’ll admit, this winter got me spoiled. A few straight months of offshore wind and long period swell will do that to you. It’s not that the surf has been horrible lately either. I mean, there are still waves. And it’s still glassy most mornings. But you know, it’s no January (and definitely no December), I’ll tell you that.

This past Sunday, the reports called for an agreement between wind and waves, so naturally Duncan and I texted each other almost at the exact same time. We agreed to meet up at 8am in front of Noriega Street. At around 7:30am the morning of, we called an audible and decided to reschedule for 10am. Not sure who to blame on this one, but I know we both felt some relief.

By the time we suited up and made our way across the pedestrian-invested Great Highway, the sun was high and still and baking hot. It was another one of those record breaking winter days, reminiscent of a Southern California summer. I think we’ve had three more since then. It’s hard to imagine that Texas was frozen at that same time. 

Anyways, the surf looks pretty darn fun from atop the barrel shaped seawall that stretches between Noriega and Rivera Street. The outer bar was feathering consistently, and a few even broke. The inside looked as welcoming as ever, playful hollow closeouts and corners breaking over a waste-deep sandbar… That’s the kind of stuff you dream about! 

We scrambled to the waterline and picked a rip current to paddle out with. Despite the 51 degree water, that clearly ignored the heatwave memo, the journey to the lineup was actually pretty smooth. We chose the outer bar due to the dropping tide and it didn’t take long to validate this decision.

Overhead peaks popped up out of the green water like eager hands in a classroom and we had our choice of any left or right that came in our direction. Simply put, it was turning before our eyes. But sometimes that’s not always a good thing. Sometimes you don’t want the surf to get bigger. Sometimes you don’t need it to be soooo consistent. 

For example, if you paddle out on a fat, squash-tail 6’4 shortboard, you don’t necessarily want Ocean Beach to suddenly start reeling. If you’re sitting out the back on a beefed up 7’4, maybe you don’t want the surf to be so consistent that you have to duck dive 50 waves (not an exaggeration) after catching one wave just to make it back to the lineup. 

On this day, I was on my 6’4 Fever and Duncan was on his 7’4 Bark and it didn’t take long for us to look at each other in confusion, unsure how to process the good, but nonetheless big and ridiculously relentless swell that kept marching toward the beach. We were stoked, sure, but also a bit ticked by our calculated board choices getting thrown out the window in a matter of fifteen minutes. 

Inevitably, Duncan caught a sick one. I watched his head make periodic appearances above the back of the wave as he navigated his way into the inside with a series of bottom and top turns. Now it was my turn. A good sized left appeared on command and it wasn’t long before I tattered my way off the bottom of the wave. 

After controlling my speed (slowing down) to the best of my ability, I began a cutback and, on queue, slid out and fell. No real surprise there; I knew it was going to happen before I even started the turn. Unfortunately, there was a wave behind it, and one behind that one too. And soon I was inside the inside bar, with Duncan just a few yards behind. 

This is where things began to get juicy. And by juicy, I mean horrible. It’s nearly impossible to overstate the misery caused by the ensuing barrage of frozen whitewater walls. It was absolutely relentless and, in many ways, completely soul crushing. In a Sisyphean stupor we would be teased by slightest of lulls, only to paddle directly into the impact zone as the next set arrived. Wave after wave after wave. 

Thanks to my duck diveable potato chip board, I made it back outside eventually. It only took me *checks watch* eighteen minutes. Eighteen minutes. To paddle 30 yards, it took my eighteen minutes. One wave and one failed cutback, but at what cost?

I spent the next chunk of my time out in the water catching my breath, paddling over sets, and searching for Duncan on the inside. It didn’t take long for me to assume he gave up and paddled in. I didn’t blame him. I was a wave or two away from doing so myself. 

It wasn’t until my next one, which actually turned out to be pretty perfect– a long mid-sized left that allowed me to link some turns with little hesitation– that I found Duncan still duck diving on the inside. I joined him in his struggle and this time we actually made it out together. It only took me nine minutes. Which means about 42 total for him.

“What the hell was that?” Was all he could muster. 

We went on to catch a few more waves between us and ultimately shared a prone set back to the beach. The long walk up the exposed low tide shoreline was a killer and we dragged our feet all the way to the cars. As we dried off, Duncan repeated his question. What the hell was that? We thought we were done with getting clapped, at least for the season. It wasn’t even that big. 

By the time we got changed, we were laughing. “That might have been my worst beating of the entire season,” said the guy who narrowly dodged a two-wave hold down when it maxed out here a month and a half ago. But that’s what happens out here. Ocean Beach will do that to you. Waste, shoulder, head high. Single, double, triple overhead. OB will teach you a lesson, or fifty. But what else can you do except paddle out and try again? 

I may need to give it a week or so, though.