Surfing Is All That Matters

Monday was like most afternoons for me. I went surfing. Midday was bright and clear, but by evening the sky was darkened by smoke-filled clouds. Ash poured into the ocean as the city threatened to burn, but a small group of us surfers stayed on, comparing notes about surfboards and talking about where waves would be the best when the Santa Ana winds blew over the next few days. We stayed in the water until dark, while the ash thickened and the smell of smoke became nearly overpowering.

Surfing first grabbed me in 1961, when my father placed me on a rented balsa wood surfboard and pushed me into my first wave. I remember thinking it was better than baseball, better than Disneyland. Better than anything I had ever done. There was something about being in this unfamiliar element, going fast, at the ocean’s mercy and yet somehow having control.

Over the years I have journeyed as far south as Brazil, as far north as Canada, as far west as Australia and into dozens of remote islands whose names I had never heard before--all in search of perfect waves. And I was not alone. Thousands of others were on the road, fleeing work and family, to chase down surf. For these people, surfing is not a sport, it’s an addiction. But what is it that causes a normally responsible adult to get up before dawn in the middle of winter and ride waves when the rest of the world dreams of hot coffee and doughnuts?

I moved to Encinitas in San Diego County in 1969, a vintage year for surfing. I lived then with two other surfers in a house built in the 1940s for migrant farm workers. It teetered on the cliff, facing the Pacific Ocean and a spot the surfing world knows as “Swami’s.” We surfed Swami’s every day that winter, even paddled out on moonlit nights to ride waves.

On some days, surfing is a romp with a few friends. On others, it’s the challenge of the ocean. The serenity, the smells, the sounds, the colors of water moving over shallow reefs all contribute to the buzz. But the one thing that keeps a surfer coming back is the tube. Entering a wave at high speed and having it curl over you for a tube ride is like nothing else you’ve ever known. Surfers sound corny trying to explain tube riding. Some say it’s like being reborn. Others talk about a Zen-like feeling of nonbeing. Everyone says time slows down, and that a long tube ride, which lasts only five seconds, will be remembered in detail forever.

From my first day in Encinitas, Swami’s has been my favorite surf spot. Over the years, everything in the area, except for this reef and the surfers who live to ride the waves that break over it, has changed. When the Aleutian storm track kicks in and the Santa Ana winds blow hard, Swami’s is as good as anywhere in the world. I try to be in the water by dawn, but I am always beaten by a 58-year-old doctor of physics who regularly surfs Swami’s at 3:30 a.m., riding waves with a strobe light attached to his arm so he won’t run into anyone paddling out.

The Pacific Ocean is cold and uncivilized at dawn. For surfers, it is filled with obstacles. The rocky shoreline is particularly tough on bare feet. The paddle out, pushing through stacks of broken white-water waves, is punishing. Few in the lineup are glad to see another surfer. Hardly anyone speaks when the surf is big. You do more watching than talking: watching as the kelp lifts, indicating a big set of waves is headed your way. You paddle hard, hoping not to be caught inside. If you’re caught, you might break your leash and have to return to pick up the remains of your $500 surfboard from the rocks.

Surfing big waves is one of the last natural challenges left in Southern California. When a wave lifts to more than 10 feet behind you and you paddle hard for it, timing your entry so that you don’t wipeout, everything is on the line. Three, four strokes and you suddenly go from a dead stop, moving fast for the bottom where you will plant a turn that will take you, hopefully, out of harm’s way, but still keep you close to or even put you in the tube. A feeling of deep satisfaction floods your senses. The wave builds in front of you, stretching out like a race course. Everything--the faces of friends, the texture of the water and all familiar landmarks fade.

The world of cars and phones and roads becomes a distant memory. The burning city and hillside is unimportant. That last ride is the only thing that matters.