Surfing Pacific City, Oregon

Up until last summer, its only been a dream to surf. The wind blown, salt infused hair, relaxed attitude, and surfing podcasts are easily attainable. However, spontaneity to make the attempt is a craft; usually accompanied by a vibrating phone a few minutes past midnight when a wide-eyed woman you had the nerve to marry, wakes you up to ask about surfing with her friends. Women and waves: two forces designed to crack open your soul at the slightest mistake. For a man, that type of excitement is most always pursued. Soon, I would be on my way to Pacific City for my first step into the surfing lifestyle.

The trip had started out grand. We were late, had little sleep, and because the Oregon Coast is so cold, renting a tight S&M suit for warmth was a necessity. Unfortunately, wet-suits don’t come with WD40 and an instruction manual explaining the difference as to which is the front and back. My wife brought this to the attention of her friends, asking if it looked right. The bondage leash hanging from the zipper on my neck didn’t give it away immediately. No, these women were looking at the bulge halfway down my body to determine the correct fit. They had me turn around a few times before coming to the conclusion that, in fact, the suit was on backwards.

Never once, in all the documentaries, was there ever any instruction on how to peel off a fresh layer of skin without lubrication. After flopping on the beach like an escaping bait fish, the problem was remedied.

With a quick glance at surfing icon flash-cards, we were ready to pretend to know what we were doing. Common knowledge suggested that, in order to catch a wave, you must paddle out, which is far more difficult than one would imagine with numb hands. It would be similar to swimming with two-by-fours strapped to your arms, while slapping at the water and holding the impression that you’re actually moving.

I had looked back to see my wife drinking the ocean. Even with her two percent body fat quivering in the frigid water and her eyes teary from the salt, she was smiling. Nevertheless, happiness came second to me, following stubbornness to tame a wave.

Sub-sequentially, the deep abyss of the ocean had sent a magical wave. It called my name in a heavenly voice covering its diabolical laughter; an angelic creation spawned from hell.
With a quick turn of the board, my arms spasmed in the water to garner an appearance of speed, and the board suddenly gained its own life, absorbing energy from underneath. This six-foot fiberglass plank had a destiny: to be a submarine. Although I was formerly in the US Navy with some experience in this type of situation, it still presented the problem of trying to find the correct footing. It just so happened, there was none.

Until you realize that the holy and undeniably powerful H2O is the force that shapes the world, it will continue to bludgeon your pride with any available object, including your own surf board. After every style of disastrous wipeout, it was clear to me that the ocean demanded respect and was willing to do substantial bodily harm to get it, which meant turning me into a human pinata.

The girls had figured this out long before and had failed to communicate even the slightest aspect of this philosophy. They only assume a man will eventually learn, given enough water in the lungs, digested sand, and blows to the head, of course, provided he still has enough oxygen flow to the brain, after being strangled by his own leash, and dragged across the ocean floor.

Finally absorbing the concept, underwater barrel rolls were euphoric, and handfuls of sand, exotic delicacies, obviously why surfing has become an obsession. Even when bobbing like an ice-cube in search of extremities, the simple idea of getting back into the water with a board makes all the low wage state-of-affairs worth every penny.

Surfing Pacific City is now the summer highlight. It only took one day to gain a lifetime hobby and to realize slamming your face into wet sand cleans your teeth better than the dentist.