Hound of the Sea

by Garrett McNamara

  We went straight to the lighthouse, constructed in 1903 atop the centuries-old Forte de São Miguel Arcanjo built to protect the town from marauding Norman and Moroccan pirates. It sits on a point between the Praia do Norte, where you can watch the big swells roll in, and the main beach and village to the south. We sat in the car and looked out at the ocean. It was a stormy day. The wind howled around us. It felt strong enough to blow the car away. I pushed open the door and got out. The wind roared, almost took my hat. My eyes watered. I made my way toward the cliff, and there I saw the biggest waves of my life. Dino Casimiro, who’d first emailed me, wasn’t the only Nazarean who thought the wave here was something special. Two young guys who worked for the mayor were also interested in finding a way to put their wave on the map. Paulo “Pitbull” Salvador, a bodyboarder who also ran a local surf school, and Pedro Pisco, a non-surfer who nevertheless knew a ginormous wave when he saw one, both worked for the mayor. They’d come up with the idea of inviting a respected big-wave surfer to check out their wave, see if it was rideable, and whether it’d be possible to hold a big-wave event here. Since I was on the search for the elusive—some said mythic—hundred-foot wave, it was a match made in heaven. We quickly realized we could make one another’s dreams come true.

  Dino, Pitbull, and Pedro met us at the lighthouse along with Jorge Leal, who would become our trusted videographer, and gave us the tour. People are a little wary of the ocean here. When the Atlantic storms came in the winter, it felt like earthquakes all day long. The waves gobbled up the broad yellow beach and flooded the streets. People died in the shore break every year. There was even a spot called the Reef of Widows where the wives of fishermen would wait for their husbands’ return, only to watch their boats capsize and break apart in the surf, and the men drown.

  Surfers hungry for new challenges may not have known about these magical mystery waves, but the Portuguese navy surely did. But before I could put a toe in the water we needed to get a special license and special insurance to prove that we had working jet-skis and also adequate safety backup, both in the water and on land. This required many conversations and meetings. To their credit, the navy didn’t think we were totally insane to want to surf here. They showed us their charts so we could understand how the swells worked and eventually, after our first season surfing here, they put out two buoys so we could monitor their size.

  IN THE same way the North Shore of O’ahu is first landfall for every mighty northern Pacific storm, Praia do Norte is the most westerly point on the European continent, landfall for northern Atlantic storms and all the huge eastbound swells that roll uninterrupted across the ocean for thousands of miles. Those prevailing north/ northwest swells would produce familiar nothing-special big waves, if not for the undersea canyon to the south of the lighthouse.

  Nazaré Canyon is three miles deep at its deepest point and runs a hundred or so miles east from the open ocean to less than a half mile from the beach, where it angles north, running past the cliffs and the lighthouse. When the swell comes from the west-northwest the energy of the wave is funneled through the narrow deep canyon until it hits the end, and the depth changes radically and suddenly from thousands of feet deep to about sixty. Here the waves jack up crazy; they’re the tallest teepees you’ve ever seen. Some rise up as huge mountains and, as they roll, meet another slab section. As the widows could tell you, the biggest trick is getting out of the shore break and onto the beach. You think you’ve survived the waves, you’re standing in the shallow water, and then you get sucked back out. People die there every year just standing on the beach. If you combined Jaws, Puerto Escondido, and the Wai-mea shore break and put them all on steroids, you’d get Nazaré.

  Nicole and I stayed for a month in a small, dark, but comfortable apartment in the middle of town. We became close friends with the Nazareans who’d invited us. We shared meals, threw birthday parties, did favors for each other. I didn’t go to college, but Nicole said our camaraderie felt similar.

  Many of the restaurants were closed for the season, but there was a bright place with a blue awning on the Avenida da República, the main street that ran along the beach, Restaurante a Celeste. Not long after we arrived we went there for lunch—clams (Ameijoas à Bulhão Pato) with migas and potatoes cooked in garlic and olive oil, and for dessert, arroz doce, rice pudding. The food was excellent and we struck up a conversation with Dona Celeste, the owner and chef, who bustled out of the kitchen in her chef whites, complete with toque. She, too, believed in the power and magic of the wave, and agreed then and there to sponsor us.

  Over time, Celeste’s would become our headquarters. I conducted interviews and meetings there and when I wasn’t surfing, sleeping, or driving to another part of Portugal for a meeting or to give a talk, we hung out there. When Thanksgiving rolled around, Celeste researched recipes for a traditional American meal and set about cooking one for us. I pressed her into letting me help her with the feast, and it was the most meaningful Thanksgiving Nicole and I had ever celebrated. Celeste would go on to spoil us rotten, keeping pace with our dietary needs, going so far as to learn a number of vegan dishes, which she feeds us all winter long. There is a huge language barrier, but so much love expressed just the way she looks at us. She speaks to us with her eyes.

  WE SPENT the winter of 2011 in Nazaré documenting our search for the biggest wave on earth. More preparation went in to this than you might imagine. There were dozens of logistics to tend to, basic training, and learning the break. It was a team effort. Pitbull spent hours at the warehouse, organizing and performing maintenance on the jet-skis and safety equipment. Pedro and others would spend time talking to the media, in an effort to get some press.

  In late October 2011 a storm popped up on the Atlantic weather map. I monitored it obsessively and called in some reinforcements, in the event she decided to show herself.

  I still needed a tow-in partner. Before then I’d paddle out by myself, exploring the break around the lighthouse, on either a big-wave gun or paddleboard. I still hadn’t found a tow-in team in Nazaré I felt I could trust 100 percent. The bigger the waves get, the more crucial it becomes to work with someone who will without hesitation risk his own life to save your own. Kealii, my current partner, was in Hawaii and unable to make the trip. I was introduced to a Portuguese guy, the only surfer who could both drive a jet-ski and had knowledge of the break. He could put me on the wave with no problem, but was a little hesitant to rescue me in the impact zone.

  Renowned Irish big-wave charger Al Mennie was up for the task, as was his partner, Andrew Cotton, a part-time lifeguard and plumber based in Croyde, England. Both were known to be fearless and determined. The first day in the water the waves were big and a little disorganized. It was gray and windy with some serious chop. Andrew put me on the wave and after I wiped out, without any hesitation, he came straight over to pick me up. He pulled me onto the sled, then took off at full speed toward the beach. At the last second, he executed a perfect-ten spin, flying us over the white water. Right then he gained my confidence in his ability.

  Cotty, as Andrew was called, was dying to be a full-time professional surfer. It’s not like England is a hotbed of surf culture, so he couldn’t figure out how to make it work. I recognized myself in him. He wasn’t the world’s most gifted surfer, but he was passionate about big waves. One day during our third year working together I would sit down and tell him about the blueprint concept. How if you write down your goals and commit to them, anything is possible. As I write this he’s quit his plumbing job, is sponsored by Red Bull, and has gained a reputation as one of the world’s up-and-coming big-wave surfers.

  IT WAS clear this was going to be a monster swell. At 9 a.m. on October 31 the wind was light, WNW, and the buoys were reading eight meters, or twenty-six feet, which translates to a fifty-foot face, at least. That was my minimum these days. That’s what it would take for me to drop everything and jump on a plane. Lucky for me, I was already here.

  Since m
y revelation at Childs Glacier that the rush I once lived for wasn’t really happening anymore, I wasn’t interested in getting in the water for anything less. I suspected that if the surfing rush was going to return, it would be for the biggest wave in the world.

  I’d been training since my birthday in August. I’d given up alcohol and coffee and ate mostly fish and vegetables again. I’d lost twenty pounds. I was forty-four years old. I had a hundred scars; some intense learning experiences; and an extraordinary new lover, partner, and friend.

  I got up in the dark and Nicole stirred and got up with me and together we performed our morning ritual of reading and writing together. Then we ran to the lighthouse to check the surf.

  The people of Nazaré had been generous to us, even though the town was struggling. The local fishing industry had fallen on hard times—local waters were overfished—and the national economy wasn’t great either. Also, a complicated and unfair public policy saw that Nazaré received government subsidies based not on the hundreds of thousands of people who used the roads, bridges, and beaches during the high season, but the fifteen thousand year-round residents who lived with the crumbling infrastructure.

  Nevertheless, with the help of our new friends at City Hall, we managed to secure two beat-up, used Sea-Doos. A local fish broker generously leant us a warehouse to store them in. We made a deal with a Portuguese multimedia group called Zon to produce a documentary (it wound up being three) of our exploits.

  The swell was in the sixty-to-seventy-foot range, a bit bigger than we’d anticipated. The waves were glassy and smooth. Long rights coming from way up the beach to the north; the weather was sunny and mild, with an offshore breeze.

  We got underway at 8 a.m. Pitbull stationed himself on the cliff with his binoculars, and Nicole took her place on the roof of the lighthouse with a walkie-talkie. She and Pitbull would be our eyes, reporting on the incoming swells, pointing us to a promising, possibly perfect wave, and directing us to the location of a downed surfer. Jorge Leal positioned himself on the beach with his video camera, poised to film the day’s rides. French documentarian Thierry Donard happened to be in Nazaré that day and sprung for a helicopter to catch some aerial shots.

  Al Mennie, Andrew Cotton, C. J. Macias (Nicole’s brother), and I drove out to the lineup. We surf all day, sticking mainly to the second and third peak. We have no desire to surf the first peak. This wave breaks so close to the cliff that if someone wipes out it’s nearly impossible to rescue him. It was a textbook fun day in the world of big waves—long steep rides down fifty-foot mackers—but nothing for the history books.

  Just as we’re about to head in for the day, I put Al on a wave and he goes down almost immediately and loses his board. He’s carried into the break zone, a chaotic churning war zone of white water. I power my way into it and haul him onto the sled. The white water roars around us. It’s nearly impossible to escape. A wave looms up in front of us, a sixty-foot wall of glassy blue. I gun the ’ski, but we’re too late and the next thing I know we’re speeding vertically up the face and I’m staring at the late afternoon sky, and then we’re going backward over the falls.

  I abandon ship. Al holds onto the sled for dear life.

  Cotty has to come in and rescue us both.

  MOST MORNINGS I wake up at about 5 a.m., amped to get up and have at it, but the next day, after that last wipeout, all I wanted to do was cuddle in bed with Nicole. I had zero desire to leave the warmth of our little room, squeeze into a cold wet suit, and brave the ocean.

  As I drifted back to sleep, I heard someone pounding on the door. It was the boys, bringing news that it’s already firing. Again, in the sixty-to-eighty range, peaky A-frames, less organized than the day before, coming from a more westerly direction.

  When you’re on a team you have to make sacrifices. I told them I’d be happy to drive the ’ski, put them on as many waves as they wanted, but I wasn’t up for surfing myself. I was tired, and my entire body ached. I told them—as if they needed to hear this standing in front of my door at five-thirty in the morning—that we should only surf when we feel like it. Only surf for the right reasons. Only surf for love. We should never be doing it for records, for sponsors or publicity.

  It was sunny again, but a little chillier. Winter was definitely on the way. We launched from our usual spot at the harbor, a five-to-ten-minute ride from here to the break at Praia do Norte.

  The boys were right. The waves were immense, dark green and peaky and a little disorganized. I was happy just to be on the water. I put Al on a wave while Cotty drove the safety ’ski. His ride was flawless. At the end the wave crumbled and flattened, and he kicked out over the low shoulder.

  When it was Cotty’s turn Al drove the safety ’ski. On his third wave, Cotty wiped out and lost his board, an avalanche of white water sending it straight into the beach. The impact zone looked even more treacherous than the day before. Cotty told us to forget about it, and instead of trying to retrieve the board we drove back out past the lineup to regroup.

  Al and Cotty were done for the day, but together they convinced me that we couldn’t call it until I grabbed a wave or two. The sun hung low in the sky and the wind had picked up. I thought maybe it was best to get it over with.

  I jump in the water and begin my “reset” ritual, which I learned from Kent Ewing, a spiritual guide and healer who’s worked with surfers, including Greg Long before he won the 2009 Eddie. Floating there, I take deep breaths into my belly. I imagine breathing in all the energy around me. Energy from the water, from the fish swimming beneath me, from the trees on the shore.

  A few minutes of this reconnects me to everything surrounding me, and I have a clear sense of purpose, and what I need to do next.

  At this moment, what I need to do next is go to the bathroom. My wet suit is around my ankles when I hear Nicole’s crackling voice on the walkie-talkie.

  “You’ve got a macker coming, Garrett. I don’t know how big it is, but it’s big.”

  I’m done relieving myself and now I feel good and more excited than I’ve felt all day. I haul my wet suit back on, and grab the towrope. Cotty pulls me up just as the sets start rolling in.

  “Wait for the third one, Garrett,” says Nicole.

  I do as I’m told. I wait.

  Finally, I feel the third swell beneath me, lifting me up. I look out at the shore and I’m rising above the cliffs, above the lighthouse. This wave has got to be at least sixty feet, tall as a six-story building. And I’m still going up. I close my eyes for a moment and when I feel as if I’m in the right spot I hold on for another half second, and then I let go.

  The drop down the face is long. It feels endless. I rocket on down. The face is choppy, the wind is fierce. I can hear, as well as feel, the roar of moving water beneath me. I’m focusing on navigating the chops so I can pull into the barrel. I try to get deep, but then the wave crumbles as the lip crashes onto my shoulders. I breathe deep, stay present. I’m not feeling any rush, per se, just a nice wide-awake feeling.

  I make it out and Cotty is waiting for me on the ’ski. I hop on the sled and, over the roar of the engine, yell to him to put me in deeper next time.

  Nicole is on the walkie-talkie. “Time to go to the harbor,” she says matter-of-factly. I know her well enough to know this tone. We’re done for the day.

  Only later, when we look at Jorge’s footage (Thierry Donard had left the night before), do we realize this wave was a history-maker. Nicole, of course, had seen it immediately. The consensus would be that it was a rogue wave that had jacked up higher than the others. Still, it was the biggest wave we’d seen since the day we’d first set foot in Nazaré.

  SEVENTY-EIGHT FEET

  WITHIN A FEW DAYS a picture of me on what would become known as “the wave” made its way around the world. In it, the wave is front and center, a peaky deep-ocean blue monster left just about to break, white foam frothing on top. A thin white crescent-shaped line veers left, down and across the face. I’m
the fleck of color at the end of the white line in the bottom right corner. In front of me and almost obscuring me is the bright white rooster-tailing crest of another wave.

  While I was on the wave, and afterward, when Cotty swung over and picked me up on the ’ski, my main impression was that the drop was unusually long but at no point did I feel as if I’d just nailed the world’s biggest wave. I was just enjoying the ride. Privately, I’d only wanted to get barreled that day. Deep down inside I knew that there were bigger waves, and this hadn’t been one of them.

  Two days later Kelly Slater tweeted about the ride, saying “I just saw a shot of Garrett Macnamara [sic] from Portugal on a stupidly big wave. He should post that thing ASAP. Looks like huge Jaws.” A week or so after that a public relations firm in Nazaré sent out a release that said “Garrett Mcnamara Breaks World Record Riding A Wave Around Ninety Feet In Nazaré!!” Then the big media outlets hopped aboard. First, ESPN. Then CNN, NPR, Sports Illustrated, the Daily Beast, the Huffington Post, and Good Morning America all reported that I had surfed a ninety-foot wave, which would make it the biggest wave ever surfed in the world. The current record holder was Mike Parsons, who surfed a seventy-seven-foot wave at Cortes Bank in January 2008.

  Of course no one knew how big it really was. Waves are tough to measure. They’re always moving, and once they’ve broken they’re gone and all you have are photographs and tape from a variety of angles, none of which is 100 percent reliable. Added to that, it’s always been part of surf culture to refuse to know how big that wave is you just rode; if you are forced into estimating, you’d better downplay it.

  But times change, even as we resist it. Now that surfers routinely towed in, all the once unrideable outer reef and even open ocean monsters are there to be ridden. It was no secret that the swells we were all chasing all over the world were the biggest we could find. Given that, the old habit of always underestimating the size of the wave you’d just managed to ride seemed, if not demented, then seriously outdated. If the wave you surfed was sixty feet, it should be acknowledged as sixty feet.