Ghost Wave - Chris Dixon [155]
I began diving into what tidbits I could find on the Bank’s history, hoping I might pitch a feature to Men’s Journal or Outside. But the more I actually looked, the less anyone really seemed to know. Every story, even those from the most in-the-know surfers and divers, was half-filled with rumor and conjecture. The facts might easily have turned out less interesting than the rumors, but in almost every case, the actual history of the Bank was far more compelling than the whispers. If Mike Parsons and Greg Long were obsessed with riding the Bank, I became no less obsessed with telling its story.
I would spend at least a thousand man-hours in dusty libraries, on the Web, and interviewing people in person and over the phone before I finally had my first chance to see this great and wondrous ghost wave for myself. The first inkling came with a warning from Jason Murray and Greg Long, a few days before Christmas 2009.
The freshly minted winner of the Quiksilver in Memory of Eddie Aikau, Greg was first bound for Jaws, while Jason was feverishly tracking wind models and working to secure a Cortes ferry. If the winds cooperated, this Christmas Day Jaws swell would breach cleanly atop the Cortes Bank on December 27. Yet by Christmas Eve, the winds off Kinkipar seemed poised to rip the swells to shreds and the stand-down order was given.
I’d like to say I was disheartened, but in a palpable way, I was relieved. The stories of George Beronius, James Houtz, and Ilima Kalama, recently told, were resonating heavily, and actually visiting and maybe freediving the Bank, frankly, scared the hell out of me. But when the call came on the day after Christmas, there was no time to reflect. I was in Atlanta of all places, visiting family and bombing down a hill on a skateboard with my four-year-old daughter when my cell phone vibrated. “Dixie, where the hell have you been?” said Jason Murray. “It’s on. We’re leaving Newport Harbor at midnight.”
Seven hours later, I’m at LAX, shaking hands with Greg Long, Twiggy, Mark Healey, and Flippy Hoffman’s nephew Nathan Fletcher. Twiggy and Greg have thousand-yard stares. Jaws’s tow-in Christmas gift was a near-death experience for both. Twiggy’s hands and feet are particularly shredded, from a trip to the seafloor. “And I did a full backwards upside-down suplex in the barrel,” says Greg, who only two weeks earlier won the Eddie Aikau at Waimea Bay. “Nobody’s doing those anymore.”
Tomorrow, though, Greg doesn’t plan to tow. It’s something he had discussed with me on the down-low a couple of months before. Ever since Evan Slater and John Walla stared down the gauntlet in 2001, Greg’s wanted to see if it’s possible to paddle into big waves on the Bank. In October 2009, he put the top secret invite out to a crew of his closest paddle surfing friends. On hearing this, I’d brought up the fact that Evan Slater faced the most frightful moment of his life paddling the Bank, and that essentially, everyone who’s died surfing, has died paddling. Yet Greg, of course, had been undaunted. The obvious question then was, okay, at what point will you decide it’s just too big to paddle? He’d raised an eyebrow and said, “Well, I guess that’s what I’d like to find out.”
Just before midnight on December 27, we meet Rusty Long, Kelly Slater, Peter Mel, and the rest of a crew of the best big wave surfers on Earth aboard a 105-foot Westport yacht, a fantastic luxury vessel somehow rustled up by Murray. The only two missing and completely incommunicado surfers are Mike Parsons and Brad Gerlach. Snips has disappeared to Baja to chase a swell. Brad and his girlfriend Alexsei have been lost in Indonesia for months. Greg settles down to a plate of steaming tamales. “I almost drowned yesterday,” he says. “Now I’m sitting on a yacht eating fresh tamales and heading to Cortes. It’s