Washburn is a respected local at Maverick's, North America's most consistent and dangerous big-wave break, the place that killed Foo in 1994. Just a few years ago, on days when the break maxed out with wave faces in the 60-foot range, only a handful of guys dared slog into the chilly gray waters 25 miles south of San Francisco, leaving the takeoff spot, almost 1,000 yards offshore, a lonely, spooky place.
"There was a magic to the emptiness of those giant days," says Washburn, a lean man with a face perpetually ruddy from the sun and cold. "No one could see you. No one could hear you. No one knew where you were. It took an hour to get back to shore — if you were lucky. You were out there on the edge of the wilderness."
No more. Last winter, on Maverick's biggest swell of the year, the concussion of crashing surf mixed with a high-pitched mechanical whine, the scent of sea air with the stench of oily exhaust. Two dozen jet-propelled SeaDoos, WaveRunners and their kin hot-rodded through the surf zone. Their riders shot videos, performed rescues and towed surfers clutching water-ski ropes into more and bigger waves than anyone had dreamed of riding back in the quiet days.
That's the thing about tow surfing. It lets you surf as you do in your dreams, sliding into a wave so easily and with such speed that your breathless fear of the drop evaporates and your board responds with an immediacy that makes it seem wired to your brain. That said (often in guilty whispers), it's no wonder that surfers are being towed into smaller and smaller waves at places such as Moss Landing, between Santa Cruz and Monterey.
Although laws exist to segregate motorized watercraft from surfers and swimmers, they're essentially un-enforced. So the paranoia-prone have conjured up images of an armada of jet craft shrieking through the lineup at Rincon, Malibu, Trestles and other sacred Southern California breaks.
This summer, loyalties began snapping. First the surf tribe battled over a proposed ban on motorized watercraft at a Central Coast marine sanctuary that includes Maverick's. Then, the film "Step Into Liquid" spotlighted a tow-related breakthrough that only the cognoscenti had glimpsed: surfers not only getting towed into swells but also doing so on hydrofoils — boards that rise two feet out of the water and slice across waves with such jaw-dropping speed they threaten to leave paddle purists sputtering in their wake.
Like plenty of other big-wave riders, Washburn watches with interest and ambivalence as tow devotees squabble with environmentalists and purist surfers who have no use for personal watercraft. And — for now anyway — he shuns the rope.
If tow-in surfing had never been invented, surfers would have locked arms to keep machines out of their playgrounds. Back in the '80s, when renegades on JetSkis started using waves to launch themselves into the air at surf spots along the California coast, surfers despised them more than offshore oil platforms, more than summertime blackball flags, even more than Boogie Boards.
And it's not just the vessels. It's the lingering stereotype of the cowboys who ride them. To Southern California surfers, these are not your typical beach-going inlanders from east of I-5, but from east of I-15. Dweebs who use beer cozies. Who wear neon without irony. Who post online reviews of their machines that read (from http://www.watercraft.com ): "After carefully sliding her off my trailer and into the water I think I mowed down 10 ducks with my car rushing to park the darn thing. As I ran back to the dock, there she was. My new juicy Red Headed seductress, just smiling at me, saying, 'Ride me. Ride me hard.' "
Tow surfing's roots can be traced to a single surf spot, almost to a single session. At Backyards on Oahu's north shore, Laird Hamilton and fellow big-wave riders Buzzy Kerbox and Darrick Doerner began using an inflatable Zodiac to tug one another into waves. They soon jettisoned the Zodiac in favor of a 650-cubic centimeter Yamaha WaveRunner, a jet-propelled sit-down craft with the speed and maneuverability to dance through the impact zone. Then they changed the course of wave-riding by moving to Maui and a spot called Jaws, where they started flinging one another into ridiculously huge waves that the surf media, never short on hyperbole, had labeled "The Unridden Realm."
The slingshot speed of towing also let big-wave surfers use smaller boards. To get into a monster swell in the traditional way, a surfer needs a long, fast-paddling "rhino chaser," something in the 9- to 11-foot range. With paddling requirements stripped from the equation, boards could be two to three feet shorter and much narrower than big-wave guns. Feet jammed into straps, surfers began cranking skateboard-style maneuvers on waves the size of supertankers.
Surfers still were reeling from this change when Hamilton and his friends Dave Kalama and Rush Randle began adapting a water-skiing contraption. The "foilboard" they created uses a wing-like keel to lift the surfboard out of the water so it can carve wakelessly across a wave, like a pelican skimming on an updraft. Hamilton calls it "the most efficient wave-riding vehicle in the world. You don't feel the chop and you can actually tap into the source of the wave."
Kalama, for one, believes someone may someday use a foilboard to glide across open ocean, moving from swell to swell, on and on and on: "You can just keep going as long as your legs can handle it."
But hydrofoil surfing can't be done without that initial tow, so its future is tied to the future of personal watercraft.
Fun or foul?
With only so much coast to go around, a clash between tow surfers and traditionalists was inevitable. Many tow teams began motoring out on smaller days to practice and found that a 5-foot day could be even more fun — and far less dangerous — than a 50-foot day. Not everyone's amused, though.