Top 10 Continued

#2 A Really Really Good Wave in the Northeast Caribbean

The view from the top of the hill. Muy tranquillo.

On one of our many trips to leech off of "Diamond" Jim Veiga and his ever-improving accommodations and modes of transportation, we happened upon a certain world-class right doing its thing. We drove up a small mountain or extremely large hill, depending on your perspective, about 10 miles from the beach to have a look at a series of waves. From there we would usually get bummed out, and force ourselves to make the miles long hike into one of these notoriously fickle waves to ride small, choppy and shallow waves. The consolation is that they are rarely crowded.

On this particular day however we were greeted by favorable winds, decent swell and clear skies. We all marginally freaked out when we saw what looked like small lines wrapping along the (in)famous cocktease of a point. And god what a view. The huge bay was a sheet of glass with swimming pool clear water surrounded in a crescent moon-shaped, pure white sand beach. Each side of the bay was trimmed in palm trees and lush tropical jungle. A funky little tropo bar sat just off the road in the middle of the beach.

We all strained to figure out exactly how good it was. But it is hard from 10 miles away and the consensus was that it looked small and fun. So I pulled out my 500mm lens and held it up to my eye with my bare hands to get a better look.

If you have never put a lens that long up to your eye without the help of a tripod, let me explain. You can't see jack shit. Every minor movement is exaggerated so bad you feel like your eyes are gonna pop out of your head. This is compounded by trying to focus on something half the size of a flea's nut sack. But I gotta tell ya, I just about shit my pants when I finally saw something moving on a wave.

It wasn't small and fun. It was good. Really, really good. Way overhead. Lined up. FUUUUUCK!

The view through the 500mm lens.

After the short, over-accelerated, hyper-fueled, mega-aggressive drive to the beach in Jim's sketchy jeep, we all made the excruciatingly long walk the length of the entire bay. We finally reached the paddle out spot. Which despite the size of the bay, which seems to be three miles wide, the paddle out spot is very concise. We all lined up behind Jim and followed as he weaved through the shallows. He was barking out instructions regarding what we were all about to commit to when a big perfect left reared up in front of us. Being a overzealous goofy footer, I immediately ignored Jim's instructions and paddled straight into the take-off zone and went on the next wave. I barely made the drop and had a minor heart palpitation when it jacked up and threw out. I barely skirted out of the wave and rode off the back. I found myself in position again almost immediately as I noticed Ricky B moving into the zone too. The second wave was much bigger and I realized as I pushed over that maybe Jim was telling us NOT to ride this wave. Despite myself, I got pitted again and rode it out swearing and screaming out loud how, "I gotta get the fuck out of here. This thing is trying to kill me."

As I paddled laterally across the reef in front of the take-off spot, I intentionally paddled way outside the zone and Ricky B who was looking pretty determined to catch one even though I just declared to the crowd it was in our collective best interest to, "Move along. Nothing to see here." As I passed Ricky an even larger set appeared. Ricky and I put our heads down and sprinted. I was headed west towards the channel. Rick headed north, hoping to punch straight through. I managed to pierce through. I looked behind and saw Ricky duck diving right smack-dab in the worst place. I cringed as the lip chucked and you could see the shallow reef under Rick.

Everyone else had followed Jim through the small keyhole west of Millimeters, as we later learned that left is called, and avoided the majority of interaction with any real physical drama. (Although having repeated the process several times after this day, the visual drama is fairly heavy.) Ricky however was the proud owner of a broken surfboard. I felt horrible, but what can you do? He was now a long shitty swim, a even longer shitty walk back to the car to be greeted by no backup boards. Hey at least that cool tropical bar had a good view of what he wasn't surfing.

Ricky B in better times, atop the Broken Windstar

We all paddled across the front of the reef behind Jim like good worker ants until Jim sat up and looked out to sea. I looked around to try to triangulate my position. We were so far out in the ocean that lining up on stuff was impossible. When a set came to us, we all scrambled for safety, except Jim, I saw natures little road signs begin to appear. First the water ran off the reef east of us in a ugly display of displacement. Then rocks appeared. And Jim calmly sat on top of those rocks as the rest of us ran crying out to sea like little faggalas. Jim casually turned and looked like he was going to drop right into the dry rocks. The peak jacked up and Jim disappeared down it's smoother-than-a-porn-star's-coochie face.

It took a while for everyone to figure out that because of the heavy bowl on the peak, you gotta take off right in front of the rocks. Or a fair way down the line. I must have paddled for 10 waves before I got mad and sat next to Jim and finally caught one.

Words can't really explain it. The physical aspects go like this. The medium size waves were two or three feet overhead on the wall, sheet glass. It has a hollow as hell first section which runs about 20-30 yards across fairly shallow reef. That is followed by a steep but rolly section that ran forever -it seemed- maybe another 50 yards. And on the medium size waves that hugged the reef better, you get greeted by a third rolling bowl that lets you surf until your legs gave out. If you got one of those, you got cleaned up for sure, so it was a toss up. The big sets were a lot hollower but were shorter and petered out in deep water missing the reef on the inside. Sort of like a reverse Kuta reef.

After my first wave I sat in the channel and freaked out a little. My heart was going a million miles per hour. My mind was doing loops inside my skull. I had a hard time rewinding the ride and figuring out what happened. I saw a big set coming so I started paddling back up the point. Everyone was scrambling so I put my head down and started sprinting again. When I looked up I saw Jim air-drop into a huge set wave right under the hook. He made the drop and stood tall for a few moments before the foam ball ate him. I screamed as loud as I could. That was one of the most amazing things I have ever seen in my life. Then I got cleaned up really bad and pushed way past were I kicked out of the previous wave. As I paddled back I watched everyone of my best friends catch the most beautiful waves anyone has ever seen. I was hooting and whistling and screaming for all of them.

This went on for a couple hours. Everyone was screaming and whistling and getting shacked. On another particularly large set, Jim again went for that late drop tuberiferious-ness. He had made several of them and also gotten bitch-slapped a few times. This time however he got pitched out into the flat and landed on a rock on his taint. Yup. His taint. He paddled back out agonizing over his now very tender perineum. He attempted a few more waves but finally chucked it in for the day. How ya gonna surf with your nifkin all jacked up?

Slowly the crew headed in one by one. Until only Bill "Gloydal-Zoydal" Gloyd and I were left. Since only two of us were there and Jim in particular was gone, we were left to cherry pick the best waves. Bill mentioned to me after I paddled back from my best wave of the day that he was going in. I thought about it for a second. Then I asked him to turn around and have a look at the whole scene. Look at the perfect blue sky. Look at the gorgeous white sand beach with only our own footprints on it. Look at the postcard palm trees and rain forest that surrounds the whole bay. Look at the clear warm water. Look how many people are in the water. LOOK AT THE FUCKING WAVES! His eyebrows raised up and he smiled that smile only a kid gets when he knows he can get away with something. He nodded in agreement. and we kept surfing.

Top 10

This was inspired by the 25 things Facebook note that went around. I just thought it would be great to put down the same thing but strictly for surfing. So Here we go.

#1 Best surfing day ever. June of 1991? New England.

My most vivid memory of this day is of the so-lame-its-actually-neat and ultra functional Boston Harbor live-readings station on tv. It had real time wind and swell readings at all the buoys around the harbor. Nerd speak blurted out in mathematical rhythm while we all drank, jammed Warrior Soul and huffed on cigarettes. That basic interface with the sweeping hand and pong-like graphics began showing signs of the wind switching. It wasn't supposed to switch that night so we were drinking pretty hard. But as the festivities progressed and the wind swung around ever-so-slowly, the amp factor went through the roof. I remember us all screaming and tackling each other as we realized that we were gonna score the next morning. I hopped on some one's bike and rode to my house and grabbed all my gear. It was pretty much the middle of the night and I was hammered drunk. I luckily grabbed all the wetsuit stuff needed.

We reconvened at Chris Minesinger's house and loaded up. The call was to hit Rye for dawn patrol since the world was going to be caught off guard. Jean Pierre, Minesinger, and myself hit the road a bit too early in an effort to pry ourselves away from the alcohol. Minesinger was smart enough to fill up a roadie for the long drive. We arrived at Rye before the sun even cracked the horizon. Pretty ambitious right? We sat in frozen horror as no waves even sniffed at the famed point. It was darker than Danzig's stool and colder than a witch's tit but I had to get out and walk up to the shoreline to get a better look. I mean come on! The buoys were something like 12 feet at 16 seconds. It was puffing offshore and the water was a sheet of glass. JP stepped up behind me for a look, and Minesinger camped out at the car eating an apple. Just then a set appeared and hit the point, throwing out a solid overhead, flawless right/left. The left ran down the rocks at 100 mph for 50 yards and shit itself on the beach in front of us.

Kadri dropping anchor on the shoulder at Rye.

JP and I screamed and did the grab-and-pull game to see who could get back to the car fastest. We all paddled out fell on several waves, still drunk and half frozen. Minesinger moaned really loud and then threw up in the channel. It was half vodka, half just-eaten apple. We all laughed that proud laugh, very impressed with the fact that despite being hammered only two hours ago -proof floating in the channel next to Chris- we were now scoring perfect surf. Eventually we all worked the jitters out and scored some really good Rye. After a couple hours a few of the locals realized that the wind switched early and they showed up in force. So we were out of there.

Chris had to get back and open the shop, and The Donald had risen from his slumber and was to meet us at Fuck Yourself cove. (That's not it's real name). Chris dropped Jean Pierre and I on the rocks above the cove and split. The wind was elegant and gentle, the swell angle dialed to perfection, and the size exactly what this tiny little cove liked. But because this cove was surround on two sides by tall cliffs connected by a spit of sand, even a cunthair too much water shut it down. Best case scenario is exactly two hours of serviceable tides - from one hour before to one hour after low tide exactly.

We were about a half hour early and pretty excited about that. The sun was blazing in the early summer sky, and the rocks that sit right next to the take off spot were really warm. We laid out of wetties and towels and smiled as we realized we were about to get a quick nap and probably dry our suits out before the next session. So I happily put my ass down on my towel, stretched my legs out and did that little exaggerated thing were you throw your arms up and then clasp your hands behind your head. I started to lean back, and looked one last time at the ocean before hitting my back to the warm, inviting rocks.

"Holy sit mate," Pierre screamed as a absolute slut of a wave ripped across the cove, bounced off the cliff, ricocheted into a peak, heaved up, hurled over and freight trained down the line, corkscrewing along the rocks the entire length of the cove. We gawked as a five wave set did what that cove is meant to do. So we struggled into our horrid, cold, slimy suits, struggled the boots on but gave the gloves the finger. We both frantically climbed down the cliff next to the take-off spot and launched into the zone, a move that requires about one half a paddle. The waves were a couple feet over head, making the ricochette peak very solid. But Pierre and I are both goofy foots, and its a pretty sure thing when this place is firing. So we easily pulled into wave after wave after wave. And the best part is that the swell angle and size made one very unique aspect of this magic little cove come alive, the fact that it bends back out to sea as it follows the shape of the rocky shore. That way when you kick out at the end you don't get caught inside, you are even with the peak and just have to paddle straight across the cove. Mind you, that fact also makes it a very tough wave to surf backside, as it bends away from you despite being fairly hollow from the start.

The Cove, a little mixed up, but you get the picture.

Pierre and I shared hoots and screams as the scene unfolded. Who could ask for more? How about another one of your best friends? We heard a slight hoot from the rocks and saw The Donald dashing into the bushes, obviously headed to the car to get his gear.

The session went on with us all trading wave after wave. The sun was now high in the morning sky and the air was warm. The water was as clear as it gets and my favorite wave was cooking. Eventually the tide filled in and we had to climb up the rocks and realize, that was a special day for sure, but it was over.

A quick check at the beach break showed a lot of swell still, but everything was buried under the rising tide. But the truth was, it was still morning. And for New England, a fucking beautiful day. So we scrounged together about $3.50, seriously, and shared a small sandwich. Then the idea to drive over to the outdoor skate park and enjoy a session in the sun was brought up by my favorite sun worshiper, The Donald.

I was so tired I could hardly move and I think Pierre was asleep in the back of the car on the short drive there. But once at the park, we all came alive. To be outside in shorts, at the park, in the sun. Wow. What a joy. So we sessioned for a surprising long time. Once we were all spent and sweaty, nothing sounded better than a surf.

The Donald at the skate park.

It was now early afternoon. The wind seemed suspiciously nice and the sun still blazed the sky. When we pulled up at Long Beach you could have easily mistaken the scene for somewhere much nicer. Clear water, overhead barrels, blue sky, no one out. Are you fucking serious? The left that runs into the shallows behind the cliff, which is normally soft and short, was beginning in the middle of the beach and shotgunning into the normal area where the peak was, continuing on in its mach 5 journey into the shallows where it was backing off gently. It was that perfect beach break wave that was so fast that no matter what you did, the ride was incredible. You could drop in and gun it, or you could pump a couple and go up and crack it, or Pierre's favorite, keep the high line and do filthy long floaters. Again a little rough for our regular footer friends, but they can eat my ass.

If I am not mistaken Chris showed back up and Kadri paddled out. After about an hour I was stuffed. My arms were jello. My face was beet red burned. My shoulder felt like someone had been charlie horse-ing me for a week. But after each ride I would walk back around to the middle and wait for a lull before wadding out as far as I could, and paddling out for another. We got home after dark. I struggled my gear up the four flights of stairs and dumped it all unceremoniously in our tiny shower. My hooker girlfriend was all over me since it was my day off we were gonna do something together. I never called and had been gone for, well, 24 hours. She bitched at me and I couldn't even hear it. I kept trying to explain to her that it didn't matter. The waves were epic. She was so put off. I finally gave up, ate one of Donald's fried Bologna sandwiches and went to bed. I think she was still yelling at me for a while after I fell asleep, but who cares?