Ghost Wave - Chris Dixon [98]
“What the hell are you talking about?” Thompson asked. His new boss at a day trading stock office was standing over his shoulder.
Walla said, “Bring your big board. We’ll paddle in.”
Thompson turned and apologized to his boss. Even if it cost him his job, he had to take a vacation day.
Walla had captained plenty of tuna fishing excursions along the inner waters of the California Bight, and he was essentially, frightfully unflappable. He was also familiar with the open-water conditions around the Cortes Bank, a place he only half-jokingly referred to as “The Flemish Cap.”
“It’s just a different ocean once you get outside of Point Conception,” says Walla. Waves of albacore appear between San Clemente Island and Cortes in June and July, “but that’s when you don’t want to go out there. The wind’s howling, it’s freezing. It’s a lot more like being in Northern California. It’s the real ocean. You see whales everywhere and these huge baitballs of anchovies. Albacore and finback whales—they come a foot from the boat, just tearing through them.”
Walla set about ensuring the Pacific Quest was outfitted. Clisby told him they’d be hauling a trio of thousand-pound WaveRunners, and they would have to use the boat’s sketchy hoist to lift them aboard. That, Walla thought, would be interesting.
Meanwhile, those who would not be going were also getting the news. At the Surfer offices, rumor of the mission reached Sam George late on January 18 via lensman Jason Murray. “Jason said, ‘Look, I can rent a plane and fly out there and shoot it,” George recalls. “He got all excited. Then Larry, my beloved Flame, got word of it and called me up.”
“I spent ten years on this Sam,” Flame ranted. “That’s my wave. I can’t believe you wanna poach this mission.”
“That’s the word he used,” laughs George. “Poach.”
George let Flame spew, then finally interjected, “Larry, can I speak for a second? If you’re asking me, as a magazine editor, not to cover this story, I’m going to say ‘fuck you.’ But if you’re asking me, as a friend of twenty years who has shared many adventures with you, then I will do so.’”
The line was silent for a moment. “Sam, I’m asking you as a friend,” Flame said.
George replied, “Then Larry, we won’t go to Cortes.”
George kept his word and didn’t go. Neither did George Hulse, who despite being on the original 1990 Cortes trip had moved away from pro surfing and helped found the now popular Shoreline Church of San Clemente. Yet, at the very last minute, the one person Flame didn’t forget was Bill Sharp, the man who, as the author of “Project Neptune,” had dreamed up this mission in the first place. No one had wanted Sharp’s Surf News to break the story, and Bill held no official ranks at Surfing or Swell. If he’d asked, Bill could have probably journeyed aboard the Pacific Quest, but the boat was relatively small, and it would be mighty crowded on board. He didn’t have the dosh for his own boat, photographer Rob Brown had already motored off, and Mike Castillo had flown off to Baja to chase swells. Flame was going to go in a tiny Baja bush plane, which would be flown by another Surfer named Vince Natali. Bill could have the spare seat.
The surfers Flame and Evan Slater invited were Mike Parsons, Brad Gerlach, Skindog, and Peter Mel. Per the usual routine, these men quickly let their girlfriends, wives, and in some cases children know that as of, let’s see, tomorrow they were dropping everything to go surf. Whether their surfing life was considered a selfish choice or an addictive compulsion, it was never easy for their loved ones to live with.
Mel and Slater were both husbands and fathers of babies in their first year of life. Mels’ wife, Tara, wasn’t overly concerned. Mel had always survived these missions, and it was easier for Tara if Mel simply didn’t reveal too much.
Skindog’s wife, Annoushka, on the other hand, was freaking out. It didn’t help that her brash husband was typically nonchalant.
“You’re just pissed that I’m going on