Fish Outta Water

Editors Note: Listen to me. Once you get done reading this, don’t be mad at me. But, I did hold this from you all for a little bit. I have been sitting on this piece here from our own Beloved Mick, kinda just waiting on the right time to post it. Well slap my ass and call me a newborn, cause damn this one fits right now. I am in my own current dry spell, for reasons to possibly or maybe probably not be explained, but re-reading this after 1 or 4 tall cans of Pacifico, it really hits the spot. Time to share it with the world. Enjoy this here while we get to work. -hwilsin

            Once surfing has become a daily staple in your life, it’s difficult to accept otherwise. A feature that’s indispensible. The satisfaction, hype, giddiness, stoke, and full froth that comes from a session tends to bring a sense of completion to the day. Then maybe an injury or illness comes into play. New tattoo? Should have checked the outlook, pal. Possibly an unruly work situation that leaves you drier than that empty jar of pot on the shelf. A lay-day every once in a while is manageable. Give you some time to recharge, maybe reassess the quiver, repair a board or maybe just to handle that hangover that leaves you queasy until the following evening. Then the next day goes by and you’re still not riding waves.

Now, maybe there’s a flat spell. That happens. But you can always throw on some fins and still get wet in that case. I’m talking shore-stricken. Banished from the water like some cruel and unusual punishment. Depending on one’s circumstance, you may find yourself out of the line-up for weeks on end. Depression kicks in. Identity crisis takes hold. Team morale begins to plummet. All the salt in your veins drains until you’re withered like the yellow board that’s been sunbathing on your neighbor’s porch for the past 10 years.

         Like any self-reliant individual you try to take matters into your own hands and at least appease your withdrawal with a trip down by the water just to scope the scene. See what’s going on. What kind of swell on hand. See if it’s pumping. Then if shit luck has it, it will be pumping. Perhaps absolutely fucking firing. The kind of firing where you see offshore peelers as you pull up and start sounding off like a howler monkey and banging on the steering wheel. Shacks, sections, screaming lines, and peaky dimes. And you’re just standing there watching everyone paddle into your fair share of gems. Might as well tell a sober alcoholic to go to the bar and try to have fun.

You’re pushing a month now without a surf. What is existence? Backed up on your own goal line, you need a power play. All systems a-go. Broken bones or terminal illness, fuck it. It’s time to splash and when that time comes, it’s like the water version of that John Denver song, Take Me Home, Country Roads. Like Dorothy in Wizard of Oz, “there’s no place like home.” You get the idea. Your comeback has arrived. It’s amazing. It’s serene. It’s that replenished dose of soul you’ve been yearning for. Then you get caught by a cleanup set and womped back to yesteryear and truly remember what you’ve been missing all this time.

I happened to go through one of these waveless stints myself lately. Due mostly to an undisclosed throat-deal and a sliver of trying to “due my part” with the COVID quarantine, I was out of the water for a little over a month. I went through all the stages of emotion listed above. Then one morning I was at work and received a series of pictures of the lineup that day from my buddy. Immaculate. Particularly considering it was the home break. I could not let an opportunity like that roll past me. As soon as I got off work in the early afternoon I whipped home practically blowing through red lights and other customary road rules. I rushed into the house, snatched my suit and board. I had been out of the water so long that I almost forgot a towel but remembered at the last second before taking off.

All standard parking that I usually hit was closed off due to the virus so I pulled up curbside on a near side street. It started raining as I changed into my wetsuit with no signs of letting up.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.*

Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas said it best there. And that was exactly what happened. I ran across PCH to see through the raindrops dumpy, clean, nuggets coming through consistently up and down the entire beach.

A dad and his grom passed me by with boards in hand when the pops stopped me. He saw I was looking right at the zone I wanted to hit. “Hey you’re gonna want to be way down there” and pointed south. I gave him a suspect stare, thinking ‘how’re you going to tell me that when I’m looking directly at my destination. I see it. It’s firing. Right there. Nobody out. You’re pointing directly at a crowd. Either you really know something I don’t or you’re fucking with me. Either way I’m not buying it, guy.’ I didn’t say any of this out loud but I’m pretty sure he received it all telepathically. He responded, “ heyyy man I already walked down twice.” “So you want me to paddle out at the crowd?” I answered. “just saying, man.” “Alright, thanks.” He had the current in mind. No matter and not a concern, I’m built for this.

I paddled out slightly south of my original intended spot but within minutes I was sitting right in the zone I anticipated and rattled off wave after wave for the next three hours. I had my “performance” fish out there. The first wave’s satisfaction felt like getting a big breath of air after being held under for too long. There were plenty of hollow ones, even a few spitters. And pouring rain. With not a single head within a couple hundred yards of either side of me. This first session back struck an immediate note as it was one to remember. There was a present nostalgia about it and something immediately and incredibly rewarding. After my first couple handful of waves were caught, my throat seemed to be reacting in a harsh way to being back in the water. I just about lost my entire voice. I wondered to myself, “Am I really fucking up by being out here right now? Especially during a rain? Especially during quarantine? Am I potentially setting myself back even further with a potential recovery to this lingering throat deal?” I was apprehensive. I thought about getting out on the spot. Then I thought to myself, I’d rather die a surfer than live like a patient. Who knows the next time I’d have an opportunity like this. Now I suppose it’s worth mentioning that my throat chilled out after that initial struggle which eased my trepidation. But regardless, I was going to lay it all out in the water that afternoon and evening. With the rainy overcast skies it was difficult to have any perception of time, it all looked the same. A hazy wet dreamland. So I just kept snagging wave after wave.

At one point confidence got the best of me. A set Right swept my way and I paddled nonchalantly for it. The wave bottomed out, I got held up on the lip as the section raced away from me. There was no going forward, no going back. Just over the falls. I took the leap sideways to a considerable rib slammer. It was only fitting that I get my bell rung on my debut back in the water. Had to happen.   

Then one particular wave came by. A Left, late in the session. By this point in the evening the crowd was kicking in and the lineup started to fill out a bit more. I guess word got out on the conditions. There were two buddies. One was deeper than me to my right but too deep to go. His buddy was paddling back out to my left. I split the pals, with appropriate social distance of course, and dropped in. This Left pitched from the get-go. I bottom turned deep in the pocket as it threw and thought, “oh shit, this is really lining up.” Then the critical stretch came and I grabbed rail and pulled in. I was fully slotted looking through the glory hole. I thought making it out was just about a done deal but I ended up getting swallowed before the exit. Even though I didn’t make it out, still, what a wave. What a vision. Validation of all the risk, reward, and a sincere reminder of why I surf and what its all about. My gills got the oxygen they were grasping for.

-Mick