Mundaca (excerpt from Superman Unveiled)
They took up their massive guns with utmost effort and wrapped long arms and webbed hands around the rail. The offshore gusts of wind produced a weathervane effect that kept them engaged in not allowing their boards to fly away into craggy rock and exposed reef, which would certainly ding and crack finely polished fiberglass. Such a crevasse allows destructive saltwater to seep through into the white foam that makes up the filler of all surfboards. When that occurs you may get through one or two surf sessions without problems, but eventually if it is not properly patched a cancer develops. And a cancer is just what it sounds like – eventually the affected area expands, turns brown, makes the board heavier (throwing if off kilter and slowing it down), and the final step is the complete rot, crumble and decay of large portions, or the whole of the surfboard. Just like that, a work of art and considerable investment goes to shit. So lesson number one in surfing (once you learn to swim like a Marine, negotiate currents, build the resistance of a seal, hold your breath like one, master your emotions – learning not to panic, and balance like an Olympian gymnast) is, don’t ding your board.
As they took their first steps into the water small puddles and mini surges of water began to swish and whirl about their feet. Barnacles and dark purple sea urchins with their spiky needles began to appear in concentrated clusters around and underneath watery boulders. When the water reached their waists they jumped on their boards and paddled over left to the highest point of the reef, hoping to circumvent the rip currents and thick walls of foamy whitewash that were ubiquitous. Thick, dark green, bubbly outgrowths of kelp sprouted out everywhere and entangled their arms, feet, skags (that is, surfboard fins) and leashes in their slimy, plasticky vines and leafs. The afterwash produced by waves that have already broken is called the soup. The soup is the first opponent that Charley and Russ had to grapple with if they were going to make it out to the point, the place from where the waves form and could be caught. Today the waves were averaging 30’ to 40 foot faces, with the occasional rogue set ripping through as tall as 55’ or 60 feet. Just to put this into perspective, each story in a building is ten feet. At thirty feet we’re talking about a three-story building, at sixty it’s a six story building. A six story building of pure surging fury. I’ll put it to you another way, when that iron curtain of wall comes crashing down at the speeds these waves travel, with the accumulated inertia of vast oceans, the explosive force of detonation is nothing short of terrifying and majestic. Simpler still, they’re deadly. Have you ever had to carry two gallons of milk in a single hand? Have you ever had a bucket of water poured over your head from on high? Now how many gallons of water do you suppose make up the fallen half of a sixty-foot wave? How heavy could that pressure be? And now back to the soup, the relentlessly pounding walls of whitewash were surging in at ten to fifteen feet in height with hardly any intervals or lulls in between to allow some respite from herculean paddling efforts.
Finally, thirty-five minutes later they were scot-free – sitting out at the very peak of the point. There was only one other guy out. He was unknown to both and donned a long black beard and an eye patch. Camaraderie is instantaneous among these gladiators of the ocean, certainly on days like this. On smaller, “fun” days the vibes are exactly the opposite. Surfers ditch, dodge and jab constantly, trying to out-maneuver and out-paddle each other in an attempt to get the best wave, snaking others out of the best rides mercilessly. It’s often cutthroat and ugly, resembling an NYC trading floor on the day of a large and over-hyped IPO. Old one-eye extended a cordial welcome to the new guys,
“They’re killers, today. But you two made it out, obviously you know what you’re doing. My name’s Brock Little.”
“I’m Charles, this is my buddy Russ Wattson. How long you been out here?”
“Not long, about an hour. It’s getting bigger though, swell’s built up quite a bit just in that short time. When I first came out this morning, average set was twenty five to thirty five feet, now they’re hitting closer to sixty. Hate to see it in two more hours. Could very damn well be highway suicide in a couple hours, at this rate.”
“Yeah, it’s a Nordic Squall, least that’s what the radio report said. It is expected to build,” offered Russ, “You staying out here for it?”
“Yup. Not my first time to the rodeo boys… is it yours?” Brock appeared to be in his mid-fifties. A mean old bastard, fearless as the devil himself. Who knows, maybe he is crazy and suicidal. Or most likely, he’s just that damned good.
“Nah –we’re cowboys,” replied Russell, “and if we die, at least it’ll make for a hell of a good funeral story. I’d rather they say I died surfing 70-foot walls at Mundaca than that my liver finally gave out from taking unnecessary prescription drugs, which is what most people’s epitaphs say.”
“Yeah, I’m with you on that, Russ. Good one.”
Time for chitchat was over. Immediately a 65-foot monster began to surge into a gargantuan mound of water, the largest set of the day so far. It just kept swelling, cresting, building and swelling… when you thought it would stop growing a higher mound would appear, and it started greedily sucking water from its surroundings to keep building its frame into a massive pyramid of water. Russell was in the best position to catch it, closest to the peak. Audibly swallowing a lump in his throat, he spun his board around and yelled out his goodbye, “Well, time’s come to pop my cherry boys… see you in a few…”
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