Ghost Wave - Chris Dixon [142]
Parsons had a frantic series of conversations with Sean Collins on Friday afternoon. Normally, when winds hacked the waves along the shore to shreds, those same winds rendered Cortes Bank the wildest and most unsurfable spot of them all. But the models showed this strange fissure of calm appearing off San Clemente Island between the first and second storms. On Saturday morning, it seemed possible that the winds would rage from the south until the violent pinwheel arm of the second storm passed from west to east, pulling a northwesterly blast in its wake. Parsons needed to know: If this happened, and the windfields essentially canceled one another out, would a brief window crack open at Cortes Bank?
One part of Collins loved this, all the possibilities, nuances, and difficulties a forecast like this presented. But his dear friends were preparing an Everest summit in the midst of a hundred-year blizzard. Anyone—or everyone—aboard Rob Brown’s boat could die. Easily. He didn’t want to be responsible for that.
“There’s no doubt the swell’s big enough,” Collins told Parsons. “Ray Charles could call that one. But here’s the thing. You’re driving out into the biggest storm in a decade in a thirty-foot boat trying to tow a ski. You get out there, and say the wind starts to lay down, it’s still going to be lumpy and crappy. If you’re really lucky, it kind of cleans up. But if the front comes through early, you’re screwed. It’s going to be an absolute hell ride.”
Brad Gerlach didn’t follow the conversation too closely. All he knew was that a big storm was coming, and if something was going to happen, Parsons would call, and the surfing would surely take place along the immediate coast. When his phone rang on Friday at his home in LA, he was thus caught completely off guard. “I want you to be ready for Cortes,” Parsons said. “It might be the biggest ever.”
Gerlach had just started dating the girl he today considers the love of his life. Aleksei Archer watched as her new beau now nervously and methodically loaded seasickness patches, jackets, leashes, and his wetsuit gear into a duffel bag and grabbed his towsurfing boards. She knew Brad surfed big waves, but she was unaware of what, exactly, that meant. As Brad methodically checked his foot straps, her eyes lit up. “Foot straps!” she said. “What a good idea. Why doesn’t everybody use those?”
Parsons then called an experienced surf videographer and friend named Matt Wybenga at his home in San Clemente. “Get your stuff together, we’re going to Cortes tomorrow morning.”
Wybenga was a bit stunned. He had been listening to tree branches snap in his yard.
“Really?” he said. “Jesus. Well, how big is it gonna be?”
“Big,” Parsons said. “Bigger than anyone has ever seen.”
Greg Long prides himself on being as methodical as Mike Parsons. Still, how much could you really plan for a last-minute mission into the teeth of the worst storm, well, he’d ever witnessed. They had one boat, one driver/photographer, four surfers, and two Jet Skis, and that was it. No one knew any captain besides Rob Brown who could be roused at the last minute on some damn fool crusade to ferry a cadre of thrill-seeking lunatics out to Cortes Bank. Greg did know, however, that having Steve and Rusty on board would improve their odds dramatically. He drove to his dad’s house. “I want you guys to go with us,” he said.
“I’m not into it,” Rusty replied.
“You know what?” said Steve. “I’ve spent the last thirty-five years preventing accidents and shit like this before it happens. It’s too dangerous. You’re going without any kind of a safety net. You don’t have another boat or any kind of a dedicated water safety team. And you know that if it’s big, and you decide to get out of the boat, it’s going to be really difficult to do any rescue. I’m not going to sanction this trip.”
Greg nodded silently and Steve softened a bit. “Look,” he said. “You’re coming from the opposite