Backing up the gold T-top Camaro along the narrow highway, we hugged the shoulder and watched as the black shapes bobbed in the water. "Either surfers or a bunch of sea lions" I thought to myself. We had almost gone past without seeing them. Sure enough a wave formed in the oil glass and a surfer took off and dropped into a spitting quick right and disappeared.
And so began a love affair with one of the sweetest little strips of beach I have found anywhere. We turned around and made our way into the community of beach homes all neatly trimmed out, the road led to a group of tall trees that had camp spots laid out informally as if they quietly offered a place to rest without wanting to be noticed. It was January and there were no takers yet. The road stopped at the river's slow spooling edge as it dumped into the straits.
A car or two were parked and I recognized a couple of Westport guys resting against them, a small fire at their feet trying to keep warm, out in the water there were 3 others pulling into the head high waves as the swells hit the indicators to the east of the river mouth. I suited up as quickly as I could and joined them, dry haired paddle to the peak less than 20 yards off the beach. Along this northern corner of the continent, the deep water is extremely close dropping off to 150' not much more than a stone throw from the beach. No drag and a quick lift for approaching swells gave this wave great punch and it's perfect line. As it ran down the length of the beach it was day dreamy flawless. I was still surfing single fins as this was early '80's and it was all I could do just to hold trim as the wave sped toward the houses now west of us. After a wicked steep take-off and a walled up run the wave ducking under the gray green lip dumped me out about 75 yards down the beach in front of the informal county camp spots.
Numerous trips over the rest of the '80's fueled my love for this tranquil river mouth break. The bluff to the east was tarped off under an anthro-dig that was uncovering a lost part of the Makah tribe's history, to think of people gliding in and out of this river to the sea for 10,000 years added to the mystique as did a small cabin set back in the lagoon. As fickle as the straits are I often got nothing surfwise from the trip but to hang out and wander around waiting for another pulse from the North Pacific, other times I came expecting nothing only to find the peak reeling down the beach with waist high spinners. Once I surfed it with a guy who had lost interest in surfing only to rediscover the joy that day, he moved back to the coast, surfing full time again. It had that sort of an effect on you, a magical little corner off the highway slightly hidden.
