Ten Days To Remember

I was spoiled there's no other way to put it. I gave the local break a check every day for seven days before staying home to surf it. I drove with two boards those days till I was tired of driving.....longer and better waves beckoned from the south, so I followed like a happy puppy.

"The best this bank has been in ten years!"

"Haven't surfed this many good days in a row since I don't know when mate!"

"Where is everybody?"

The same size crowd never too many often just enough peppered the water. For a week straight it was double overhead on the sets and never less than shoulder high. By the end of the week it was a relief to get the 1/2 cord of wood delivered and move it to the shelter...........after finishing that I pulled into the lot to see A-frames splitting the local peaks.

No driving any further today.........................

Ten Days To Remember

This has been a winter of extremes it seems, two coastal snow falls before the end of January is not normal around here. The last one left snow around buildings for over a week. Three week stretches of wind and rain. Now a forecast of great winds and waves that are stretching out ahead of us for over a week. No consistency except for the inconsistencies, perfect!

Word is out and the lot has filled up, we enter from the rocks and after a short paddle we are between the inside and the outside peaks. Even with the thirty or so out there is plenty of room and waves to be had. The wind is light enough that unlike the last go out I take out the quad and not the bonzer, that wide nose isn't an issue today.

The quad is great in these overhead waves, backside it's a sweet board. The extra fins really hold well and the speed is phenomenal. But when the inside section gets wobbly the fish's wide tail seems to be a bit detrimental to control. The bonzer would have cut through the warble without a hitch as it had yesterday, chop is not the fishes friend!

After a couple of hours I paddle back to the rocks, getting out by timing the surge and reaching out and holding onto short stalks of kelp. It's not super difficult, but it requires trusting your feet and a avoiding the little pockets of urchins. I pull it off and make my way back to the car where N is waiting already dry and changed.

I ask her how she got out as it was her first time doing the rock dance and she points over at the cliff, Jesus! Turns out she had seen a few take a path into a cove, lost their track and found herself at the base of a cliff with a rudimentary path. Armed with a longboard she had climbed to the top at one point balancing the board over the edge........not knowing it was a drop off of 30' on the other side. I shake my head a bit awed by this dangerous climb and thankful she's come out of it unscathed.

Next time I think we'll need to plan the exit a little better..................

Ten Days To Remember.

The ocean threw bombs, that's all there is to say about it. Crap conditions persisted for a few days, nothing local was even remotely interesting, east winds were promised but delivered through the side door. Squirrely(yeah go ahead and check....it's not a real word, I know) side shore winds messed with a solid swell floating in roughly at 280 degrees. But the cleanest morning of the week was bumpy and a little sick looking. A phone call to the south had us moving out and driving for a break with a more promising report. Little did I know it was going to be the start to the best week and a half of waves in months.

We pulled into the lot and sure as shit, clean lines filtered in as a small knot of surfers worked into position. Steve's truck was empty and he was already amongst the pack, in fact the cars and faces all looked strangely familiar. A testament to the small cadre of week day surfers this far north of the Fiberglass Wall it seems. It's a suprise to me somehow, given the number of surf shops in the state these days. What may be more of a reason and unfortunate is that there really are just fewer breaks per square mile...........

This day is flawless as overhead waves sweep from the north-west over a beautiful left that peels into the rip that runs like a river alongside the headland. From this far away it's a tough break to read, the outside wave especially so as it throws slowly and the shoulders seem to give little hint of the speed needed to negotiate their slope. The inside is a lot more hollow than it appears from here.

Three different peaks are firing with a few waves connecting up and doubling the length of the ride. Ding and I find a couple of slots along the inside section amongst a handful of surfers. The crowd is spread out rather well throughout the water. We see sets approaching and the requisite scramble for positioning ensues, and yet there is plenty of room to move.

For the first time in weeks we have open faces to play with and walls to race. This is more point than beach break with a peak that lines up consistently and throws with a precision only the best sandbars ever deliver. Some run as far as the rip leaving a short choppy paddle to the edge of the rocks and the long paddle back to either the outside peak or the inside, whichever one you choose.

The outside is not unlike sitting in the middle of nowhere and waiting, just waiting..........then the horizon begins to lift and bump with indications of what's coming. And it's not hard to get caught inside here as swells cross from west and north and a board that paddles well is worth it's weight this far from shore. Suprisingly steep drops, I see both Steve and Mark take late drops on longboards and pull off critical bottom turns. Lurking on a fish I pull back on a few as I see a nose sneak out of the foam and gain speed to the shoulder, but there is no shortage of waves. This swell has good power and the 6'6" finds plenty of juice to tap into even this far out.

The length of the ride is deceptive, not so much on the lefts but definitely on the rights. On one ride a smoothly lined double overhead peak, it's a race for the shoulder full speed into three bottom turns and three slaps off the descending lips before a fourth bottom turn and a drift off the shoulder. Lakota sits at the take off spot, now a small speck. Bloody waves are long! I attempt a paddle back out but a set rolls in halfway back and I get to do the beach walk and rip ride out again.

More room to move

Mind surfing is fun, that unavoidable chemical change that morphs your brain when you order a new board. I have it at the moment, a new board is on the way. Tied off and cruising 101 northward atop a friends' car, a new ride and a new way of riding for me. Stand up paddling, hell am I going to taking a rash of shit for going in this direction! But it'll be hard to hear it around the points and capes around here as I spoon out toward them though................get used to some solitude baby!

Back to mind surfing tho', it happens every time you get a new board. No matter how you surf, a new board will make you surf better.............. at least until you get up on that first wave. If you're lucky and get a "magic" stick then the fun begins, a board that truly lives up to the dream. I've had a few over time, one that wasn't mine, just a board I had frequent access to was not even shaped to be what it became.

It had started life in the Islands a 7' 6" gun shaped by Owl for a trip he took to Australia from what I gathered. But the board got trimmed down while in Oz to meet Owl's new found understanding of the local conditions., in it's latest incarnation it had become a stubbier looking 6' 4" round pin. All the body of a longer board but none of the nose, it surfed incredibly well. Paul, an Aussie friend of mine had somehow gotten possession of the board because Owl needed cash and sold some things to keep cruising along, such a classic surfer. No amount of wheedling on my part could pry that stick out of Paul's hands, for God's sake he barely surfed the thing and I was in love with it! So I just kept riding it till he pulled it away from me, literally. You could feel the weird genius of Owl's handiwork in the turns that flowed under your feet and the ease in which it found the sweet spot in sections and raced to daylight when pressed.

This is what a new board does to me , even before I get it all the memories of past surf craft unroll like a carpet and I get to walk on them again, and I ramble............. So the new board has me thinking of new ways to ride old waves.

One of the common complaints we have here is that there are so many rideable waves locally that are tough to impossible to get to. Beachies that have no channel to aid the paddle through numbingly cold water. Resulting in achingly long and fruitless attempts to reach the outside, while walls peel off like sirens, just out of reach. One way to do it is with an engine of course, another could be the stand up paddleboard, I'll see. At least I'll be able to get away from what amounts to a crowd around here and find peaks far enough out of reach of prone paddling. And that bommie that rears up and does a wonderfull impersonation of south shore reefs is well within reach and the paddle will help me stay on the peak that shifts. This is the mind at work today.

There is something that is so Polynesian about this way of riding, it actually spooks me a bit and I don't know why. In some way I feel like old ghosts are going to be keeping an eye on me, gaurdians of their purview. There are many Third World examples of stand up craft, all of utilitarian use, none purely pleasure with a healthy dose of exercise and meditation. This unearths memories of Islanders, throwing tools and tasks aside to chase waves and an afternoon into the twilight, smiling as boards are dragged up the sand out of reach of the sea.

Windows of opportunity........

Part of the joys and frustrations of north west surfing are the quick changes in weather and tides that change the lineup. When it works for you it's a joy and the frustration can come in the form of a lowering tide that will transform that slow, fat peak into a zipper of glass........about an hour after sunset. Winters' hours take all the give out of deciding if there is a possible late evening sesh.


Weeks of storms have us reeling now, little protection from southerlies here, maybe a trip north is in order. To the one place where protection is guaranteed against the assault of my senses if I go out.

Then a break comes a day after 40knot winds (at least!) from the north. The ocean is for the first time in 21 days groomed by an east wind, no warble in the swell, which is half the size it has been. A discernible order out of weeks of chaos..............

A phone call from Ding, he wants to head to the cove he's heard "it's doing it's thing!", no I'm looking at it and that is a misrepresentation I dolefully explain. Another phone call a minute later and the low tide at mid-day points to Suckouts as worthy of a check.

Gear loaded and off we go past a few good peaks on our way to Suckouts, it's a mission and the weather as good as it is, points to another all day trip. Those peaks we pass have no channel to access them and we pass on a futile paddle, we have been there, done that.

Our walk comes to an end, at this corner of the coast. A hard left and the cape juts out into the Pacific, high and sheer the walls take everything the storms throw into them. It seems invincible, but the slides at her base are evidence of a toll that will eventually lead to her demise.

The offshore is cleaner here for some reason and the lefts today peel off into the channel. It's deceptive and while we talk of waist high waves they are more likely head high. Ding is on it and leashless he paddles out to confirm the size. A bit behind him I do the dry hair paddle out, a hundred yards later I am heading west as directly across from me in knee deep water, Ding is slapping water pissed at having to do the long swim in this early in the session.

For some reason the rip is pulling me off the take off spot and leaving me behind the sweet spot. God it's frustrating!! The rights for some reason are not doing a damn thing except closeou,t so it's a paddle battle to stay on the left peak and dodging the ever present outside sets. This spot keeps you honest that way.

What a day though, sunny and bright and every time I paddle back, fast sweet looking lefts. Deceptive because the flawless walls give no hint of their difficulty. Neither the paddle nor the late drops that today are the norm, not the exception to the rule, are displayed across their green and blue faces.

The slack of dead low hits and the waves temporarily go to shit, we take a food break and start a fire to warm up. Andy shows up with his kid and dog, further proof that the cove is not "doing it's thing", even now. Soon enough and the lefts start firing again, and as the tide rises on this portion of it's cycle, they seem to be more forgiving. Late drops now end up with fatter walls and my frustrations evaporate with each section made. A few rights start to peel and the wind backs off till it's pure glass.

Four hours have passed and exhausted muscles along with the sun dipping into the horizon set me next to the fire, there are six of us talking surf as the sky darkens into night sky. The moon has risen and a large ring encircles, tomorrow's weather hinted at. This window is quickly being shuttered...........

Called out.................

What the hell? Where did that hay-maker come from?

Ding and I had pulled in from our check of Suckups and parked in the newly mowed parking lot. Pulled up and parked alongside a mini-van from California according to the plates and I used "mowed" facetiously, to describe the four feet of sand that was bull dozed back onto the beach. Sure as grass to return in the coming months it sits smoothed by the machine, awaiting the next storm's request to move inland.

The waves are still disorganised and missing the sandbar that two weeks ago had us hooting each other and doing laps around the peak. Even the wind had held off and allowed the double overhead sets to save their shape for the take off. A thick Aleutian swell had emerged from the north stretched out in 16 second intervals, punchy and intimidating. Picking off the insiders and dodging the outsiders became the afternoon's activity, with predictable results. And that evening I felt solidly worked over as if somehow a Mack truck had been gently rolling back and forth over my back.

Today we are spectators and taking in the lot as it's daily visitors disgorge from their rides. This sideshow is a never ending display of humanity and we lean back in the seats to take in a group of people as they line up for the family shot in front of the monolith. There is an attractive woman in the midst of them and she breaks off to come back to the car alongside us and she then cajoles the remaining passenger within to join them on the beach for a few minutes. He resists mostly but finally her remonstrations convince him to leave the comfort of the car for the sand and freezing temperatures.

Silently Ding and I follow this small commotion making comments under our breath as a lumbering hulk climbs out, red haired and solid he has trouble walking smoothly in the sand as it moves underfoot. He has some genetic issues against him and she helps him down the beach. After a couple of minutes he returns on his own, back to the protection between our vehicles.


Our eyes catch and he takes the opportunity to start a conversation. He's at a loss as to why the waves are breaking further out than the last time he was at the beach and our explanations do not impress him. It soon becomes obvious he has no interest in what we have to say just passing time in his own world. He talks a bunch but a speech impediment slurs his words badly and the conversation becomes stilted on our end but he sails forth with or without us.

He turns to look at us and tells us without any segue that his brother has a Ukranian wife but his eyes have that sparkle of enticement that those wanting to share a sweet secret have. Further knowledge is given that there are some in the group of his, who have never seen the ocean. Ding asks him where he lives, Portland? No, is the response he lives ninety miles from here, we name other towns all come back negative, finally he gets it and blurts out "Oregon City!". Christ that is Portland to the rest of us, but he isn't claiming it.

Ding and I lose interest in the red behemoth as we placed bets as to who the Ukrainian wife could be and settle on the attractive woman we had seen earlier. Red asks us what we do, I respond without really thinking that we surf and hang out here. There is a lot more truth to it than I want to admit, but figure it's lost on him anyway. His eyes pop open as if he has heard a horrible thing and he repeats it word for word, his gaze is now fixed on us and the look of disdain is clear " You come here every day?"

He seems to totter on his feet as he tries to digest this fact, but he asks no questions, just repeats my reply. For some reason his hair grows out of his head wildly, short and cropped it nonetheless spikes in random directions, in combination with the beady eyes it is a disconcerting face. "Well we surf here." I try to explain, but he just smirks and says "All the time!" It's not a question he is grilling me as if I've just admitted to taking something that doesn't belong to me. It's all of a sudden uncomfortable, Ding and I are at a loss for words. It's apparent that he is not impressed with us, surfing just has no allure to him.

We have nothing now, there isn't the subtle shift of acknowledgment that people who don't surf will often give to those who do. The conversation dribbles away and Ding and I are returned to dissecting the rest of the returning group. We spot the grandfather who has never seen the ocean before and are correct with the Ukrainian bride choice. She stands out because of her fashion sense more than anything else, too glossy for Oregon City, but not quite Paris either. She is slightly coquettish with none of the reservedness of a western European and quite at home amongst this American family as her husband hovers near her.

Big Red loudly but to no one in particular says, "They come here every day!" The mini-van fills up again and backs out. Ding and I look out over the grey ocean a half hour is left to days end....... well, there will be another surf check tomorrow.

FIFTY............what the hell??

Some time has passed since my Dad shot this photo, I think I was 9 and had been surfing a few months. Taken on South Beach in Durban, South Africa.

Maybe in retrospect it was the ugliest board in history. The top was a white deck with orange cloth spots, the bottom a white and green resin swirl. A large hatchet fin anchored the tail. It's width forced me to carry it with two arms wrapped around it, or on top of my head, "Endless Summer" style. It was shaped for kneeboarding (4'10") but it was considered perfect for a kid my size to be a stand up board.

"WaveMaster by Baron Stander" read the label and those boardshorts came from the small cramped shop he ran just off Point Road. That place smelled as cool and as exotic as the freshly glassed boards standing against the walls, shiny and sleek like blades.

I remember vaguely the first attempts I made at surfing. The time spent in crumbly beach break, the pearling and going over the falls, the swim in. Soon enough these memories seem to have gone from the chaos that crappy surf represents to the glassier and windless days with their more defined peaks and walls. In the months ahead I moved north along the Golden Mile as the beach front is known as. The south end of town is often the last to get swell and as you cruise up to the north, the waves get bigger and more challenging.

I ended up surfing at North Beach and after the swimmers took over I surfed the next beach to the south, Dairy. North belonged to swimmers after 8a.m. and then surfers could return after 5p.m., every day we got boosted grudgingly from the water. Often in primo conditions. Like lemmings we congregated on the rock jetty in the late afternoon, in anticipation of the flags being dropped on the lifegaurd towers, signalling the end of the lifies shift. In a reversal of fortunes we now became the invaders of the lineup and the bodysurfers left the waves less than happy with our presence.

For 41 years now I have been following this path of paddling out and turning, trying to catch a band of energy that breaks briefly and then dissipates, vanishing from sight but it's watery remains joining remnants of other waves, to carry me back out to the line up I have just left. Besides the sheer joy of good waves, it has been the constant uplifting of my spirits through any conditions where I have found surfing's true value in my life. That kid in the picture started doing something that through all the shifts in his life he managed to stay with.

Tonight I had the last surf of my 40's, it was a fun peaky evening sessions with head high rights. Way speedy with a minus tide approaching, the fish responded by leaping sections and on a bigger set wave I managed to slam the brakes on the board and get covered up before releasing again and sliding over the back of the wave.

My last ride in the darkening also threw a lip over my head and then a slap on the shoulder to tilt me gracelessly off the board, leaving me swimming in the water, as if I was 9 and just learning how to ride a wave.......................