Hippocrates In San Diego

Surf 9.14.07

Well, I wasn’t exactly hanging ten today. When I surf it’s more like practicing my floating skills and trying to avoid becoming shark bait. I went out to Tourmaline Surf Park with my friend and coworker B., who despite being in Southern California about 3 years fewer than me, has picked up the sport much quicker than I have. Oh, and he’s mastered beach volleyball in the last year as well. I guess I should chalk up my lack of native-sports abilities to my Ohio breeding; B. is from the Bay Area and at least has some Pacific connection that may explain his prowess.

High tide was scheduled for around 11 am today, so we decided to meet at Tourmaline at 10. I stopped to get coffee and some yogurt-granola stuff first and made it to Tourmaline on time to find the parking lot jammed. I slid into a spot at the back of the lot, found B., and chatted while I finished my coffee. His friend was planning on joining us so we waited for her to arrive as well. She didn’t show, however, so after the last few milligrams of caffeine had crossed my blood-brain barrier I performed the time-honored surf tradition of changing into my wetsuit using nothing but a towel (wetsuits are worn without swimming suits by most male surfers, for those of you not in-the-know).

After taking in the scene and estimating the best point of entry (even after 4 years I continue to get this wrong every single time) B. and I waded into the water — and felt the icy chill of the Pacific. Those readers who have never felt the Pacific should be aware that even during the summer months the waters of the Pacific off California’s coast are exactly twice as cold as a witch’s mammary organ. And since we had recently succumbed to a “cold” snap, at least by San Diego standards, the water was even more inhospitable. But, our aim was to surf, not cry, so we continued on into the water and crossed the barrier created by the crashing waves, entering the calm waters just a couple hundred feet off shore.

The waves, according to the several online surf report websites and metasites, were supposed to be in the 5 to 6 foot range, with some inconsistency, but “rideable,” as one put it. These services are generally quite accurate, and today was no different. But what they often hide in the jargon of their reports is that many minutes of surfing are spent waiting to actually surf. You can be floating out there, mostly out of position (if you are, for example, me), seeing nice crested beauties passing several yards to your left and right, being caught by better, more athletic, more cool surfers, while you do not much more than bob up and down. And inevitably, while you are mesmerized by the grace and speed with which these locals pick up even the smallest, slowest wave, you turn your gaze seaward and see an 8-foot monster bearing in on you, crashing over top, bashing your skull into the sea floor and adding to the innumerable grainy particles of ocean sediment.

But once in a while everything works in your favor: your arms are fully rested (allowing you to generate enough paddling speed to catch the wave), you visualize the crest of the wave well in advance, your fellow surfers have caught earlier waves (vacating the entire space for yourself), and the crest of the wave is just off to your side, but not so far that you miss out on the wave’s energy, which can pick you up and propel you forward despite a flawed freestyle stroke. You begin paddling furiously in the same direction as the oncoming wave, trying to match your speed with the wave so that it doesn’t overwhelm you, pass you, or crush you. You throw in a few kicks off the back or side of your board for good measure — who knows if they add any hydrodynamically significant propulsion — and you grunt furiously hoping for the wave to come in behind you, pick you up and push you forward, and give you enough speed and forward momentum to allow for a smooth, graceful “pop-up.” You do a pushup on your board mid-wave, creating enough space between your chest and the board to allow your knees to be brought underneath your torso quickly, with your feet in position to allow you to stand up.

It’s all much, much harder than it sounds, believe me.