The heart is a muscle. Muscles gain strength with use. Now it’s stronger than ever. I’m not afraid to be alone. I’ve spent 90% of my life that way and have everything made without much help. Of course it would be nice to have a partner in crime, but I sure as hell will never settle out of loneliness…and enough awkward inflicting, feel sorry for myself garbage. When putting such a petty affair in perspective, it's insulting to 99.9% of the world that actually has real problems to deal with. Besides, I’m really not alone. I have a great family and countless good friends. So forget mish mush and f*#k pity. Let’s talk about being “caught inside”…since that’s the other book that fell victim to the deceiving candle. When saying caught inside, it’s no metaphor; it’s surf terminology. Large waves break outside and everything from that point in toward shore is known as the inside.
I got caught inside twice in El Salvador. My brother and I were fresh off the plane and did not hesitate to paddle out into the heaviest surf we had ever seen. The graffiti covered broken concrete seawall with a huge painted revolver next to the words “solo locales” intimidated us no more than the double overhead peaks. After flying down my first reeling right, I was steaming with naturally induced serotonin, dopamine, endorphins, whatever before pulling out and seeing the last wave of the set rising up at over twelve feet and staring me down like the Red Sea about to collapse after being parted. It’s impossible to relate second hand, but imagine laying belly down on the sidewalk and staring up at a traffic signal…and that traffic signal is a wall of water about to bury you in the ocean 100 yards from shore. So I began hyperventilating to catch the largest breath of air possible before ditching my board right under the lip. Bad idea…for the board. I got through the wave but it snapped my brand new stick in half. End of session. I paddled back in on some modern wreckage and was left picking up the pieces on shore. So, it was off to the local “Hospital de Tablas” to find a new rental board for the remainder of the trip. I was at least grateful to be at a surfboard repair shop rather than a “Hospital de Personas”. That was the first time.
The second time was a bit more intense. The next morning, we rode out early to another spot an hour into the wilderness with Roberto Gallardo, the unofficial “mayor" of El Tunco. The Pacific Ocean looks like a lake between long period ground swell sets. It’s absolutely incredible how glassy and calm it can appear for ten minutes until out of nowhere mountains of water rise on the horizon. If the timing is right, you can paddle out without even getting your head wet. If the timing is wrong, this can happen…I was a bit sore from the day before, relaxed, short on caffeine, soaking up the environment, and stoked to have another shortboard to catch up on my wave count. So we paddled out of a small sandy cove in calm conditions between sets. My brother and Roberto got ahead and made it outside in a minute. On the other hand, I found myself quickly caught in a rip current. No worries, except it was pulling me toward an endless towering line of cliff faces as far as the eye could see. Within seconds, I was being sucked near treacherous rocks. Still no big deal…I just needed to get outside. But then the set came. I was caught inside. Again. I tried paddling briefly against the rip to get back toward the sandy shoreline. Wasted effort. It was an ABC rule of swimming not to fight the rip current. Horrible decision. Lactic acid was filling my arms and confidence was shaken from the odds of yesterday. After duck diving the first couple ten footers, I got pushed further into the red zone and soon found myself ditching the board under each successively larger crashing wave. My leash stretched to the point where the board was within one foot of bashing against the emotionless unforgiving cliff. These were not rocks one could climb upon to escape such watery wrath. They were clean straight faces of stone. I soon realized only two choices: paddle out through the remaining ten waves or get slammed on the rocks, drown, and die. Easy decision. That epiphany of fate was the moment things changed on a level never known before. My life did not flash before my eyes but something indeed did. I felt the grip of death. It stood three hundred feet tall, ten feet away, and one wave short of unlucky. For the first time ever I cried help…all in vain. The only other two people around were out of sight. It was purely between the ocean and I. Then instantly a surge rushed through my body, an animal was born inside me, and I felt like Popeye with a can of nuclear spinach. So wave after wave I ditched my board, dove with increasing ferocity under each whitewater avalanche, prayed for the leash to remain unbroken, and trusted my relationship with God. I was not going to die. I made it outside humbled, grateful, and in some altered state of sober consciousness that can’t be explained. Then after an hour of hugging my fiberglass friend and bobbing over massive Pacific wavelengths, I was able to regain a new sense of reality and equilibrium. I had to…there was only one way back to land. So I waited for the right swell and caught one of the largest, longest, and wildest rides of my life. After safely making it back to a clearing in the pebble littered shoreline, I managed to slice my heel open in knee deep water. A minor injury to remind myself the spinach had worn off. So again, why did I start a blog?
“The very longest swell in the ocean, I suspect, carries the deepest memory…” – A.R. Ammons (Swells)
Not sure what that means, but it sounds good. Did I mention just meeting a really sweet girl playing four-square at my friend’s brewery warehouse? In the words of Paul Simon, “the morning sun is shining like a red rubber ball”. If you’re lacking a full metaphor, google all the lyrics.
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