Ghost Wave - Chris Dixon [123]
A solid, long-period swell at 10 to 14 feet rolled beneath an oily smooth ocean. Cell phones lit like Christmas trees. Everyone wanted to know Mike and Brad’s plans for December 17. Lies were told—even to old friends. “Everyone was calling and leaving messages,” Mike said. “‘Where you going? What are you doing? You ass. Did you already leave? C’mon call me back.’ Rody [Peter Mel’s new towsurfing partner Adam Repogle] must have called me twenty times at least, and it just killed me to see his name popping up on my phone. Then it was Bill Sharp, then Chris Malloy. The guilt was just eating me away.”
That day, when Harrington rounded San Clemente Island, the butterflies in Greg’s and Rusty’s stomachs morphed into dragonflies. “It was a real, deep glassy, long-interval swell,” said Greg. “Stretching from one side of the Pacific to the other.”
Fifteen miles out, he and Rusty spotted the Cortes Bank’s first waves, which reminded them of moving, snow-capped mountains.
The two teams were all alone. Not a breath of wind. The Longs were dazzled. Some of the waves tumbled and thundered in from far off the top of the point. Others loaded up on the slab of reef Parsons identified as Larry’s Bowl and “went square,” a Surfer term for a wave that throws out a steep, slabbing barrel. Rusty was a little sickened. They looked like sheer cliffs. The only way out of a wave like that would be through the tornado. In their nascent towsurfing careers, they hadn’t ventured into anything remotely this big, deadly, and perfect.
The brothers figured they’d just watch the pros for a little while. Parsons and Gerlach wanted to explore the top peak. It was so consistent, so glassy—even smoother than 2001. Quiet. Deafening. Surreal. Gorgeous. No airplanes. No film crews. No walkie-talkies. No egos. They glided across edenic watery plains. Few surfers ever stumbled upon conditions like this, and none of these riders might ever find them again. A pair of waves stood majestic over the outer reef, their blue faces unscarred by ski or surfboard tracks. They barreled all the way through to the inside, a distance of better than a half mile. A divine reward for lying. “It was awesome,” says Gerlach. “Heaven on Earth.”
“There’s seriously no way I can put into words what it’s like to be able to drop into a perfectly glassy 40-foot wave seemingly without a worry in the world—it’s an incredible feeling,” added Parsons. “It’s like the kind of thing we could only dream about as kids. The only time it sinks in that you’re human is when you kick out and you’re sitting out there floating in the whole scene. There are these giant waves lurking nearby and there’s absolutely no sign of land anywhere. You start to feel like you’ve just been dropped off on Mars without your oxygen tanks.”
The Longs started out by methodically surveying the sea bottom and gingerly motoring around the edge of MacRae’s Rock, trying to get a sense for where and how the waves were breaking. When they did decide to tow, they took equally cautious strapped steps, pinning down the easier prey like a pair of young jungle cats on their first real hunt. They rode the last waves in the sets so they wouldn’t be caught inside. Sliding down the faces at forty-five miles an hour was like skateboarding on a cushion of air. They made no mistakes. “They were on fire,” said Parsons. “It was their coming out party.”
A perfect, 6-foot wave at Lower Trestles might carry you a hundred yards and last fifteen seconds. A monster at Maverick’s might end after a quarter mile, a twenty-second ride. Yet several of Parson and Gerlach’s rides lasted the better part of a minute. On one wave, Gerlach counted six fifty-yard-wide silky bottom turns. At 50 feet tall, these were perhaps the most perfect giant point break waves any human had ever surfed. Steve Long, Jeff Kramer, and Bob Harrington watched the whole scene in awe, unaware their boat was sinking.
The sun lowered to the horizon. The boys were spent, but the photo shoots, the weather,