"I’m sure the barrel is nice, but so are a lot of
things in life."
Dust swirls though the parking lot at the Tachi Palace
and softens the bright morning light. A Red Bull hat walks
through the haze.
As I get closer, I see Griff’s compact, short-legged frame come
into view. He climbs into a Tacoma and drives to the Surf
Ranch.
I stash my cooler in the back of my Jeep rental car and prepare
to follow him. It’s hotter today. I feel dismay.
When I arrive, more people than yesterday flow through the
general admission gate. Security checks everyone’s bags one at a
time. Two sad-looking LUNA bars sit on the table. No outside food
allowed. I put on my most innocent face. Just a hoody and some
sunscreen, I say. They believe me. My contraband GoMacro bar goes
undetected.
I make it to the end of the right in time to see Griff’s first
wave. He falls. Yago falls, too. The Brazilian fans cheer for him
anyway. They’re entirely engaged, clapping and cheering both
surfers in each heat. Griff makes it through on the strength of his
left.
The energy of the Brazilian fans is magnetic. How do they do it?
I see a crew from yesterday, set up in the same place under the
trees. They’ve brought chairs and music. Laughing and chatting
between waves, it’s a fun day out with friends.
I move toward the pool’s center. Brazilian flags wave and happy
chatter fills the air. They’re loud in their support of Felipe in
the next heat, but Medina jerseys outnumber all the rest. Any time
the three-time world champion surfs, the noise level
rises.
Back at the end of the right, I watch Ethan surf. He barely
makes an air reverse to finish his second wave. It feels like an
overscore, but the first turns happen a long way from where I’m
standing. A nearby family looks perplexed, as though they’re not
quite sure what they’re doing here. They watch the waves in a
desultory kind of way. A grom sits under a tree and looks
bored.
The reality is, if you really care about the surfing, you’re
better off at home on the couch. One of the many dads sits in a
beach chair glued to his phone. His wife asks him if he wants to
watch the next wave. He doesn’t move. I’ve got it right here, he
says.
There’s some unique angles from the side of the pool, for sure.
It’s rare to see a turn or an air happen right in front of you,
unless you’re actually in the lineup. It requires planning, a lot
of walking, and a fair amount of luck, though, to see the big
moments happen at the Ranch. The sheer size of the pool makes it
insanely cumbersome as an event space.
As I move around, I laugh again at Erik Logan’s comment from
yesterday about how we must surely be jealous if we aren’t totally
in love with the whole thing. I think I’ve been to the Ranch
something like five times now. The novelty has long since worn
off.
The hierarchy the Ranch imposes leaves me cold. Money buys
access here, pure and simple. That reality tends to smash most of
the soul and spontaneity out of the thing. I’m sure the barrel is
nice, but so are a lot of things in life.
I trudge toward the left in search of water and a bathroom. It’s
already hot and the 700-meter distance feels even longer than
yesterday. I imagine what would happen if I borrowed Matt Warshaw’s
Fitbit. It would probably explode trying to count high enough. The
tawny dirt coats my black Vans, a suspect choice for the day, if
I’m honest.
Behind me, a couple walks together and jokes about how security
took their sandwiches. The security people, they must be so hungry.
They just had to have our sandwiches. I laugh. We stood in line for
food for two hours yesterday, they say. There was only one food
place. The rules about outside food feel petty and small. Snacks
are not a crime.
At least the box water is free. The smiling woman in the booth
tells me to take as many as I like. I grab four and hug them close.
I pour one into my HydroFlask to keep it cold. I’m not sure when
I’ll next make it back here.
Standing at the end of the left, I watch Italo go nuts. On his
final wave, he hucks into a shuv-it, and falls. His fans love it.
They don’t care about the fall. Like European football fans, they
sing and chant his name. Italo laughs and throws shakas. He thrives
on the attention. He’s through to the semifinals, and it’s all
good.
Attracted by the novelty of watching Caroline surfing front
side, I stay on the left. There’s no shade here, and the sun beats
down. I layer more sunscreen onto the patina of dust on my legs.
Caroline looks rock-solid, while Caity’s intuitive feel for how to
ride an ocean wave betrays her into stalling in the tube too
long.
The pool tends to favor surfers like Carissa who can replicate
their surfing precisely the same way every time. It’s not that
Carissa has no soul. She has plenty, especially at home in Hawaii.
But she’s done the meticulous work to combine her instinctual sense
for the ocean with near-perfect technique.
I need more water.
Back at the box water booth, the woman smiles at me again and
laughs as I take four more. Around me, people wait patiently in the
food lines, which snake through the expo area. The sun beats down.
I think guiltily of my smuggled food bar. I ate it an hour
ago.
I walk back to the center of the pool near the judge’s tower for
the heat between Carissa and Tati. It’s one of the better vantage
points. It’s across from the one video screen and offers partial
views of the left and the right. As a bonus, it’s sometimes
possible to hear the wave scores over the music’s pounding beat.
Punk’s so over. Today, the vibe is pure dance club.
As the heat begins, two women move to the pool’s edge to watch.
They pull on matching t-shirts with Carissa’s name and number on
them, and pose for photos together. Behind them in the shade, a
baby sleeps in a hammock slung between two trees. Dad gently rocks
his baby, while mom watches her favorite surfer. Carissa rips a
9.67 on her first right. Everyone looks happy except the baby who
continues to sleep.
After two waves, Carissa has the heat won. She skips her final
two waves, and I begin the journey toward the exit. I’ve seen
enough. I’m done with the heat and the Porta-Potties. Also, I’m
hungry. I cradle my remaining box waters close. It’s a long way
home.
As I walk through the exit, there through the dust, I see what
must be a mirage. A tall woman strolls through the entrance in a
long, colorful sundress. Her bag’s gold hardware glints in the sun.
On her head, she wears a hat sequined in bright pink. I blink.
Surely, I am imagining this vision. But no, as she comes closer, I
realize she’s real.
An hour later, Matt Warshaw calls me to see what’s happening at
the contest. I’m in Paso Robles when Griff wins ahead of Italo. I
left an hour ago, I say. Matt laughs, approvingly. To the west, I
can see fog flowing over the hills from the coast.
Then I’m back in Pismo, where I almost turned around a few days
ago. Ahead of me on the freeway, there’s a car with two surfboards
shoved across the backseat. Both ends of the boards stick out the
windows. It’s completely fucked. I try to convince myself he
borrowed the car. I’m sure he doesn’t carry his boards this way
every day. I don’t really succeed. He does it that way every day.
I’m sure of it.
At last, I pass between the walls of the narrow canyon at
Gaviota. The rocks tower over me as I follow the road’s sinuous
path to the coast. I imagine that I can smell ocean’s salt. I’m so
close to it now.
And then I’m there. The marine layer paints the ocean in hues of
steel grey. A light onshore wind ripples the surface. White water
shines against the water’s dark surface as swell lines collide with
the shore. A quartet of pelicans glide over the water in search of
snacks. I feel the sea air’s fresh kiss on my skin.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll go surfing.
