It was surprisingly difficult to paddle out through the surf. I took 7 waves on the chin before I got back outside the break. Sam and Keith could turtle their boards and use momentum to pop up, still paddling. They made it in 3 or 4. Assholes. I labored with odd never-used muscles in my shoulders burning. There aren't very many gym quality exercises that mimic laying on your back and paddling.
Once back outside, I slid off my board, and used a swim kick to keep in place for the next couple sets. Then I started missing waves. Lots of waves. Overcautious, I would stay out of position until I was sure not to get swallowed too deep in the maw of another NoahKiller. When I was in the right place, I would drop back. Eventually though, I found my balls, and started going for it again.
I caught a few. At first I was just body-boarding them in, getting a feel for accelerating, turning, and ditching. Then I did a couple pushups, extending my arms and lifting my shoulders and chest off the board. I even got one one knee for a little bit. I wiped out a few more times too, and after one short lived ride where I managed to plant both feet for a brief instant, I even got a little cocky. I paddled downcurrent to brag to my buddies about how I was a natural. I was outside the break paddling parallel to shore and staring straight ahead, watching the distance shorten between me and Keith.
The first time I realized I should have been looking to my right was after some emphatic pointing and a 2-word shout I couldn't make out. I turned my head and saw what Sam had been warning me of: outside wave.
The wave wasn't a killer. It had a nice shape, and was set up for a beautiful peel. But it was going to fuck me up if I didn't move quickly. The wave was stacking up and getting vertical real quick. I paddled hard to my left and into it, trying to get around the lip. I was double hauling now, watching the face jack up in front of me. It was going to crest, and I wouldn't be able to get around it.
In hindsight, I should have gone right at full paddle, and duck dived or turtled. The first wave of an outside set is usually a little smaller than the next. The 2nd, 3rd and 4th seem to be biggest, before dropping off again. I would have been set up get outside and maybe even catch one.
I duck dove. In plenty of time. My angle was bad though. I had tried to get around the wave, and didn't take it straight on. I gave the wave too much surface area of my board and body, and it spun me, ripped the board from my hands, and I was sent tumbling. Instead of the singular Hoganesque body slam, this wave gave me the prizefighter's three-punch combo. The initial jab stunned me briefly and rolled me off the board. Sure, I was tumbling, but it was familiar and I had gotten into a protective ball. Then he hit again, a left hook backed by several tons of rolling water that sent me down to the mat. Thinking I had weathered the storm, I was caught by surprise with the final body shot, that felt like it came from below. Panic rose again: I forced it down, wait, wait, wait, swim to the surface, breathe.
The next two waves were 6 feet of whitewash by the time they met me. I paddled right into the teeth of wave number 2 and tried to duck dive. Physics of buoyancy just don't add up for that much whitewater, and it sent my on another ride. I tried turtling into wave number 3, and fared no better.
By now I had been pushed nearly 200 yards inshore. I was caught on the inside of the break. Waves were no longer crashing over me, but I still faced down a pile of whitewash. I paddled hard, and turtled into wave number 4.
My introduction and farewell to Big Momma Roca lasted all of 1.5 seconds. It was clear that we just weren't right for each other. As I paddled into #4, I rolled off to the left of my board. Her first embrace was warm, and even a little tingly. The tingle turned to burning, and I knew that this was no jellyfish. Then, as the wave caught my board and dragged my leg over her the other direction, that bitch Momma Roca really dug in.
In the lull before the next set, I paddled downcurrent and found an exit among the boulders. Sam and Keith soon followed.
I was never worried about sutures, since the cuts really weren't that deep. Salt water and UV is a great infection fighter, and OTC antibiotics were easy to get. I was however amazed at the shear number of cuts and that they all ran in the same direction.
This was the only picture I thought to take. Note that I am still bleeding 5 hours after the event.
We walked over to the beer shack under a tin roof. I took a lot of stares, but felt really tough. I had paid some dues, and traded skin with Big Momma Roca (I would later pull some barnacle fragments out of one of the deeper cuts).
My favorite comment came later that night, from a landscaper at our hotel, "Senor, por que lucho usted el leon?" (Mister, why did you fight that lion?"
Coming up next: "Ustedes come como El Salvadoreno!" (You eat like El Salvadorans!)
Alternate title:
But how much ceviche can you really eat?
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