Back in the 70s I was in my 20s and dwelling in a more-or-less communal household in Mill Valley, California. Among my roomies was a surfer whose name I forget. Yet I’ll always remember his ardor for “tasty waves” and his willingness to ditch all chores and any schedule to head for a favored spot whenever glassy swells began to rear up and break.
To be honest, I had a tough time understanding it. Life held so many matters of high importance we all needed to face up to, on a daily basis. But this slacker seemed to be a true case of arrested development, stalling, shunning responsibility, and postponing adulthood—like some sort of salt-soaked, latter-day Peter Pan.
That was how I thought of him… I mean, before I began surfing myself. Once I started, I found I couldn’t quit, either. Now I’m in the middle of a much different set of 70’s—my seventh decade of accumulated years of life. It’s somewhat startling to realize that I’ve been riding waves for half a century; yet I still check surf sites, buoy reports and weather predictions on a daily basis.
And if conditions seem irresistible, well, I don’t resist them. I sling a board onto my roof rack and head out. Why is that?
TO WATER THE ROOTS OF LIFE
The addiction took hold of me long before I fully grasped or understood its allure. But gradually, some understanding did seep into my consciousness. Surfing wasn’t a subversion of—or substitute for—responsible life, but a fountainhead of energy that could nurture all the rest of living. Surfing was not an evasion of anything. Rather, it was a confrontation with everything: the primal forces of nature, as well as the primeval basis of human character.
The sea turns out to be a gym without walls, one that not only demands you acquire, maintain, and enhance every aspect of physical fitness, but that you also strive to develop traits of perseverance, judgement, courage and humility.
Thus, those sessions that bade me arise in the wee hours and drive empty, darkened streets to reach surf zones for dawn patrols wound up not being just about themselves. They were life-strengthening episodes that enabled everything else. They became the places where I dumped stress and acquired confidence. Where I found life’s deepest pleasures could stem, not from indulgence, but from rising to challenge.
MY AMBITION TO BE AN AMPHIBIAN
I’d already been a river-runner and whitewater kayaker for a few years by the time I moved to the coast town of Mendocino. I began taking my very first whitewater kayak—a Hollowform River Chaser— out into the ocean because, well, it was the boat that I had. Nowadays, those sea caves and reef rocks and pour-overs and blowholes of the rugged Mendo coast form a popular playground for sea kayakers. But back then, I sat in the sole paddle craft I ever saw out there, trying to probe and poke about in the nearshore waters.
And yes, as an untutored soloist exploring the unknown, I did experience a few tough scrapes and tight escapes. En route, I saw that I had to learn to punch out through surf and ride it back in to be an effective (and safe) voyager. So, I taught myself to do exactly that by a classic method: trial and error.
Now, my River Chaser model was notorious for both its attributes (hull toughness) and drawbacks (it had all the turning ability of a fir log with its bark and branches on). So it wasn’t long before I tried to trade up to far more nimble craft, like a Perception Dancer and then sharp-railed, low-volume “squirt” boats such as the Phoenix Arc.
I felt surprised and delighted when the sport of surfing proceeded to carry me to undreamt destinations. One was being hired as an Outdoors writer and editor for The San Francisco Chronicle; my first feature for them was about this new sport of kayak surfing. (Well, I imagined it to be new; but deeper research indicated the Inuit had invented it millennia ago.) Another was making it onto the first U.S. National Kayak Surfing Team and heading across the Pond to Ireland in 1988 to compete in the first true global contest.
AHOY, SHIPMATES!
There were many fine take-aways from that Irish wingding. One was finding out that love of the sea and its exhilarating dynamics transcended national boundaries, and we had brother and sister paddle surfers in Europe, south of the Equator—and as it was eventually proved—all around the globe. Another was that developing rules for contests encouraged improved performances, which encouraged improved craft design, which stimulated the holding of more contests. Within a few years, such a positive feedback loop was cycling at high speed, and paddle surfing sports made steady and stately leaps forward.
That was an especially gratifying development for me. What had begun as a solitary pursuit became a path to reliable, relatable companionship. As I trained to compete, as I assisted in designing and judging contests, I became friends with icons like Dennis Judson (founder of the Santa Cruz Paddlefest), Dave Johnston (with me on that 1988 team), Rasyad Chung (a high performance pioneer), Eric Soares (an ocean-adventure buccaneer), Dan Crandall (one of the top medal/ribbon winners), and Bryon Dorr (who’s picking up the aegis of Paddlefest impresario).
Alas, Dorr must do that because the inimitable Dennis Judson is no longer with us. Nor is Matty Kinsella, who was coach for the first U.S. National Team, who picked me to join it, and who with me parsed some of the rules that helped the contests—and thus the sport—to improve. But when I think of Dennis and Matty and their passing (both died of heart attacks) I don’t mourn so much as I seek to remember and celebrate their fabulous rides through life. And I imagine those guys navigating the swells of the afterlife with pluck and dash. While deploying a big dose of verve too, probably. And ably rolling up from any thrashing!
DIAL IT DOWN, DUDE
Nowadays, as owner and sole proprietor of a body that’s become more prone to breakage and less apt to fully heal, I find myself turning selective about what sort of surf I hurl myself into. Whereas in the past, usually by intent but often by accident, I’d stick myself into situations that were difficult to exit.
These made for good stories, yet some had their cautionary aspects. One is my tale of our adventure in Ireland, “Riders on the Storm” (read it here, another is the time I was swept up by a tsunami.
When I gaze into my mental file of epic wipeouts, I see myself getting ribs broken in shorebreak at Cape Hatteras, being stripped of my boat and watching it be pounded to pieces against a cliff at Davenport, and taking off way too late and way too deep on a wave way too big at the end of the Maverick’s Reef and doing cartwheels within its barrel until my butt crashed down on my waveski and smashed it in two. Or, how about trying to surf Fort Point by moonlight, being gobbled up by a massive set, and almost ending up pitoned into the seawall?
But I retain many sweet recollections as well, such as: paddling out to photograph the Maverick’s surfers on a big day then smoothly riding a giant swell back between the Mushroom Rock and Black Hand Reef; or air-dropping off the lip of a steep Third Reef face at Santa Cruz and landing that sucker. And how about the day I took an outside Middle Peak wave all the way in to a spinning, hull-down, triumphant landing on Cowells Beach—my fulfilled fantasy of a ride a mile long.
MY QUEST FOR THE ELDER WAND
Stay with the sport long enough, and a surfer will develop his or her own style. This results in a preference for certain breaks, tide levels, swells of a certain size and shape, time of day for a session, and so on. It might also be said to work the opposite way—that those preferences generate the style. And, in truth, it’s another giant feedback loop, where one dimension influences the other.
Where it manifests most strongly is in the board or craft one selects. In my case, I went from whitewater kayaks to squirt boats and then (as they became available) production surf boats. But that evolution frustrated me, since nothing on the market truly fit my style. Eventually I realized I’d have to bite the bullet and design my own surf vehicle. I approached Steve Boehne of Infinity boards at Dana Point, gave him my goofy ideas, which he wisely mitigated, and I ended up with a long waveski with a broad nose, an incredible amount of rocker, a double channel bottom, beveled rails and a pintail.
A waveski, by the way, is a surfboard that you sit on, strapping yourself to it with various types of harness, like a seatbelt and foot loops. I started there, but nowadays I just use thigh straps.
Riding this rig I was able to take off on tall, steep waves and practically stand vertically in the footcups as I charged down to make my first bottom turn. It was a very capable and incredibly forgiving board. That stimulated a case of overconfidence. And yes, that was the waveski I broke in half at the Maverick’s Reef.
I subsequently used the same bottom design to create a custom surf kayak hull. But I soon discovered I preferred the waveski configuration. I’d considered the first iteration only a prototype—now I saw it truly was a first step in my correct direction. That surf kayak was the second. Now came the proper time to take the third. So I went back to Boehne, we made some tweaks to the design, and he built the big waveski I still use today: 11’ 4” feet in length, with a ½-inch maple stringer, a carbon fiber spine enhancement, and a long single fin. It’s tough, it’s fast, it purely loves tall waves, and I enjoy surfing them in longboard style.
THE PADDLEFEST RISES AGAIN
An old joke goes like this: Aging may be mandatory, but immaturity can last forever!
And I do tell my wife: As long as I can still surf, I know I’m not truly old. Not quite yet… Though I look more than a little like the Ol’ Surfer Dude of the Doonesbury cartoons.
And I am slower, I am more careful, and I like conditions that accommodate my preferences, rather than trying to accommodate myself to whatever the conditions happen to be. Charging into big junk is a young man’s game.
Not only that, the days when I could be truly competitive in a given surf contest have become a dim and dwindling sight in my rearview mirror. Nonetheless, I’m going to enter another one, The Santa Cruz Paddlefest, coming to the Steamer Lane and Cowells breaks off West Cliff Drive on March 28-30, 2025.
I’m not doing it because I expect to ribbon or even win a heat, but simply to see and hang with my mates, and to relish the priceless pleasure of riding in 20-minute, uncrowded sessions on one of the classic California breaks.
If you’re a paddle surfer of any stripe, come and check it out. If you are not but think you might like to be one, also check it out. At this event, you can spectate, you can volunteer, you can even survey and test some of the latest equipment. Here’s the link.
And if our sport pulls you in, you’ll get the ride of a lifetime, one that also can last for a lifetime. Much to my astonishment, I happen to have become living proof of this.
Let’s end with the words of the legendary Jeff Spicoli, a fictional entity from an 80’s film called “Fast Times at Ridgemont High,” starring an unbelievably young and incredibly blond Sean Penn. He’s the one who spouted the “tasty waves” meme in my opening paragraph.
“All I need are some tasty waves, a cool buzz, and I’m fine.”
Cowabunga, dude.
