Diary

A drizzle fell at The Hook as short-period swells doubled up chaotically, transforming the lineup into an aquatic pinball machine. Only proper wave hounds and take-what-you-can-get parents were mad enough to paddle out.

Two hours into a session that was only supposed to last an hour, I thought about the Pacman game I had played the night before. The session had that same addictive simplicity – dodge the bad stuff, hunt the good stuff, react purely on instinct.

Each ride danced to its own unpredictable beat. Sometimes a rogue, wide-swinging set. Sometimes a funky inside double-up. No real strategy, just pure reaction, like when your fingers know the joystick moves before your brain does.

My best wave came with a surprise – a helmet-wearing grom who dropped in without hesitation or apology, charging through sections like the ocean owed him something. On a day with perfect waves, I would have felt robbed. Today? I just laughed it off. He hadn't stolen my wave of the year – just one decent ride in a sea of weird ones.

That's the beauty of these wonky days. There's no FOMO or heartbreak about getting burned on the epic sets. There's just the simple joy of messing around on a foam stick.

February was a certified banger, at least as far as NorCal surf goes. I logged 36 hours in Mama ocean and 150+ waves, including a series of juicy racers that almost made me forget all the time spent getting ragdolled in sloppy surf.

The peak came at Pleasure Point. With well-overhead sets pumping and a thinner-than-usual lineup, I scratched into a handful of 30-45 second rides, connecting sections with smooth(ish) top-to-bottom turns.

Then it happened – that one wave where everything clicked. A clean drop into a wall that kept opening up. My body found that rhythm that can't be forced. Bottom turn, climb, drop, repeat. When I kicked out, I knew I'd banked something special.

I carried that high with me during a three-day trip to Denver, where I still found myself fiending for waves – sneaking 5x/day surf cam checks from my landlocked Airbnb. I returned to the coast frothing for more nugs, only to crash hard when the promising forecast turned out to be complete fantasy.

Now, here I am a few weeks later, with nothing but a string of bunk sessions in my rearview and wonky forecasts on the horizon. The memory of those February sessions has faded, leaving behind only a gnawing craving for something the ocean isn't offering right now.

It's during these inevitable lulls that I'm reminded that surfing, for me, often feels like a casino. Every paddle-out, another pull of the slot machine. Sometimes I hit the jackpot – that perfect peeling right, that day when everything clicks. But most sessions? Hours of effort for a few frustrating pop-ups on slammy closeouts.

The ocean, like the house, always has the last word – sometimes it's "here's that glassy wall you've dreamed of;" most times, it's just "not today, buddy."

Despite the recent doldrums, I'll keep feeding quarters into this salty slot machine. I am, after all, an addict.

But maybe it's the chase, not those rare moments of feeling like I've hit the jackpot, that really keeps me coming back.

An antelope is running circles in my brain. I've tried everything to catch it - running harder, setting traps, you name it. The bugger's got endless energy and he's no fool.

I'm finally waking up to the idiocy of my approach. Karen Blixen, dead nearly 63 years, helped me see the light.

In her book, Out of Africa, she says:

Out in the wilds I had learned to beware of abrupt movements. The creatures with which you are dealing there are shy and watchful, they have a talent for evading you when you least expect it.

Those lines caught my attention. The antelope has pulled many getaways, the sneakiest of which happen when I feel I'm getting close.

Blixen continues:

The civilized people have lost the aptitude of stillness, and must take lessons in silence from the wild before they are accepted by it. The art of moving gently, without suddenness, is the first to be studied by the hunter, and more so by the hunter with the camera. Hunters cannot have their own way, they must fall in with the wind, and the colours and smells of the landscape, and they must make the tempo of the ensemble their own. Sometimes it repeats a movement over and over again, and they must follow up with it. When you have caught the rhythm of Africa, you find that it is the same in all her music.

Yes.

The stillness of becoming one with what surrounds me. My frenzied attempts to catch the antelope have not taken me there.

And perhaps that's why my surfing has been so awkward lately. Stress paddling at the first hint of a set, forcing turns on mushy shoulders, counting the waves I should have caught. Each session a restless hunt instead of a dance with the ocean.

Tomorrow is another day, and I'm now wondering if that antelope is running from me at all. Maybe it's trying to show me the way.

After 2 months of pumping NorCal surf, the swell is taking a breath, temporarily transforming into a shell of its fierce, wintery self.

I planned to take today off. With 1-2 foot waves on tap and a freshly cranked neck, it seemed like a good day to rest.

My sage plans were short-lived. By 10am, I was restless. The sun was shining, and I saw a couple of fun rides on the surf cams. Riding tiny nugs suddenly seemed much better than whatever else I could be doing.

I paddled out hoping the dropping tide would give the waves some punch. But like the Bills fans who just yesterday suffered yet another season-ending loss to the pesky Chiefs, these waves appeared to have nothing left to give.

My eyes darted around looking for something my shortboard could ride. I spotted three dolphins 50 yards out, and as they passed, a wedge formed and offered a frontside corner. I looked to my left and verified that I was the hooded seal in the best position.

I took off and got two slow top turns off. I thought the ride was over, but the wave merged with another one and I found myself on a slick face with a jolt of speed that allowed me to hit the closing section with a turn above my pay grade.

That one turn, it turns out, was exactly what I needed.

An angry 8ft lip came for my head today. I looked behind me, bailed my board, and dove underwater. As my body absorbed the explosion, I was transported back to Sayulita in the winter of 2020.

Before unpacking my bags, I grabbed my Airbnb host's 8'0 Odysea Log and paddled out without looking at the break. I took the first set wave left (the wave is a right) and ended up on the inside.

I surfaced to see a much bigger wave about to land on me. I panicked and bailed the board, losing most of my air as I fought the turbulence and tried to surface. I came up gasping in a sea of foam and discovered that only half of my board was with me.

I had been surfing for a year and never considered that my board could snap in half, let alone what I would do if that happened.

I was left feeling naked and afraid as I gulped water instead of air before getting pummeled by the next wave. I was now seriously thinking I would drown and started yelling ayuda, ayuda, ayuda.

Two locals looked at me in disgust and said nothing as if I deserved to die for being such a kook. Ayuda ayuda, I continued.

Finally, some kind soul acknowledged my troubles and signaled for me to paddle away from the rocks I was quickly moving toward. That gave me the knowledge I needed to get myself out of the impact zone and safely to shore.

As I walked toward the other half of my board, trembling from the situation caused by my stupidity, I looked around at the hundreds of people on the beach. They were just 100 meters from where I was just in a battle to live, and no one seemed to care or notice.

And surfing is almost always like that when things get hairy.

Fellow surfers may not be able or willing to help you. They may be in a battle of their own. And the beach loafers, well, they barely know you exist, let alone what it's like hanging with Mama Ocean.

In surfing, unlike a tennis match with your buddy, you can't hit the pause button and grab a drink of water when you need to regroup. You're in it when you paddle out, and you have to assume that it's on you (and only you) to navigate whatever is waiting for you.