Progression

             He tucked his board under his arm and got on his bike to pedal the couple of miles to the water, not telling anyone where he was going.  His mother would lay a brick if she knew and his friends would hear soon enough.  There was a hurricane off the coast of Mexico and a south swell was breaking, a big south swell.  He was heading to where he surfed.  He was a local there.

             The spot was a series of rock reefs that projected off the coast.  It broke left on a south or south west ground swell.  First reef extended from the beach and was rideable from two to eight feet.  Second reef was a hundred fifty yards, or so, off the beach and could be ridden between eight and sixteen feet.  Third reef was a little more than a quarter mile offshore and took a perfect swell eighteen foot plus to be rideable.  At anything over twenty-five feet third reef closed out.  Waves would break in one thunderous collapsing wall of water as opposed to the peeling off of the peak to either the right or left that surfers are always in search of.  Third reef only broke once, maybe twice a year.  Sometimes it was a year between the right conditions for third reef to be rideable. It was a perfect south swell with consistent groups of waves, or ‘sets’, rolling in at twenty-two or twenty-three feet. It was predicted to get bigger. 

             He was fifteen and surfed almost every day, usually more than once a day, before school and in the evening.  He was quiet, shy.  He preferred to keep to himself with few exceptions.  He had two close friends and several superficial friends.  He had not told anyone he was going out that afternoon.  No one else in his family paid much attention to the water, and his few friends would have been a distraction.

             The board he had taken was 7’-8” and wasn’t really suited to the conditions but it was closer to a “gun” than any of his other surfboards.  The tail was too wide; he hoped he could get the speed needed to stay out of the whitewater.  His friends would have given him grief about his board, and asked him to smoke a joint with them before going out.  He had already learned that lesson, and on a much smaller day at an easier spot.

             The sets had been three to five feet and it was a slower break, the waves peeled off at a slower speed than the three reefs he was peddling to.  He had shared a joint with two friends and then proceeded to get totally and completely thrashed, worked over, on a four foot wave.  The lip, the part that pitched out and fell from the top of the wave to the bottom, hit him in the head and forced him off his board.  The wave then pounded him into the bottom, hard sand, and held him there.  Foolishly he had fought the water and was rolled and tossed about like a shirt in a washing machine.  He had known better than to fight the wave, but he had fought anyway and been rewarded with a gallon of saltwater in his stomach.  Eventually crawling up the beach and puking in the sand, he felt lucky.  The ocean takes no prisoners.

             He rode to the beach just north of the reef; he would need to get in the water there to paddle out to third reef.  There was a high, grey haze to the sky, not the typical clear sunny day tourists pictured.  As he stood watching the water he noted the steely grey-blue hue to the water.  He breathed deeply, savoring the salt air, smelling the clean, sweet crispness of newly washed up kelp which covered the barely discernible odor of pungent, sour rotting kelp that had been decaying in the sun through the day.  As the waves broke it wasn’t a tropical green, crystal laced lip that pitched out, it was a thick steely-blue lip that turned to whitewater as gravity took command of the moving water and pulled it into the trough of the wave; creating tons of explosive whitewater and a thunderous din that kept the multitude of spectators on the beach.

             The people on the beach weren’t there to get wet, they wanted the secondary adrenalin rush of watching someone else drop down the face and race to the shoulder before being consumed in the mass of falling water, but if the rider didn’t make it, that was just as well.  Perhaps better as far as they were concerned.

             He watched the waves, the water, gauging the interval between sets.  Ignoring the crowd of onlookers, pariah.

             He walked down the steps to the small strip of sand left during the big south swell.  Setting his board on the sand he started to wax it. It didn’t really need it; he had waxed it at home and roughed-up the wax on the deck.  His footing would be secure.  The ritual calmed him, slowed his breathing down.  The motion of rubbing wax on his surfboard took his mind off the long paddle, the noise, and the onlookers.  It relaxed his instinct.  He grabbed a handful of wet sand and roughed up the wax again.  Standing, he held the board under his arm and waited for a let-up in the shorebreak, the waves that crashed directly onto the beach in less than one foot of water.  At the first sign of a lull he ran into the water, putting the board beneath him and gliding across the surface then paddling hard to get outside the shorebreak.

             He paddled out with long, slow strong strokes, trying to keep his excitement and fear in check.  Arriving at third reef, he stopped to the side and sat on his board, resting and summoning his courage.  There were six other riders out, three in the line-up, the area where a rideable wave could be caught. There were two to the side like him.  And one outside, out of his element and obviously terrified.  He slid back on his board laid down and paddled into the line-up.

             The sound was deafening, each set created a monstrous symphony of energy, beauty, and violence.  He sat with the other three, trying to control his pounding heart, not making eye contact.  A set came through at twenty plus, one surfer took off while the rest tried to determine how his ride was going.  All relaxed when they saw him float over the shoulder, the area where the wave slowed and became much less steep.  They then watched him paddle back into the line-up.

             A twenty-five foot plus set came through, close to twenty eight feet, they all paddled furiously, scratching for the horizon, determined not to get caught inside.  After the seven wave set, he paddled in a bit, waiting for one of the smaller sets.  The next set to come through was eighteen or nineteen feet.

             He looked around at the small group, nobody was going.  He turned. Paddled for the take-off and felt the tail lift, and start to slide down the face of the wave.  He was committed, it was his wave.  He popped up to his feet and gently turned, setting a line diagonally down the face of the wave.  Getting to the trough he straightened up slightly, his bottom turn sending him back up the face at an angle.  He looked up at the lip; he was positioned well and set a line to slide out past the shoulder as it mushed out.  He came back up the face and set his line, the deafening silence behind lost as he watched the lip form.  He shifted his weight slightly forward, to his right foot, picking up the speed needed to get in front of the pitching lip.  He shot forward as the lip collapsed behind him.  The dull grey sparkled in the absence of direct sunlight as he floated over the soft shoulder.

           He collapsed on his board, shaking from the adrenalin coursing through his body; mind numb with the speed and energy surrounding him.  It was staggering.  Each pore felt the water, every nerve ending was alive.  His dazed mind experienced clarity uncommon to him.  He sat and took it in.  Another surfer paddled by, they looked at each other but neither spoke.

             Paddling back into the line-up he was relaxed, alive, aware, cognizant of life, aware of his fragility.  He placed himself slightly outside and waited.  He didn’t wait long; the sets were coming with regularity.

             It was a twenty foot plus set; he paddled in enough to catch one of the waves.  Everyone in the line-up looked around to determine who was going and who wasn’t.  There was a rider taking-off on the first wave and another positioning himself for the second.  No one else moved.  He paddled a short ways towards the reef in hopes of getting the third or fourth wave.  He knew this may put him behind the peak which was the optimum location to take-off, but he was young, strong and in shape.  The third rider turned to take the third wave.  He watched the take-off and turned back seaward.  He waited for the fifth wave in the set; it was pushing twenty-three feet.

             He turned and paddled, feeling the tail lift and then the slide; he popped up and realized he’d made a mistake.  His was too far into the peak and he was too straight on the take-off; which was too late.  He planted his feet as wide as he could hoping to achieve extra stability.  He felt his fear and tried to detach himself from the rising panic.  He dropped vertically, down the face of the wave, tried to execute a bottom turn when he got to the trough, but turned violently and shot straight back up the face.  He watched as the lip pitched out above him, the white froth contrasting sharply with the thick gun-metal grey water waiting to bury him.

           Shooting back up the face he lost contact with his board, the water punched him in the chest, driving him down with the momentum of tons of water, hurtling towards the reef.  His back stung as he was pushed into the suddenly hard fluid below.  The concrete parted as he was driven down, deeper into the water.  The violent energy pushed him down to the sea-grass covered rock, flattening him against the reef.  He felt his right shoulder hit an urchin, the purple spines breaking off in him as he was raked across the rock.  He rolled onto his side and tried to relax, he knew he had to let the ocean have its way with him.  He slowed his heart and tried to stay loosely rolled up.  The pounding was excessive; nature would make him pay for his arrogance.

             Slowly, the brutality subsided and he kicked to the surface.  He looked seaward at another monstrous wall of water.  Immediately he swam towards the wall, hoping to get there before it broke.  He slid up the face and punched through the lip, immediately looking out to sea.  There was another wave in the set, the seventh which should be the last he thought.  He stayed where he was, and then slowly swam towards the wave, easily floating over the crest.

             He turned to look at the beach, it was a long swim, his board was nowhere in sight.  His shoulder hurt.  He picked a landmark to the north and began to swim slowly and steadily towards it.

             As he neared the beach the surfboard became visible, it was getting thrashed against the rocks.  The kooks standing watching as the rocks inflicted injury after injury to his stick.  He waited outside the shorebreak and when there was a lull he came in.  Going to his board he looked up at the kooks and ”dudes” from inland.  Picking up his board he inspected the damage.  There were numerous spider fractures in the fiberglass, the deck was punctured and there was exposed foam core in the rail, the edge, near the nose.  Three new compression dings, indentations from excessive speed, on the bottom made him smile to himself.  He stood and looked out towards the braking waves.

             At the next lull in the shorebreak he began the long paddle out to third reef.

             He paddled into the line-up.  There were only three of them out now, all in the line-up.  A close out set came through, and then another.  It was getting bigger.  A marginally rideable set came through, but all three surfers let it pass.  Another close out set rolled through.  The sun was on the horizon as a twenty-two or twenty three foot set came through.  The surfer closest to the peak paddled into the wave, caught it and took-off.  The second wave approached, he was snaked, out maneuvered, and the other surfer took the second wave. He was alone with the ocean in the gathering dusk.  He was nervous and let the third and fourth wave go.  Slowly he paddled into position for the fifth wave.

             The tail lifted and the slide began.  He popped up and turned mid-face on the wave.  Inching up the face he tucked in under the lip.  Looking directly overhead he watched the lip pitch out and time stopped, the silent roar suspended around him.  Moving forward he burst out from under the lip and turned towards the bottom of the wave, then carving back up high on the shoulder he picked a long line and stayed with it.  As the shoulder mushed he cut-back and rode the whitewater towards the beach.  As he approached the shore he dropped to his stomach and rode the wave to the ensuing lull.

             He stood up the beach, away from the crowd, drained with spent excitement.  As Venus became visible and the crowd thinned he made his way up the stairs to his bike, and started for home.

             He knew who and what he was.