Along for this adventure was Brian Gorrell, my neighbor and friend, who was also surfing in his first Big Wave World Tour event. Gorrell, who is an un-sponsored big wave rider that fishes commercially to pay for his rhino chasers, has made a name for himself by towing into massive Ghost Tree in the early and mid-2000s. As for me, I became a big wave surfer in Monterey, naturally--I was always seen as the New York transplant who moved to California to go to school at Cal State Monterey Bay (fall of 2000).
I thought that surfing bigger waves was the way to gain respect, or at least that was a better approach than the one I used previously, which included aggressively paddling around locals that have surfed for decades before me. That was not cool, despite my display of the Quicksilver and Unsound surf shop stickers littered on my bright, yellow Sharp Eye surfboard. After getting hassled for not understanding the chain-of-command, I started to seek out the uncrowded spots, where I could channel my hyper-activity and avoid being hassled for being the kook, from New York: the more treacherous, the fewer the people. I felt like Rick Cane in the classic 80s surf movie North Shore, but Chandler would not be there to groom me into a soul surfer, I had to get my windows waxed first.
Hours before dawn, we strapped four 10-foot plus boards to the roof of my white Subaru Outback and barged out of Monterey, north towards Lincoln City, Oregon. We set the cruise control to 80 mph in the carpool lane as we drove into pitch blackness.
About four hours into our drive, just about an hour north of San Francisico, the sun was just starting to come up and I, (the driver) was just starting to fully wake up. We suddenly approached an accident that was heavier than any wave that would be ridden in the contest.
Pieces of broken black plastic debris were all over the road. Gorrell, yelled out, “Oh shit, there’s a reflector! There’s a person in the road!! There’s a wreck directly in front of us...get in the other lane!!!” I threaded the needle, as if I had to pull into the pocket of a giant and deathly wave that had only the tube-room of a waist high peeler. Time seemed to slow down, like an airdrop down the face of a pitching Mavericks lip. We saw a rubber bumper directly in our path. There was no way around it—I had to run over it. Luckily we rolled over it like a giant chop on a windy day at Jaws and stuck the ride. We drove to safety unscathed like we just won the Billabong “Ride of the Year” Award. It was sick.
The ride north on Hwy 5 evoked images of Paul Bunyan. The terrain was larger than life: loggers in giant trucks hauled corpses of giant trees, snow blanketed mountain tops, temperatures hovered in the mid-20s, and ice made road conditions hazardous. Billboards advertisements promoted strange sayings like: “Lions, and tigers and Umpqua,” and, “Pet a Giraffe Lately?” Adult sex shops littered the highway. Gorrell refers to them as the “Crank and Wank”. The thought of being a truck driver on these roads could legitimate some weird actions.
After 14 hours of Red Bull, trail mix, and loud punk music, we arrived in Lincoln City feeling like crack heads that had just found their dealer. The night before the contest we were to meet at Pirate’s Coffee, the place to quaff a good roast. When we arrived, all of the heaviest big wave surfers in the world were there. Again, I felt like Rick Cane when he goes to the pre-Pipeline meeting to learn the contest rules, but is distracted by all of his heroes that he would soon be competing against.
I was like: Woah, there’s Greg and Rusty Long. F$#@, Greg seems to have won every big wave contest twice. There’s Peter Mel. S&%!, he’s a legend. And the reigning Big Wave World Tour Champion and he just won the Maverick’s contest two weeks ago…heavy.
At this random coffee house that I’ve never been too, a surreal scene materialized, and I was talking story with some of the best big wave riders in the world. Some of which, I’ve looked up to my entire life. Then, I started to realize that Gary Linden, the head of the Big Wave World Tour, would be announcing the heat sheet soon and going over rules.
I started to think about strategies: I should ride my out-of-the-box longboard gun with the quad fin set-up, since the peak of the swell has not hit yet. Maybe I should choose my big board and sit out wide and outside? Or, should I sit out the back? Maybe I should be steep and deep? After running through all of the potential outcomes in my head, I realized that this situation was a lot like fishing. For starters, you have to put your time in. Secondly, you need to have the right equipment. Lastly, a lot of luck is involved. To put me at ease, big wave charger and fellow New Yorker Will Skudin said, “Just go out there and have fun…these things are pre-determined by god.”
After a few glasses of cheap Cotes du Rhone to calm my nerves, morning approached quickly. It was contest day. The air was crisp, and all of the competitors were tinkering with their state-of-the-art equipment at the contest site. Staring out into the ocean, you start to see something on the horizon that barely resembles a wave. Thinking to yourself, you peer on, and think: that’s a long paddle. It would suck to have to swim in if your leash breaks, especially with the thought of what giant fish lurk beneath.
Making it through the triple-overhead beach break on the jet ski, I jumped into the water, with the fast moving current and began to tie my backup board to an orange colored salmon buoy—this way I would have a back up, in case one should snap. So, I bobbed in the water dangling like a piece of bait. Then, I thought about the great white sharks that thrive in those chilly 47-degree waters. John Forse, the contest founder, is called “No Toes John” for a reason. A Great White attacked him years ago and countless others have been in attacked in Oregon in recent times.
Many of the competitors were looking toward land and noticing the subtle differences in the way the kelp would bob before an approaching set would arrive. Most competitors had their own lifeguard and board caddie on a jet ski giving hand signals to signify approaching sets. Not me, I was out of my league. It became apparent that I’d never surfed there before, when I noticed I was just about the only one who wasn’t using gloves and an impact vest to pop to the surface on a near-death wipeout. You can’t swim when you’re unconscious, so flotation is the norm at these events. The waves were shifty, the water was deep, so it made sense, but Gorrell and I weren’t wearing one.
With Peter Mel, Cliff Skudin, Gabriel Villaran, Felipe Cesarano, and Rob Brown all ready to stroke like there’s no one home, tension built. The sea’s surface was smooth like an oil slick and the swell offered solid, perfect 25-30ft face set waves. The rides were long when they came, but it was inconsistent, and the 45-minute heat was extended to run for an hour and a half. It was weak. I thought to myself: this isn’t a big-wave contest, this is a joke. Why are they running it? I should be riding my 5'6", not my 10’6”.
But I can’t complain. I did get opportunities. I could’ve easily tagged a set wave, but I blew it because I saw that someone was going, but he missed it. I did too. Later on, I did manage to get a sick one, and that made the 14-hour drive worth it. I paddled from the outside, got into it late and went right. Peter Mel, who was on the inside, spun around and went left, but I was oblivious, as I tried to focus on my situation.
I made the drop, started to come around the section and then got mowed over and held under by the avalanche of white water. I was thinking: no big deal, I’ve been held under before, this will be a mellow Waikiki wipeout. But it wasn’t. I was dragged underwater for such a long distance that I started to think that the water patrol would eventually be picking up my lifeless body. I finally surfaced, and ironically, I was on the inside, in aerated white water with no one around. Even worse, my heat was just about over. F$#*!!! Although not enough to advance, I was grateful to not get totally denied and my ego didn’t hurt as bad as it could have. Gorrell, got some sick ones (see picture of him in blue), but also failed to advance.
However, we watched the heats and took mental notes on what was working for the worlds best. Shortly after, we were sipping beers and talking story with legends. I had to pinch myself…it was cool. After several pints to ease my pain, it was off to sleep by 11:30 p.m. At 2:00 a.m, it was back to the road with Red Bull, Trail Mix and loud punk music to get us back in Monterey by 3:30 p.m.
From there, it was straight to the shower to put my suit and tie on, to be at work as a sommelier in Carmel Valley in a half hour. Somebody has to pay for my surf expenses, so I can’t quit my job… at least until I can bag some bombs in a heat. Next time. For now, it’s time to train and strategize how to push myself like they are. Fuck it, I’ll never be as organized or as “on it” with my gear as they are, nor will I have enough time like, like they do. But f#$%, none of us do it for the money.
1. Jamie Sterling, Hawaii
2. Greg Long, San Clemente
3. Gabriel Villaran, Peru
4. Aaron Ungerleider, Hawaii
5. Joao De Macedo, Portugal
6. Ben Wilkinson, Australia
Special thanks to my wife Lindsay, Liquid Militia, John Forse and the Big Wave World Tour for making it happen.
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