Ghost Wave - Chris Dixon [99]
“No,” Annoushka replied. “That’s not it. I’m pissed because you’re going on a surf trip to try to surf 100-foot waves—with a pretty good chance of dying. Nobody’s ever done this. It’s uncharted territory.”
“I’ll get life insurance,” Skindog replied.
“That is not what I want to hear,” she shouted.
On the morning of January 20, the day they were going to leave, Mike Parsons was still frantically trying to get gear in order. Parsons was the planner, and a towsurfing mission a hundred miles out was not like a jog down the path at Trestles.
Parsons latched his cell phone to his ear and began a panicked rundown with Brad Gerlach. They would need spare rope, tie-downs, bungie cords, carabiners to lash the rescue sled to the WaveRunner, surfboard leashes, five cans of gas, two-cycle oil, spark plugs, jumper cables, wetsuits of varying thicknesses, neoprene booties, gloves, hoods, life jackets, walkie-talkies, a spare ski tow rope, anchor, extra foot bindings and screws, lead weights, an assortment of fins, several bars of surfboard wax, and, oh yeah, a 10-foot paddle surfboard—just in case.
“I couldn’t believe how frazzled he was,” Gerlach told Evan Slater. “When we were growing up doing contests, it used to piss me off how prepared he was. He had backups for his backups. Now when I’m thinking I can actually benefit from that, he’s like, ‘Hey, do you have a leash I can borrow?’”
Mel and Skindog reached San Diego Harbor at 11 A.M. They were anxious to get their WaveRunner in the water. But the long, bouncing drive had dislodged the ski’s exhaust manifold. When Skindog pulled away and motored toward Pacific Quest, the ski began to sink. Skindog screamed for Mel. By the time Mel made it back to the ramp, his buddy was stripped down to his boxers and struggling to keep the drowning machine’s head above water. Then a kid rolled to the ramp on a skateboard.
“Hi,” the kid said. “I’m Johnny. I’m going to take you guys out to the Cortes Bank.”
Mel raised an eyebrow. “So you’re the—deckhand?”
“No, I’m the captain.”
Skindog laughs. “It scared the hell out of me.’”
Walla was scared, too, but for a different reason. Watching them wrestling their sunken ski out of the water, he thought, Oh my God, these guys are gonna die out there.
Skinny and Mel rescued the ski and were soon met by Slater, Gerlach, Parsons, photographer Aaron Chang, his ski driver Randy Laine, Chang’s backup photographer Brendan Hayes, and videographer Fran Battaglia. Bro handshakes were exchanged all around. Flame remained in the Surfing offices, with a phone plastered to his ear frantically directing last-minute details, while also keeping an eye on the light box—doing his mundane day-to-day duty of picking photos for the next issue.
Dana Brown arrived with his film crew; they would venture out aboard Pizzazz, a sportfishing boat he had hastily managed to line up. The most impressive item in Brown’s arsenal was an enormous, gyroscopically balanced camera rig that would allow for a steady shot even in a heavy swell. Dana had to assemble his crew with such haste that he didn’t even know everyone. He joked about the mission into the unknown with his newly minted assistant cameraman. “Then the captain started talking about how he’s heard about Cortes and how scary and gnarly it is,” Brown says. “But you know, he’s a real good captain and not to worry.”
The captain of Brown’s boat then gave his safety debriefing on life jackets, life rafts, and fire extinguishers. As he spoke, Brown noticed that his assistant cameraman was slowly, steadily stepping backward out of the pilot house. Suddenly, he leapt off the boat. “Sorry to hang you guys up, but I can’t do this,” he said. “I have a really bad feeling.”
He broke into a full sprint up the dock. “How are you gonna get home?” Brown yelled.
“Don’t worry about it,” came the reply.
Brown turned to his production assistant, a girl named Julian. “Well, that kind of freaked me out,” he said.
Julian laughed nervously. “You think?”
The two boats departed San Diego at sunset. When the crew