Friday, December 24, 2004

One Crazy Winter

This has been a weird winter so far.

We've had a few good sized swells, as well as multiple days of warm weather and Santa Ana winds. But for a few reasons (like I said in my last post, I don't actually understand most of those reasons....and it appears I'm not alone, only one or two days coalesced into great waves.

One of the main reasons, I think, has been these crazy tides we've been having. 6+ in the morning, dropping down to -2, and then back up again. I don't know exactly why, but extreme tide swings never seem to be a good thing.

The other reason, I guess, has something to do with "fetch" and maybe something called "shoaling"...fuck if I know. What I do know was that last weekend the pier was like waist high and the cliffs were like double overhead, which, unless you understand Sean Collins' article above, makes absolutely no fucking sense whatsoever.

Oh well.

Then, on Friday I paddled out at 6th St. I hadn't been out 5 minutes when I spun around to paddle for my first wave of the day, and there's some guy, paddling out right in front of me. I pull back so I don't run him over. He duck dives and comes up right below me, nose first, and spears the underside of my board.

Haven't even caught a wave yet and already I've got a 2 inch stab wound in my board.

I didn't yell or get mad or even give him a dirty look. It was just one of those things. I'd like to be mad and know that he's an idiot who fucked up and thrashed my board in the process. But I'm not sure what else he should have done. Ditched his board? That might've been even dumber.

Hard to admit, but it's's just ONE OF THOSE THINGS. Goddamnit.

Another thing happened last week that's tied in nicely to this wacky winter. I was having lunch with my friend Christian. Christian is an ex pro surfer from Brazil who now works in sales for Yahoo!. He lives near San Francisco and still kills it almost daily at places like OB and Fort Point. He also surfs Mavericks.

Anyhow, we're having lunch - me, him, and an old childhood friend of mine who also surfs - and Christian starts talking about the guys at Mavs who really charge the place. Obviously Flea and Mel and those guys are great, but according to Christian, there's a handful of other guys who surf it just as well, if not even better.

"Who?" I ask.

"Well," he says. "The best guy out there is this guy Ryan Seelbach."

I look at my childhood friend, Dave, and do this wrinkled eyebrow thing.

"Yup," says Dave. "Same guy."

Um, okay.

See, Ryan Seelbach went to my high school. He was a senior when I was a freshman. He was 6'5", a football player, and had a pretty smokin' chick. He played in the Silicon Valley Classic, which is the Norcal version of the high school football All-Star game.

And, as far as I know, he did NOT surf.

At Palo Alto High School there were like 8 of us who surfed. We even had a club and everything, started by a guy in Ryan's class (who now runs the Pigeon Point lighthouse). Hell, we knew every guy in the whole damn city who surfed. And Seelbach wasn't one of them.

Just for shits and giggles, I looked him up in my freshman yearbook. He had this whole little senior write-up thing, where he wrote things like, "Pink Floyd!", "Palm Springs '!" and "Football '85, '86, '87!" and, of course, to his girlfriend, "I love you."

Oh wait, down in the left-hand corner of the write-up, is a corny little scribble of a palm tree and the word, "Surfin'!" (written just like that).

And now this guy is THE GUY at Mavericks???

Guess what? Turns out Jeff Clark even invited him to the contest this year! Fuck me, have you seen the guys on the ALTERNATE LIST???

I guess I'm just in shock. And that's not even all of it.

Turns out ANOTHER guy from my high school is yet another one of the Mavs chargers. His name is Darius Brohymn* and was, I think, a year younger than Ryan. Mostly I just remember that he was a big, scary, psycho of a guy.

My main memory of Brohymn is from some party I was at when I was a sophomore. I walk out of the bathroom and two fists go flying crossfire in front of my face. It was Brohymn and this big black football player with a giant Kid n' Play skyscraper 'fro (this was 1988), Emmitt Cougler. I'm 5'11" and 190, but these two brutes were like clash of the fucking titans.

And let me just tell you - they DESTROYED this house. I remember the chick who lived there, screaming and crying and grabbing her face while these guys literally wrecked her home. I specifically remember an end table getting flipped over, a coffee table getting smashed, and the sliding glass door shattering.

Then, a bunch of other huge black guys jump in and break it up. But kind of not really. Mostly they just pulled their buddy back and told Brohymn that they were gonna ALL kick his ass.

So what did Brohymn do?

He runs outside as the chick is screaming and crying and calling the cops, with these guys hot on his tail, and fucking jumps on top of this car in the driveway and starts thumping his chest and screaming, "C'mon you MOTHERFUCKERS, bring it on, I'll KICK ALL YOUR FUCKING ASSES RIGHT NOW!!!"

And the next thing I know, the whole mob of giant black guys surround the car. He punches one, kicks another, hoots and hollers and jumps off the car, and the entire mob proceeds to chase him down the fucking street.

On Monday morning I seriously expected a school announcement that one of our classmates had been murdered in some sort of crazed reverse-lynching.


There he was, sitting on the Senior Wall, laughing, talking...a couple of bruises on his face and maybe a piece of tape over his eyebrow.

So guess how Christian described Brohymn at Mavericks?

"Oh man, he's nuts...he'll paddle so deep...get drilled, come up, and then paddle out and charge another one."


The Colonel says, "Flea, watch your ass."

*Not his real his request. Read the rest of this posting and you'll know why I happily complied.

Tuesday, December 21, 2004

Any Which Way But East

Last week I spent some time over Santa Cruz.

Way over. Like 20,000 feet over. SFO was a bit backed up, so our pilot "held" by circling (what felt like) directly over Steamer Lane. It was crystal clear that day and, even at that height, you could see tiny dots and tiny white trails as the Westside crew mobbed every wave that wasn't slamming the cliff in its entirety. Then, in what was another first for me (and I've been flying to SF from OC every damn week for a year and a half now), we departed SFO on Wednesday and did what the pilot called a "Bay Tour". We essentially took off heading east and then flew north over the Bay, banked west directly over the city, and then finally began our trip southward by coming around the backside of Mavericks.

So over the course of two consecutive flights I got a very rare glimpse of two of the most famous waves on Earth. And one of the things I noticed was the swell direction, which straight from, er directly from...uh, the ocean. Yup, straight from the ocean.

Okay, look...I admit it. I don't understand the whole swell direction thing. Even there, with a perfect bird's eye view of the ocean, with swell lines wrapping into the Bay, I wasn't sure. I mean, it looked liked a north swell, but then again, I'm not sure exactly which way Santa Cruz faces. And come to think of it, I do recall flying over during the summer once in a private plane and seeing waves wrapping into the Bay...and it looked exactly the same. And I'm sure that was a south swell.

I remember in high school I had a couple of buddies that got really into the whole wave forecasting thing. They had books and guides and maps and even one of those radio things that had no stations - just an on/off button and a long antennae. You pushed the button and you heard some far-off sounding voice going, "17 foot swells every *crackle* 18 seconds and 47 *bleep* as recorded at buoy *crackle* four one niner."

I don't remember if they actually said "niner", but it was all gibberish to me. All I knew was that if you called 976-SURF they never said anything about seconds or buoys. They just said, "Steamer lane is 3-4 feet and Skindog is punching some valley in the parking lot." (Well, actually, they never mentioned the Skindog part, but they should have - that would have been great for us Palo Alto kids - "The Hook is 2-3 feet and Pleasure Point is ON FIRE and the entire Eastside crew is in the back of Marcel Soros' truck at 4-Mile, so get on it."

Anyhow, the 2-3 foot thing made sense to me. The tides...that made sense, too. Surfline says it's a 6 foot high tide and the waves are mushy and hitting the cliffs. They say it's a negative 2 foot low tide and there's shitloads of kelp and you'll have to step on several hundred squishy things before you make it to the lineup.

What can I say? I'm visual.

But those same buddies back in high school, they swore they understood the whole forecasting/directional thing. And to prove it, we were going to score all-time waves at this spot in Big Sur called The Big Sur Rivermouth.

Never heard of it? Ha.

See, according to our little book, the Big Sur Rivermouth is a killer secret spot that only breaks under the most specific conditions. It has to have the exact swell direction (and we're talking a specific range of degrees, actual numbers), the exact size swell, and the exact number of seconds in between. Oh yeah, and the tide has to be just right, too.

Then, when all the stars align, and all this stuff comes together like the perfect storm, the Big Sur Rivermouth will bestow upon those fortunate and prepared and wise enough to learn its secrets, perfect reeling right handers that wrap into the bay like gifts from Sean Collins himself.

And so my friend Pete listened to his radio thing, and scoured his free tidebooks, and we waited. In the meantime we kept driving over the hill to Santa Cruz and kept surfing. We scored great waves, not-so-great waves, and everything in between. We surfed at high tide and dinged up our boards trying to clamber up the rocks at 38th St. We surfed at low tide and dinged up our boards trying to pull into that elusive left hand bowl at the Point. We surfed in freezing onshore wind. We surfed in freezing offshore wind. And we surfed, baking in our O'Neill ChillKillers on flat, hot, still afternoons with no wind whatsoever.

Then finally, one spring afternoon, we got the call. The stars had aligned. The tidebooks, boxy little radio things, swell directions, Surfline...they'd all coalesced into what was going to be PERFECT WAVES at the greatest secret spot in history - The Big Sur Rivermouth. And we were going to be on it.

Do I even have to continue? You know where this is going.

Of course, we drove all the way to Big Sur, slept on a freezing cold beach after a 20 minute hike through some forest, ate burned hot dogs on a stick, drank a 12-pack of Schaefer and smoked horrible, wet pot out of a pipe one of us probably stole from a Grateful Dead show at Frost Amphitheater, and woke up smelly and cold and sore all over. And, of course, the waves were knee-high and closed out and exactly what we could have scored on any semi-flat day at the Hook.

But Pete was undeterred. And we were undeterred in our faith in Pete. We were convinced that we, and only we, knew about a killer...and, now, admittedly, deep in the heart of Big Sur, and that it was only a miscalculation in surf forecasting that had delayed our inevitable fate of surfing perfect waves, all by ourselves.

"You know, dude," he'd say. "That last swell was a north coming in at 155 degrees. What the Rivermouth needs is a 145-150 degree swell...and at medium low tide."

And, like the desperate kooks we were, we'd nod our heads and say, "Yeah, 145...medium'll be EPIC."

Swell after swell, season after season, we trekked in and out of that beach. More Schaefer, more hot dogs, more squawking little radio box, and more knee-high closeouts.

I don't remember at what point exactly we gave up on the ol' Big Sur Rivermouth...but I'll tell you this: it coincided exactly with my moment of Zen, when I decided that I had absolutely NO FUCKING CLUE as to how surf forecasting worked beyond "big waves expected this weekend".

And that was it. We graduated and moved to the beach. Some of us moved to Hawaii. Some of us moved to San Diego. Some of us moved to Santa Cruz.

And, like some guy that never learned to read, I've been living happily, although functionally forecast illiterate, ever since. And like that same guy, who has the bus routes memorized from experience, and knows by heart what's on the menu at his local restaurants, I can bullshit my way through it.

GUY: "This north could've used a little south...but it's mostly west windswell breaking it up."
ME: "Totally...but the pier looks good."
GUY: "I bet Lowers is firing, especially when the tide drops and that south moves in."
ME: "Totally...and hey, check out the pier."
GUY: "Check out Southside...too much water right now, but it's gonna be on this afternoon."
ME: "Totally...pier"

So, fifteen years and thousands of waves later, I'm still out there, and no more wiser than when I was 16 years old, sleeping on the beach, feet frozen, Oscar Meyer/Schaefer halitosis, wondering where our own personal Rincon was.

But you know what? I'm okay with that. So what if I can't tell my SW from my N/NW? So what if I surf that same damn beachbreak, day in and day out? So what if I think Sean Collins is some kind of crystal-balled, 3-card Monte, fortune-cookie scam artist?

8-10 foot, 14-16 second intervals, 135 degree W/NW crossed up with a 3-4 foot SW windswell?

The Colonel says, "Um...I'll be at the pier."