Bombs Away At Rockaway

Rockaway Beach, New York, April 2011

The boardwalk at Rockaway Beach blocks any view of the ocean from the parking lot.  On big days, the sound of the waves crashing into the sea floor soars over, and like a bass drum resonates through, the rickety wooden barrier.  On this day, the waves called out with the same ferocity as Hendrix at Woodstock, an army of Marshall stacks behind him, ready to do his bidding.

     In my head I imagine myself a lifelong surfer, a true waterman, arcing long, elegant lines into the faces of the nastiest waves.  In my mind I surf the way Kelly Slater wishes he could surf.  In the parking lot, I was still the surfer that I see when I close my eyes, the surfer that I was meant to be.
  

     It wasn’t until I stood atop the boardwalk, staring at the wave in the picture above, that reality set in.  I was a beginner, my second season only weeks old.  I’d never ridden a wave that approached the scale and power of that wave.  I was, at best, an average swimmer, a below-average paddler, and devoid of any ability to judge a wave as it pitched towards me, to determine if it was rideable, or better left alone.  I was, literally and figuratively, in over my head.

     What I had going for me, other than a lack of any sense of self preservation, was progression.  I’d attempted on two prior occasions to surf overhead, barreling waves.  The first time, barely a week into my surfing career, on vacation at the Jersey Shore, I failed to even make it to the lineup.  In hindsight, I was lucky to be turned back.  Hurricane conditions were for experts only, and I was barely potty-trained.

     The second time was at the same break pictured.  I made it past the breaking waves, but struggled to maintain good position amidst the summer crowd.  When finally a wave came that I thought had my name all over it, I started paddling with everything I had.  I didn’t realize that it was already too late.  I was too far forward, and as I attempted to stand up the lip crashed down on my head and shoulders, sending me into the washing machine below.  I was fortunate to avoid the rock jetty you can see in the photo, but my new board wasn’t so lucky.

     I figured this time would go better for the simple reason that that’s the way life generally works.  Try, try, and try again—usually to the tune of results.  It also happened to be early April, with the water temperature still hovering just below forty degrees, so there would be no crowds to deal with.  In fact, I saw only two neoprene-covered heads bobbing around in the lineup.

     Plus...I’d sharted.  On my way back to the car from the boardwalk, what felt like an innocent fart coming on turned out to be another good reason to get wet.

     So, fuck it, I gave it a shot.  Hood over head, board under arm, I marched into the white and gray, my confidence struggling to keep up.

     Progression, to a point, was once again on my side.  My duck dives and paddling had advanced enough to afford me easy passage into the lineup.  My judgement, too, had improved; I was beginning to develop a better sense of where to position myself relative to the waves.  Too far back, and I’d waste all my energy paddling in vain after waves that weren’t ready to break; too far forward, and I risked getting crushed by a wave falling on top of me with more destructive force than Hulk Hogan flying off the top rope.  The right spot was often as elusive as it was critical.

     I’d learned to err on the safe side, starting farther back, inching my way forward a little after each missed wave, until eventually I felt one tug at my board.  Sometimes it didn’t take long; other times it felt like hours.  But somehow it didn’t really matter.  That first wave always melted away the frustration of all that day’s missed attempts—in and out of the water.  What’s more, I always knew it would.

     The familiar surge of adrenaline coursed through my veins as I caught my first wave.  I felt my board and body rising up the face of the wave, higher and higher until I found myself peering down the vertical face at the trough, five or six feet below.  I wasn’t ready.  I pulled back on my board, exiting the wave.

     I bobbed around for a while, trying to steel my nerves.  Like so many things in sports, I knew on an intellectual level that I just needed to go for it.  If I stood up and dropped in with total commitment, I would be fine.
  

     What didn’t help was the simple fact that waves move.  I remember the biggest cliff jump my friends and I ever attempted.  I remember how long we stood at the edge, staring down at the water nearly eighty feet below, trying to calm ourselves.  If we’d needed to, we could have stood there all day.  The cliff wasn’t going anywhere.  But a wave is a fleeting creature, disappearing almost as quickly as it arrives.  You have one chance to catch it before it’s gone.  There’s no time to think it over.

     The second wave I made a go at was bigger, steeper and meaner than the first.  It wasn’t meant to be tamed—certainly not by someone like me—but the false courage I’d spent the last twenty minutes drumming up was running the show now and it said go, go, go!

     Prone on my board, I rose up the wave’s face, paddling in earnest past the point of no return.  When I reached the crest I realized I had no options.  Too late to exit, too late to ride, I was at the wave’s mercy.  It pitched forward more violently than the last, spitting me out as if I were as insignificant as mist.  I bailed from my board and plunged headfirst through the open air.

     The near-freezing water stole my breath when it hit my face.  The wave collapsed on me, pushing me down to the sea floor, knocking me about like some dirty laundry.  A few seconds felt like an eternity, and I nearly believed in God when at last I drew another breath.  I collected my board and started to paddle to shore, my mind made up that this day was over.

     But before I reached land I’d already changed my mind.  That was no way to live, I told myself, to tuck tail and run.  And besides, it wasn’t as if I had anywhere to be.  It wasn’t as if I had anything more important to do than learn to surf.  I turned my board around and headed out for one last shot.

     The last wave of the day was worth it’s weight in gold.  She was kinder and gentler than her evil sibling who’d roughed me up.  She held her face open for me as I rose to the crest, offering me a fraction of a second longer to prepare.  When I felt her cradle the board I took one extra paddle to balance myself and I popped up to my feet.

     For one glorious second I was flying down the face of the wave, my feet firmly planted on my board, a huge fucking smile on my face!

     And then I ate shit.

     I wasn’t ready for the speed.  I’d never gone anywhere near that fast.  I lost my balance and pitched forward over the nose of my board, face first, once again, into the frigid water below.

     But this time there was no panic.  I knew I was fine, that in a few seconds I would emerge from the depths, still grinning from ear to ear.

     I had progressed.

     And what more could I ask for?