A Tale of Two Surfs

This (from a few years ago) or…

It was the best of sessions, it was the worst of sessions, it was the warmest of water, it was the coldest of seas, it was the week of serenity, it was a day of mental turmoil — in short, the two periods could be received in the degree of comparison only.

Okay, so, maybe I’m pushing the imagery a wee bit. But allow me to highlight the contrast in the six days between Wednesday, March 15, and Thursday, March 9, if you will.

On March 15, in the wake of a just-departed nor’easter that delivered slushy snow and an official wind gust of 77 mph to Plum Island (I measured a gust of 61.9 mph on my handheld anemometer on the beach before the peak winds hit), I paddled into the surf in nearby New Hampshire. Fierce offshore winds made it challenging if not impossible to catch any waves. The wind chilled my face — the only part of my body exposed — and the spray made it difficult to even see. And despite the fact that I run pretty warm and had never really been cold when surfing this winter, my toes and fingers were numb before I’d gotten halfway to the waves. Speaking of the water temperature: 39 or 40 degrees Fahrenheit, tops. Air temp in the teens; and with those westerly winds, take a guess at the wind-chill factor. Sub-zero, for sure.

…this? That’s what I thought.

Six days earlier, I was wearing shorts as I paddled into the 81-degree Pacific Ocean, where light morning offshores caressed rising groundswell (from a storm thousands of miles distant in the far South Pacific) into waves that threw out in an arc enabling even me — a tall, hulking, klutzy surfer — to pull in and savor the feeling of being in the ocean’s warm embrace for an all-too-brief but still life-altering moment.

So yeah, I whined to myself a bit as I sat in the frigid waters of New Hampshire fighting to catch at least a semi-decent wave. Sue me.

All kidding aside, the contrasts created psychological challenges well beyond excessive internal dialogue. The difference in my attitude as a result of the toe- and finger-numbing lack of water temperature and the brain-numbing lack of wave quality was disappointing to me. At the point in New Hampshire, I waited where the lines of waves wrapped and peeled along the point itself. Before they did that wrap, those same swells exploded on the reef at the tip of the point itself. And though the waves were (I believe) rideable, the consequences of the cold and the chop if you fell were enough that I opted to stay put at the shoulder. A week earlier in Mexico, after working up to the main break in Puerto Escondido, I took off on waves where the likelihood of making it was way less than 25 percent.

Did I wish I was still in Mexico? You bet I did. My courage, it seemed, had frozen along with the precipitation still piled on the roadways. And that was a bummer. To me, anyway.

On top of that, it turned out that the New Hampshire town I was in had declared a snow emergency and all street parking was banned. I got back to my car — where I stripped and changed out of my frigid wetsuit in those arctic wind blasts — to find a parking ticket on my windshield. Fuck! Viva Mexico!

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Puerto Reflections

Puerto Escondido shows off gorgeous sunsets nightly

Made it home from Puerto Escondido late last night. Arrived at JFK in New York around 11 p.m. after an interesting travel day (more below) and drove back to Plum Island in one shot — which may not have been the best idea since I was, quite literally, hallucinating over the final half of the drive. Arrived at home around 4:35 a.m. and went to bed around 5-something. Woke up around 8:30 so we’ll see how today goes.

But here are some — okay, a lot of — thoughts prompted by my recent trip. More verbal diarrhea from Yours Truly…

    • God, I needed to get out on the road again. It’s been WAY too long. But at the same time the trip pointed out the ongoing need for some structure and discipline in my life — just not in the typical, 9-to-5 sense of those terms. When all the family stuff is straightened out once and for all this summer I will endeavor to combine those two needs — travel and structure — into a plan for the second half of my life
    • Puerto Escondido was fabulous. It’s small enough that it’s not overwhelming or (too) gaudy, but big enough to have anything you want or need. (For what it’s worth, I heard the population is about 45,000.) There was good food of all varieties to be found, including some great Italian, plenty of hippy-dippy stuff like smoothies and acai bowls (it IS a surf town, after all) and, of course, the ubiquitous tacos and burritos and the like. And as with everything in Mexico, it’s WAY cheaper than in the U.S. I did find the food better in my little neighborhood than on the tourist drag on Playa Zicatela
    • Speaking of Zicatela: If it was a swimming beach it would be one of the most famous beaches in the world. Long and wide with beautiful, course sand ranging from white to gold…it’s just a great beach. But the conditions that make it great for surfing make it unsuitable for swimming (seriously; I watched a rip current snatch a guy off his feet and out to sea prompting a rescue by the lifeguards) so it gets overlooked. And nightcaps at the bars on the beach are a nice touch we don’t get to enjoy in the U.S. thanks to the fucking lawyers, insurance companies and do-gooder fundamentalists. A plague on all their houses
    • Everyone in Puerto that I met was really nice. Everyone — bums to BMW drivers — says “hola” as they pass on the street and even Beemer guy was pretty chill. Hell, even the vendors on the beach aren’t overbearing. And while plenty of people speak English so you can get by, not everyone does so it behooves you to speak Spanglish…or better yet, work on your Spanish, which is what I was doing. I prefer the locals NOT bend over backwards to accommodate my selfish need to speak my language in their home. Yeah, it makes things a little bumpy but in the long run I believe the effort is worth it. “When in Rome,” ya know?!

The before-and-after versions of the view from where I stayed

  • There are hotels and apartments everywhere, some ridiculously cheap. Get your plane ticket early enough so it’s cheap and with the cheap room and board you can get a month in Puerto for less than you’d get a week in Paris or some other fancy-pants location
  • Speaking of airfare: I flew on Interjet, which my pre-trip research had me wildly nervous about. But the flight down was great AND they don’t charge for surfboards and other sports gear. They have three classes of service and folks traveling in either the mid- and top-range classes get plenty of perks for not much extra money. In fact, I flew down in the top-level class because they had a deal: it was 40 percent LESS than the second-level class. Let’s see how the flights home go…
    Addendum: Oh well, it was a nice run. But truth be told: it wasn’t Interjet’s fault. Weather in Mexico City had air-traffic control delaying everything flying into that hub. So my two-hour layover in the capital wound up being a sprint from one terminal to the next. I literally JUST made my flight to New York. My surfboard and bag, sadly, did not. They arrived on this morning’s flight and Interjet is FedEx-ing my stuff to me. Still, I will fly Interjet again. I had good, clean planes with friendly staff and good service, all for affordable prices. Stark contrast to most U.S. airlines
  • The drivers in Mexico…holy shit. They make New Englanders look like capable, safe drivers. Just…wow. And I had been prepared to mention how bad their roads are but after just a few hours of driving between New York and New England, we really can’t go pointing any fingers. Seriously. Our roads are just as bad. But unlike our roads, all of the roads in Mexico have huge speed bumps that drastically slow the traffic entering town and throughout city streets, which I believe is a good idea. They force maniacs to slow down in areas where there are a lot of pedestrians. Can you imagine an American municipality daring to force the almighty American driver to slow down and be safe?! Neither can I
  • And holy shit was it hot. If not for all the beer I drank, I’d have lost a ton of weight just walking around during the day — and walking around during the day makes you realize the whole concept of siesta just makes sense. Up and at ’em in the morning, chill during the heat of the midday, back at ’em as things cool off. How civilized! (Addendum: Even with all the beer I drank, I still managed to lose a few pounds. How doubly civilized!)

    The Puerto Escondido cliff walk with Playa Zicatela in the distance

  • There’s a sense of freedom that pervades Puerto Escondido and other places I’ve been to in Mexico. Granted, I’m a tourist and don’t see it day in and day out like a local, but there’s none of the nanny state or Big Brother, which is so refreshing. And by and large you don’t see people fucking it up for everyone with their selfish, “to hell with you, I wanna do THIS…” attitudes. Sure, there’s graffiti on the beautiful cliff walk below the lighthouse in Puerto but kids are kids pretty much everywhere on Earth. By and large the folks in Mexico live and let live. I believe it’s a nice way to go through your day. And your life
  • Last but not least, check out Anthony Bourdain on Mexico. It’s a few years old but all too relevant in this day and age

For the surfers among you, here are few ocean-specific thoughts on my experiences in the waves of Puerto Escondido:

Not a very graceful takeoff but…oh well

  • If the swell pattern during my visit had been reversed — so it was small when I got there before building to big and way big — it would have been better for me. I’m not ashamed to admit I was intimidated at first and stayed wary throughout. As an excuse: I realized that since I left San Diego in May 2016, I estimate I’ve had about 15-20 sessions in the water in New England (each session 1-2 hours; two per day when conditions allow) TOTAL. So not much surfing, really. Hell, I’d get 15-20 sessions every two weeks when I lived in San Diego…and I was working 10-plus hours a day. Surfing is not like riding a bicycle; at least it isn’t for me. Next time I surf Puerto, I’m going with my groove already on because once I got mine going I had a blast
  • I’ve surfed big waves before but not at a beach break like this. Blacks Beach in San Diego in December 2007 came close and it took me three tries to get out there that day. That this is a hollow, crushing beach break changed everything. That first day I got here was seriously awe inspiring. No, it wasn’t Mark Healey going XXL but it was well beyond big and into the mega category
  • Here’s some of what Magic Seaweed said about Puerto: “Swells hit the…sandbars at Zicatela Beach in such a way that the waves jack up in size, which is often emphasised by a backwash. Magazine photos of this place are misleading – the waves close-out often and the paddle-out can be severe…The wave is fickle, and will often be blown out by 11am…It’s still a year-round Mecca for big barrel hunters!”
    Yup. What they said: year-round good bet for waves (even when it was small it was still doable). Wind definitely goes onshore around 10 or 11 a.m. — but it’s still doable in the afternoon though no one goes out until the sunset session around 4. And the paddle out CAN be punishing (though the ever-present rip currents can definitely help though they can also hinder. Stay alert)
  • Next time I come, I’m buying a step-up big-wave board for that next level of surf. I saw perfectly good, used thruster guns for 6,000 pesos — about $300. I’ll buy one when I get to town, ride it and then sell it back for even half or a third of that. My performance-focused shortboard was fine for the days I was out, but it would be insufficient for the Zicatela waves once they ramp up a notch; indeed on some of the bigger sets on the days I was out I was a bit undergunned
  • All of this said, point breaks are just SO much easier and less nerve-wracking. Maybe next time I’ll tack on a run down to Salina Cruz, a few hours south of Puerto. Same swells but at point breaks with fewer people? Sounds good to me
  • Magic Seaweed also said, “There’s large numbers of skilled surfers in the water.” No doubt about it. In the lineup I saw middle-aged women on bodyboards, body surfers, aggro teenyboppers, all the full-bore 20something surfers…and everything in between (except, interestingly, the older guys I expected). And most of them were more than capable. Percentage-wise, the surfers are much better in Puerto than what I see in New England (no surprise there) and even better than what I dealt with daily in San Diego. Puerto locals rip

I’ll be cleaning the Zicatela sand out of my ears and nose for a few days. But it’ll be SO worth it. I can’t wait to go back.

They say Mexico changes you. It obviously did me…beginning and end of this trip

Ocean Fun, Personal, Travel, Uncategorized, ,

Get Busy Living

Late yesterday afternoon I visited what I consider to be the crown jewel of Plum Island: the Parker River National Wildlife Refuge. It’s a wonderful place. Magical, even, when you consider how close it is to the urban sprawl of metropolitan Boston. And the peace and calm of this oasis is even more pronounced on a cold day in mid-December when there are only a handful of people in the entire seven-mile stretch of island and none at all on the trail one chooses to walk.

Every time I visit the Hellcat Swamp trail I remember back to a time when I was six, maybe seven, years old and I walked this boardwalk path through the marsh and dunes of primal Plum Island with my father. He and I came to the observation blind that overlooks the freshwater marsh and sat for a few moments while we peered through the gaps in the blind’s camouflaged walls. We hadn’t been there long when — WHOOSH! — an osprey blew past us in a blur, no more than a handful of feet away from my wide, young eyes. To this day I swear I heard the roar of a jet engine powering the bird as it arced low over the water.

It left an impression, obviously, and as I stood in the blind yesterday recalling that moment once again it segued to other, similar moments of such energizing joy: powder runs in the Utah backcountry with my dog, Spooner; hiking with Spooner in the then-secluded canyons of southern Utah; on the lookout for grizzly bears along a salmon-choked river at the remote end of Kodiak Island; seeing white-tailed deer bound away from me while wandering the woods on Clausland Mountain in New York, not 25 miles from Manhattan; and banding ducks at dawn with a refuge researcher when I was about 8 or 9.

The memories prompted an inner (and slight outer) smile, but they also prompted remorse — remorse at how distant those moments had become. It was less a distance of time (even for those memories from when I was really young) than it was a distance of lifestyle. I realized that over the course of the past couple of decades I’d slowly been domesticated. Not that there was anything wrong with enjoying good food and comfort and a nice home, but I realized that I was truly happiest in my life when I was out there on the hard edge. And while some easing is natural, there’s no reason I can’t get back to living a life more outdoors — away from desks and office chairs and the internet. Instead of reading others who chronicle and photograph those things I used to do, I can get back to doing and chronicling and photographing those things (or at least some of them) again like I used to, and before it’s too late.

So I’d come to the refuge with my camera, a piece of equipment that in my younger days used to prompt many of my adventures. Back then I sought to be a new version of Galen Rowell, photographing the “art of adventure” (as his book is titled). I never got remotely close to his talent and vision, but at least the quest led to many of the fun times of my life. And I got a few good shots along the way.

I was hoping to get a shot or two of the lovely, late-afternoon light of Plum Island in early winter. It’s a unique light, and November and December sunsets at Plum Island are the best I’ve ever seen anywhere. Really. The shades of red, purple, magenta, pink and blue sneak their way into your vision, wrapping around your psyche like a warm blanket in the cold air and making you feel comfortable, safe, at home.

Yesterday, a clearing storm made for a layer of cloudiness that cleared not long before the 4:15 p.m. sunset, and once the sun dropped below that ceiling, the light got interesting. It didn’t last long — the gap between ceiling and horizon was just a handful of minutes — but the warm glow on the trees and marsh plants promised that the storm was indeed over. The almost-full moon rose over the dunes and a harrier glided slowly over the frozen marsh. I snapped a few photos and savored the twilight and headed home.

And it was upon returning home that I learned that a guy I knew when I lived in Idaho had died in an avalanche a day earlier. Chris died while skiing the Montana backcountry near Yellowstone National Park. He knew the risks from having lived a life full of adventure such as backcountry skiing and commercial fishing in Alaska. And while I’ve always called bullshit when people say, “Oh, at least he died doing what he loved” — bullshit…he’s dead and won’t get to do that thing he loves anymore — Chris’ passing pointed up that at least he was still living a life full of that energizing joy I had once known. It was to that notion that I toasted Chris last night. That, and the realization that the universe will slap you in the face when it wants to get your attention.

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