Anna and I managed to make it out between sets that morning. Once outside, we sat wide where we’d be safe enough from the looming destructo sets, but still able to claw our way into the waves that peaked too far right for the guys sitting deeper on the reef. I stroked into one right away to shake my rattled nerves, and slid down the big green mountain in awe and delight. The colossal sets only showed up every half hour or so–just long enough to think that maybe they were gone. But no, my anxious, horizon-pinned stare would glimpse something dark and frightening as the crest of another lump lifted us. With a siege of adrenaline to rival any my scariest of moments at sea, we’d scrape with all our strength toward the mutant mounts; three and sometimes four paddles up the rising face–if you were lucky enough to make it over.
After a few hours, we’d both had some incredible rides, one shared!, taken a few nasty beatings, and we made our way to the beach grinning ear to ear after conquering our fear. We’d both survived, neither board was broken, and we’d certainly earned a few hours of beach time on this unusually warm and windless winter day. We snacked and recapped the morning’s events, and despite all the paddling, it seemed the lingering adrenaline wouldn’t allow for much relaxing.
Why we couldn’t just be happy with our morning session…I can’t explain, but I understand to be the plight of every deranged and gluttonous surfer like Anna and me. So around 3:30pm, when it seemed time to either go back out or go home. Well. I just looked down one moment, and realized that I was stepping back into my sandy, wet wetsuit?