Ghost Wave - Chris Dixon [157]
A seemingly makeable wave then sweeps up Ramon Navarro, but it scoops him up far faster than he can paddle. He falls into the air and slides down the face on his back like he’s at a waterslide and is absolutely murdered. Again, I feel this strangely clearheaded and fearless fascination. I mutter to myself, “Wow, what must that have been like? I wonder if he’s gonna go over the ship. Jesus, how hard would I be panicking right now?” Every so often a sea lion surfaces and slings a yellowtail into the air among the surfers. Mark Healey, a man just off a trip to Guadalupe Island where he actually rode on the back of a great white, scares the shit out of everyone with jokes about the sea lion carcass floating out at the edge of the lineup. I had hoped to paddle out on a spare board and snorkel a bit in the zone well inside the broken waves. The poor sea lion has convinced me that’s not going to happen. I’m feeling foolishly brave, but not bravely foolish.
Perez prowls outside beyond the breakers. At every other big wave spot I’ve ever seen, there’s this constant background roar from breaking waves hitting the shore. Not here. The tiniest whisper of south wind is enough to blow a huge cascade of spray off the hulking backs of the swells. This rainstorm is the only thing you hear until the tremor when the wave folds over. It’s a profound silence punctuated by rain showers, hoots, and explosions. Then when the explosions have abated, and the set has passed, it’s again still and quiet as a tomb. Utterly surreal.
When Perez idles back over inside the lineup, and kills the engine, fear is mingled with sheer wonder. We can just see straight down through air-clear water into kelp that waves to and fro like a mermaid’s hair. Perez warns me to keep an eye out for strands that might choke the impellor. Just to our left, the water churns and swirls—thousands, maybe millions of shimmering menhaden swim in a tight tornadic vortex. A sea lion pops up with a loud snort, no doubt snacking on the fish, and startles the crap out of us. We drift in the current above the forest, and eventually catch a glimpse of white, almost like a dusting of snow. With shock, I realize we’re actually staring at the sandy bottom, or really, the top, maybe no more than twenty feet down. I can see Archibald MacRae’s rock.
The sand is intermingled with black stone and forearm-thick trunks of of kelp. Golden garibaldi the size of dictionaries weave all around. A big bat ray soars just off the stern like a spotted pterodactyl. The sunlight throws out the brilliant rays of a divine disco ball.
So complete is our distraction that we fail to notice when the water is drawn down off the reef. When we finally look up from the pit of Larry’s Bowl, the view is equal parts dream and nightmare. The wave is only two, maybe two and a half stories tall, but I’ve never stared down anything remotely this big from the actual firing line. It’s beautiful and expansive and I sort of feel like I’m standing before the kelp forest tank at the Monterey Bay aquarium, but there’s no glass. Like Kirkwood, I see fish, yellowtail and striped mackerel plainly visible. The world seems to move in slow motion—like it’s being shot at 120 frames per second. It would be easy to just stare straight at this seemingly impossible thing until it kills you. Indeed, when Nate first keys the starter, nothing happens. He hits it again and the engine sputters to life. “I hope we didn’t suck in any kelp,” he says as we’re drawn onto the halfpipe base of the wave’s face. We roar out and I look over my shoulder as the wave gnashes its teeth, cursing at the one that got away. I later wonder if this odd, slowed-down mingling of naked fear and slackjawed astonishment is what it’s like to stand before an onrushing tsunami, or maybe, on the deck of a sinking Jalisco.
We pull up to the yacht and time speeds up. The only time I’ve ever felt as high was eight months earlier as I waited an interminable few seconds to hear my newborn