by John Long
"El Cap?" He suggested hopefully in the next breath, eyes going beyond wide.
I shook my head, "Rincon."
We spun to the sound of whitewater crashing over the rocks on the point in his back yard, dragging a picnic table and chairs across the yard, then back over the far wall, never to be seen again. And the tide was still going out.
"Where's your car?" he asked finally.
"Coral Casino."
"Wow! I wondered how you got out."
Ricky strapped my board onto his VW and dropped me off at Coral Casino on his way to El Capitan Point; it was 3 and a bit, maybe 4 miles by car. A mile and a bit by beach. Except now, there's no beach.
I was hurriedly strapping my board onto my Mustang when Curren approached from behind.
"Made it?" he inquired darkly.
"Radical ending!" I chuckled, making light of my little ordeal in the ice plant.
"Thought so," he muttered before grumbling, "Damned lucky!" and looking at me like I'd just run over his dog.
"Low-tide Rincon?" I ventured quickly, changing the subject.
"Campus might afford a safer exit," he said after some thought, adding, "Long's you hit the beach before gettin' strained through the fuckin' pier."
"Rincon. If the tide drops enough. Only safe bet at this size, surely," I said, hopefully to his back.
The southern tip of Africa is a veritable graveyard of ships. Grant Baker discovers why off Capetown's notorious Tafelberg Reef, where he towed into this 60-footplus rogue, becoming a Billabong XXL Global Big Wave Awards contender. PHOTO © BRENTON GEACH/BILLABONGXXL.COM
"Better take the afternoon off," I advised Stu Fredericks from Yater's factory. "I just rode the biggest wave I've ever seen at Hammonds. All the way to Sharks. Dunno how big in feet. Curren and I were the only ones that got a wave. Rincon's gonna be unbelievable!"
By the time we arrived at Rincon half an hour later there was a big surf-generated mist rising from the ocean that smothered the hills behind La Conchita. It was weird and almost smelled like a raw petroleum product. Probably comprised of gases stirred up from the deep and layers of sand that hadn't been disturbed in years, irritating the hell out of our eyes and burning our lungs.
We surfed huge Rincon that afternoon. Rennie Yater, Stu Fredericks, Miki Dora, Jeff Boyd, and Kevin Sears were standouts. Yater stopped me as I jogged back up the point after I'd ridden the biggest wave I've ever seen.
"I've been trying for that wave for twenty years." His smile said it all.
Somebody told us later in the afternoon that thirty-five boards had been broken before it got too big for most to want to tackle. And they were the ones they'd been fortunate enough to recover.
It wasn't until the swell was over at midweek that I realized how close I'd come to having my ticket punched. How lucky that I'd been able to hang on to that ice plant or I would've joined the unfortunate PT boat crew that'd drowned trying to move her into deeper water off Summerland at exactly the same time I was clinging to the green squelchy stuff.
The following week some guy Yater knows dropped off some photographs that had been taken of us at Rincon.
"Twenty-plus feet, any way you want to measure those waves," was his only comment.
I was still puzzled by Curren's "funny" attitude after our Hammonds session until the final postmortem was considered fully. My little indiscretion really had been a lot more than a minor infraction. I should've listened to Curren, who'd had years of experience in really big waves. He knew beforehand that he'd have to exit at some point and knew exactly where that point was. I, on the other hand, had been shortsighted and screwed up big time but managed to survive. I'd been extremely lucky that morning.
That was nearly thirty-nine years ago now. The fact that I'm still around probably has a lot to do with Curren 's dark scowl. 'Cause, if things had really gone bad that morning, Pat would've probably come after me, and there's no way either of us would've survived. And if there was one man whose dog I'd really hate to have caused to go hungry or be harmed, it'd have to be Pat's.
WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?
Against the sunset glare reflecting off the placid Bay of Biscay, they darken the gilded banquet room of the Biarritz Casino. Oxbow, the European surf clothing company, has flown in film footage of Laird Hamilton's recent tow-in adventure at Teahupoo in Tahiti.
At first it seems like a cartoon, the scale between rider and wave so ridiculously out of proportion as to look digitally enhanced. Hamilton, who measures 6 foot 3, 215 pounds, resembles a Malibu Ken doll getting blown through a mammoth water conduit. The crowd visibly recoils, as if watching a 3D tiger leap off the screen. The wave is a freak, more lip than wall, with a boxcar-thick overhang of vaulting water that impacts the shallow reef with the heft of melted lead.
Hamilton's tow-in entry is at least 75 feet deeper than the traditional paddle-in takeoff point-an insolent, suicidal move. The room erupts with wild hoots and nervous involuntary laughter. Just before he reaches the channel, Hamilton is apparently reduced to atoms by a huge explosion of spray. But he emerges unscathed, blown out the maw of what he later described as " :.. something large with giant teeth." In the aftermath, Laird is later seen recovering in the channel on his jet ski, hunched over and speechless. He rubs his eyes, presumably wiping away tears of relief.
Looking around the room, I see that same body attitude mirrored by many of the contest pros-now hunched over their dessert and rubbing their eyes as the lights come on. The mood becomes strangely morose, the initial thrill of surf lust quickly giving over to morning-after pragmatics tinged with resentment. Was it envy or? Or fear?
A well-known media surfer sitting at the table with me struggles with an alien concept as he fretfully stirs his mousse into brown slurry.
"Did you just see what I thought I saw?" he begs from across the table. "I mean, what does that mean? Is that what I have to do now to be a pro surfer? I mean, really ... What the hell was that?"
-Steve Barilotti
Surfers have traditionally been reluctant to talk about wipeouts in any great detail, as if those frantic moments of breathless oblivion are best left unexamined, let alone recounted in full, so traumatic are the memories. This, of course, bewilders the casual spectator who, upon witnessing a heavy big wave wipeout, invariably asks, "How come more surfers don't die?" The truth is, although not many surfers do die in five-story waves, plenty come close. One of those was big wave rider Taylor Paul, who, in a feature published in The Surfer's Path, breaks the code of silence to describe in exacting detail a particularly bad wipeout at northern California's fearsome Mavericks.
The wave doesn't look perfect-windswept and chunky, a threestory building about to tumble. But nobody else is going, and I can catch it. That's rare at Mavericks these days. I must take advantage. I turn, put my head down, and go.
Not five minutes ago I jumped off the boat and paddled away from the Long brothers, Grant "Twiggy" Baker, Mark Healey, Shane Dorian, and Nathan Fletcher. I was in a hurry. I wanted to get out there before they took all the big ones. And because of that, I skipped my normal routine. I didn't watch and count the waves in each set. I didn't notice the wind rippling the wave face. And I didn't exchange so much as a head nod with anyone out there, let alone a "How is it?"
If I had done any of these things, I wouldn't be paddling into this wave.
I put my weight onto my front foot to hasten the journey down the face. It looks like a keeper, but a third of the way down, chops appear on the face. I come to a virtual stop when my inside rail sticks on a lump.
I'm bucked off my board, flying toward the trough, Superman arms extended. I hit with brutal force; the water feels unbelievably thick, like quickly setting cement.
I penetrate the surface instead of skipping like a stone; under the water my left arm dangles at my side. I've dislocated my shoulder. I can't think about that, though. First I have to make it through the hold-down.
I don't know why I'm on this boat of superstars. I'm
an imposter, but they treat me like one of the gang. Big wave surfing is my hobby. It's their job. They train for it. They travel for it. They live for it.
Which brings them here, to Mavericks, to paddle and pull into waves that a few years ago people were nervous to tow. Why am I here? Greg Long is my friend, and now I'm everyone's friend. That's how they make me feel, anyway. Greg and his crew are engaging, unassuming, and inclusive. They remind me of "that one bomb" I got last year. They ask about my recent travels. I've traveled a lot. So have they. You see? You're one of us! It's implied. But their graciousness is a double-edged sword. If I'm one of them, then I can do what they do. I can keep up with them. I should keep up with them. I must keep up with them. God forbid I warm up with a couple of medium-sized ones. How could I return to the boat with my head up?
The wave overtakes me and thrashes me hard. I'm terrified with every foot I descend, with every flip that disorients me so much more. My body is balled in the fetal position except for my left arm, which cuffs about limply, a thread in a hurricane.
Deep, deeper-until the jolting subsides. It's my cue to start up. I flutter-kick my legs and sweep down with my right arm. Progress is slow. I try to use my left arm, but it won't respond. Gone. I continue with my limited resources. Up. Up. I break the surface. My head spins on a swivel to check my surroundings. Where's the second wave? Four seconds before impact. I look for the rescue ski ... three ... the nearest ski is a dot in the distant channel . . . two ... I raise my right arm to signal that I'm hurt ... one ... Oh, God, please say they saw me ... impact.
I have certain rules for myself when I surf Mavericks: Don't sit on the inside, don't go out alone, and don't take the first wave of the set. The latter is the most important and one that until recently I'd adhered to. You don't cast off on the first wave because if you miss it, you take the rest of the set on the head. If you do catch it and fall, your situation is even worse. And, without previous waves grooming and flattening the water, it's usually the bumpiest.
It's best to use the first wave as an observation deck. Paddle over it, count the many lumps on the horizon, and adjust your strategy from there-position yourself for the rest of a six-wave set, for example.
But a couple of weeks ago I broke that rule and kicked out in the channel in time to see the only other surfer in the lineup get caught inside. I'd made a lucky and foolish decision. And once you break a rule, especially with favorable consequences, it's easier to justify breaking it once more. It's a slippery slope.
The second wave hit me with as much ferocity as the first. It's almost worse because I have time to anticipate it, to consider the repercussions of a 25-foot wave. What happens if it drives me as deep as yesterday, when I took all my energy and two arms to get to the surface? I was down for nearly two waves. What if I hit the bottom? What if ...
The wave twists and spins me. Like unexpected airplane turbulence, I drop 15 feet. Flip upside down. Or right side up? My mind wanders. Why did I have to injure myself on the first wave? Now I'll have to sit out the rest of the day. I feel bad for Caroline, my girlfriend, she was so worried when I'd left the boat. It's Valentine's Day, and this is a bad present. Is my board broken? I'm embarrassed. I picture the boys shaking their heads, muttering something about me not belonging out here. I've wiped out on my first wave for the second consecutive season. Two days. Two waves. Two falls.
Taylor Paul catches his edge and a quick breath before going down hard at Mavericks. PHOTOS © ROBERT BROWN
I'm hoping for two rescues. I surface and gasp for breath, clearing the foam in front of my face. But the oxygen relief is fleetinga leftover whirlpool sucks me back under like a liquid vacuum. As it pulls me down I tilt my head toward the sky for one more breath. You never know how long these aftershocks will last.
Luckily it's just a jolt, and I'm up in a few seconds. White surrounds me. The sun blasts off the foam and whitewater like an overexposed photo. Dreamy. I scan for a jet ski, but there's nothing. No boats. No surfers. Just me. The next whitewater gains momentum as it passes the inside bowl. I prepare for impact with rapid breaths. Every bit of oxygen counts. It's on top of me now. I don't even dive. One more breath. The avalanche smothers me.
I was thirteen years old when I decided that I would surf Mavericks. Naive and impressionable, the epic winter of 1994 fresh in my head, I dedicated my life to preparing, much to the dismay of my mother. She, too, had '94 in her head-more specifically Mark Foo's death. But I was unwavering. I did what I read other big wave surfers did: I swam laps underwater, I jumped rope, and I ran with rocks on the sea floor. I lived cleanly. I didn't smoke. No drugs. I wrote papers about my desire to surf Mavericks (I'd heard Jay Moriarty did that). I visualized it. If I were to have a relationship with this wave, it deserved my respect and preparation.
Then, at seventeen, I got out there, and my ideal didn't match reality. I had expected to find a crew obsessed with training and leading healthy lives. But while many guys trained, most just surfed. Some even surfed under the influence.
So my thinking changed. I didn't need to train to surf Mavs, I just needed to surf Mavs. Confidence was key. I had a big board and faith that I wouldn't become Mark Foo. I even convinced my mom to stop being so dramatic-I didn't need her doubt in the back of my head when I turned for a 40-footer. And the more I surfed there, the more I realized it wasn't so bad. Trips through the rocks were rare. Two-wave hold-downs even more rare. But that confidence (or denial) is dangerous. Mark Foo didn't paddle out for his last session thinking he was about to meet Davy Jones.
It feels like I'm boxing Ali with a plastic bag over my head, my lungs a raging fire. I move quickly with the underwater river-I have to be approaching the rocks. Where's the surface? A thicker wetsuit would help me float, or a life vest. I should have grabbed one. Almost there. I break through the water and taste the airit's cold and salty.
After a couple of breaths I see two things-rocks and a jet ski. Fuck. Hallelujah. I'm parallel with the rocks. Next to me a small waterfall cascades off a shallow rock shelf. I pull the emergency release on my leash. I don't want it to snag on the rocks and stick me in an endless river. Photographer Fred Pompemeyer is waiting on his ski on the inside of the rocks. But where's his rescue sled? When I reach him, he tries to pull me up by my right arm, but it doesn't work, and we don't want to flip the ski. Desperate, we try again. This time I use my left arm as leverage while pulling up with my right.
"AAAARRRGGHHH!" the pain manifests itself in a primal scream. I let go and fall back into the water. Fred hits the throttle and turns toward shore. Wait. Where's he going?
Jet skis are banned at Mavericks because environmentalists say that they pollute the water and hurt sea otters. What they overlook is that they save human lives. People still use them on bigger days for both rescue and/or photography, but that won't last when the authorities start to crack down and give fines. The skis will disappear, and surfers will be left to swim ashore with dislocated shoulders. It's going to take someone dying to shake the foundation of the bank, to make people realize what a utilitarian tool the jet skis are. Why do we have to wait for this to happen? Will it be a friend? Or will it be me?
I'm alone again. The waves that pass over me are small, less than 6 feet, and they hold me down for just a few seconds. Then I see Mavericks photographer Frank Quirarte. He has a sled. He always does. Frank volunteered during Hurricane Katrina. He fought in Desert Storm. And for years he has watched over the surfers at Mavericks. He takes your picture from his ski, then rescues you if you're in serious trouble, like now.
He approaches on the ski, and I hold up my good hand. "Left hand," he instructs. "Can't. Left shoulder is dislocated." "Okay, climb up the back on the sled if you can." But I'm already halfway up.
"All right, Taylor, here's what we're going to do." His voice is steady, his eyes are calm. "You're going to leave your left arm at your side and then wrap your right arm tight around me. Got it?"
I've never been so happy to embrace a man.
He drives gingerly back to the boat. Fred follows with my board under his arm. Frank talks the guys on the boat through the transfer. It goes smoothly. One perk of being around big wave surfers is that they keep their cool. Rusty Long and Nathan Fletcher are genuinely concerned and fuss over my comfort. Their kindness dissolves my embarrassment. I sit on the bow of the boat, shock wearing off. My body, with an ample supply of air, can now concentrate on my arm. The pain pulsates with my heartbeat. By the time a harbor patrol boat fetches me, it's excruciating. The only thing I want in the whole wide world is to make it right, and I suffer a kind of temporary insanity waiting to get that bone back into the socket. I've never felt something so strange and terrible. The boats are clumsy in the rough sea. They bump into each other, and the harbor officers seem panicked.
"We got no time. We gotta make this quick," the officer says to me as I position myself on the rail for the transfer. As if I'm lollygagging? The boats clank together, and I leap in before I'm ready. I bump my arm and wince, making sure the officer sees that his haste caused harm. Luckily, Frank is still here to help transfer Caroline. With the ski she easily goes from boat to boat.
I lie on the deck of the boat as we bounce slowly toward the harbor. Caroline stabilizes my arm and pets my cheek. I'm glad she's here. The harbor patrol officer crouches next to me and gets my information for his report. I look down at my shoulder; it's hanging below my left pec. If I can't get it back in place, I'll lose my mind.
I wake up sore and swollen. The painkiller hangover and fitful night's steep cloud my head. I have to use the bathroom. Left. Right. Left. Right. Concentrating. My steps are short and labored. At the toilet, I pee, and my head spins. I will pass out soon. I imagine falling and hitting my head on the porcelain. I walk to the nearest chair and collapse.
The next day, when my mom flies home from a conference in southern California, she coddles and kisses me. She is so glad I'm okay. Am I okay? Yes, I'm fine. It could have been worse. She knows this; it's all she's been thanking God about since she got the call. It could have been much worse.