Stepping Back From the Line

Stepping Back From the Line

by da hulk

One of the great things about surfing for many of us who grew up in the "surf scene" is the perception that we are totally committed to our lifestyle. Both literally and figuratively we like to think we live on "the edge". We venture into the ocean leaving drylanders behind. Our legends and conversations are filled with extraordinary tales of conquest about massive mountains of water, razor sharp reefs, deadly predators, powerful riptides, frigid waters, and fierce locals. Being "hardcore" means living this life, one step over the line from safety and reason. When I was a young man it meant surfing everyday. It meant going out in any conditions, and being in control. It meant putting everything on the line, and pushing my limits in the water every time I went out. It meant taking risks.

Of course we all recognize our limitations. I find no shame in trying and failing. There’s no shame in recognizing that conditions are beyond my conditioning and abilities, as long as everyone else feels the same way. Life and death struggles are the stuff of legends, and putting oneself in harms way is hardcore. But as surfers, we also have a great propensity for deluding ourselves about how hardcore we really are. We are occasionally legends in our own minds. After many years, I am forced to conclude that "hardcore" for me today has a much more subtle, and yes, softer edge to it than it used to.

Today one of the heaviest swells I have ever seen arrived, and I watched with awe as the smallest most sheltered spot I know about closed out at double overhead. Only three experienced and well conditioned surfers were in the water and like several others watching at the railing, it never occurred to me to paddle out. As I returned to my car three girls passed me on their way down to the water. They were suited up, boards tucked under their arms, with the serious look of surfers who knew what’s up. I was impressed... I was intimidated... I was depressed... and I began to wonder just when my level of commitment changed and I became such a wuss.

Thinking back it wasn’t a particularly dramatic event. I’ve faced death several times, and always returned to the edge stronger and better prepared. I believe it was a simple moment, a seemingly innocent time that changed everything. It changed me because having backed down even a little, what did it matter if I backed down a little more the next time? A choice in the past that scarred my psyche, and somehow gave me permission to chip away at my core.

I traced it back. Back before the big days when it is "too crowded", or "too dangerous", or I have the "wrong equipment", or a really "important" appointment. No, that is the sorry state that I now grovel in. Back, back, before these times. Maybe it was one of the times I almost drowned in the impact zone because I was out of shape. The moment when I was out of breath, being dragged along the bottom, not sure which way was up, clawing to the surface, inhaling seafoam, and getting hammered and dragged down again before I could get a quick breath of air. Crawling up on the shore in shock, shaking violently, too exhausted to stand, rolling onto my back choking, gasping for air, nauseous, and watching younger surfers paddle out, find the channel and cruise into the lineup. Chip...Chip... Perhaps the times when I did get into the lineup on epic swells and couldn’t catch a wave? Paddling, swearing, and ultimately realizing I didn’t really want to catch a wave. Chip...Chip... Back before leashes and full wetsuits and booties, and the caution that those limitations conditioned in me. Chip...Chip... Back before my most important priorities included my wife and children. Chip...Chip... Back before my careers became real probabilities. Chip... These were all just steps along the path to becoming the wuss who stands before you today.

It’s strange, but I remember the day when it all began so clearly. It was a silly incident really, one that started like any other and yet in my mind it represents the critical moment when I began to step back from the line.

It was February of 1967. The Rivermouth was finally breaking after a recent rainstorm had passed through, and word at the beaches was that there were wedge shaped peaks that split perfectly right and left for over 50 yards and spit at both ends. The problem was that if we knew about it, so did the Westside, the Eastside, and the ‘Tola crews. Catching this spot after school or weekends would be so overcrowded and territorial that it would be impossible. So we made a plan. Slick, Bosco, Zeke and I decided we would dawn patrol before school and score some of those perfect barrels all to ourselves. A great hardcore plan it was, and the more we talked and planned, the better it sounded. We would go tomorrow!

I got up about 5 am and dragged myself out to my car, the "campwagon". It was still dark out, and it was cold. It was really cold! There was frost on the grass, puddles were covered with ice, and my farmer john wetsuit was frozen stiff. Oh well, What’s a little cold? I was hardcore. I’d surfed in a lot worse conditions than this before! The wind was blowing crisply offshore adding to the chill, and promised classic surf conditions. I lifted the rear door of the campwagon and slid my board in, leaving the tail and fin sticking out the back. The campwagon was an old stationwagon with lots of holes and cracks which kept the inside very well ventilated year-round. Unfortunately the heater didn’t work. I threw on some extra clothes and pulled out of the driveway to pick up the rest of the crew. I dragged Zeke out of bed, helped Slick sneak out of his house, and Bosco was waiting at the curb before dawn. The crew was ready to go! We were psyched, the swell was perfect, we were going to score!

The campwagon rumbled out onto the freeway. Only 20 minutes away we knew that some of the best surf, and surfing, we could imagine was waiting for us. Damn it’s cold. Body heat was not helping warm up the car with the rear window wide open. Radio didn’t work either. We spent the next fifteen minutes listening to each other’s teeth chatter. Oh, but the anticipation was sweet. We would have 45 minutes of water time before we had to race home to catch the bus for school. Imagine how envious the rest of the crew will be hearing of our bold exploits over lunch in the cafeteria. Hurry Hawk! Can’t this car go any faster? We fishtailed onto Seabright and the boards all shifted on us. Almost there...we pulled up to the edge of the bluff...we peered through the predawn mist... down on the fabled Rivermouth... no one spoke.

It was perfect. It was perfect and there wasn’t anyone in the water. Wave after wave, head high, peaking and peeling mechanically right and left over the delta shaped sandbar, brushed by offshore winds. The sun broke over the eastern horizon and shone through the barrels a crystalline green, almost golden along the razor-edged lips. Still no one spoke. I tried to let go of the steering wheel but my fingers were so cold they wouldn’t release. A six wave set poured through as I pried them from their frozen grip. I sat motionless thinking about the frozen wetsuit in the back of the car.

Our determination began to waiver. "The tide might be a little high." "Looks like there might be a crosswind blowing in." "How much time before we have to leave?" "It looks small to me." A familiar truck pulled up next to ours and out stepped the Walrus. The Walrus was a heavy-set beginner with a thin fu manchu mustache who wanted very much to be a part of the crew. Somehow he had overheard our plan and decided to join us uninvited. He pointed at the waves. He shouted. We nodded our heads, trying not to let any of the warmth in our clothing escape. He raced back into his heated truck cab and put on his dry wetsuit. We climbed out of the campwagon, barely able to feel our feet, and uncertain whether our legs could straighten out all the way. We watched Walrus race down the trail, paddle down the river, and into the lineup. There he sat, on the shoulder, all by himself while another set moved in. I picked up my wetsuit. It was still frozen stiff. I stood it up on the hood of the campwagon like some torso sculpture.

We stood on the bluff while Walrus caught a head high wave, stood up, spread his legs, and raced the barrel into the shorebreak. It was perfect. Even the Walrus couldn’t mess up these waves! He paddled back out as several waves poured through unridden. None of us moved.

After watching Walrus catch a couple more waves, someone finally suggested that, "We probably need to head back home before we miss school." "Yeah." Someone else answered, "There will be other times." We threw our frozen wetsuits back into the campwagon and rolled back home. Nobody spoke. Nobody actually said the words, but we all knew that something bad had happened. It wasn’t that we had made a conscious decision to surf or not, we just didn’t go surfing. In the end, inaction is still a choice, a lesson I have had to learn more than once in my life.

There were lots of other times, great times. But that morning left a bad taste that I still haven’t forgotten. We could have gone out... We should have gone out... If I was so hardcore how come I didn’t go out? How come the Walrus was out there and we weren’t? Who really was the hardcore one that morning? That silent drive home, and these questions still haunt me. It was the first day I stepped back from the line.