HANGING TEN

I’m an old school surfer, a longboarder who lives to ride the nose, preferably with five toes leading the way. Occasionally I’m able to do just that, and it’s always a thrill. But hanging ten, which has been my dream for 50 years, has always been beyond my reach.

Personal photo of sign on private home, Venice CA canals.

Not long ago on a Thursday morning at sunrise, after over a week of flat seas, I woke to beautiful swells surging into Parlors. It looked like the start of a perfect day of surfing, so I quickly took care of my online duties. Even so, I didn’t get out until 7am, and sadly I was too late. I paddled along the coast from Mushroom Rock at Parlors north to High Rock, then to Soup Bowl where there were only two other surfers out–an Australian here for the World Cricket Cup and our friend Sarah who lives at Crystal Waters. Oh yes, and Turtle!

We were sitting on our boards in a small triangle about ten feet apart at each point. The other two were chatting and facing out to sea.  Turtle popped up right in the middle of us, although they didn’t see her. I laughed out loud at her antics as she strutted her head the way she does like an ancient Egyptian dancer. Of course I see her nearly every day at Parlors–she’s my most consistent surfing buddy–but I’d never seen her at Soup Bowl, which tells you how calm it was there. She took the next wave, riding the back side of the swell away from shore to deep water.

I, too, caught a couple of rides at Soup Bowl, but none of them were any good. I become very angry at myself for blowing the first rule of surfing: When you see waves, GO.  I saw waves and waited. Wrong!

I paddled aggressively back to Mushroom Rock, fighting the current the whole way, the salty spray stinging my already burning eyes. Back at Mushroom Rock I took several rides, but I wasn’t having any fun. On the contrary, I was uptight, aggressive, and very frustrated. “You’ve got to stop this,” I told myself, and I did. I calmed down and waited. I focused on what I wanted–the joy of playing in the sea.

I spotted Turtle, and as often happens when I do, the next wave came right to me as if she’d sent it, head-high and clean, barreling across the bay from Mushroom Rock all the way to St. Aidan’s Church. I ride with skill and abandon, free and fully committed. At the end I’m skimming along a waist-high wall when I start walking forward to the nose. I put one foot at the front, then the other right next it. I look down and see my two feet perfectly poised on the nose. Then the wave gives way, I backpedal and dive off the board into a warm and glorious sea.

Paddling back out I shout aloud a thousand hosannas for the gift of that sweet ride. I’m smiling and praising and laughing. I feel cleansed, washed free, and connected to god, nature, the sea, you, me, every thing. But it wasn’t until several hours later that I realized very quietly that I had achieved my young dream–I’d hung ten! What was odd to me was that I hadn’t actually noticed until that moment, and then instead of the exaltation I expected to feel, I had to keep replaying “my ten” to convince myself that I’d actually done it at last. When finally my rational mind accepted it, I felt satisfied and complete in a brand new way.