My motivation for taking extended leave from work was to put me in new situations. I felt like I was stagnating living with my parents and working 40 hours a week at a job that I wasn’t sure I even cared about. I needed to throw a wrench in the whole thing to put me into some new situations and new environments in order to bring me new opportunities for growth. In my head as I designed this trip, a few weeks of exploring the Basque coast with friends and loved ones, all I had in mind was lighthearted bliss. Enjoyment of genuine cultures with the opportunity for fun, and if we’re lucky, even good waves was what I thought would be on the docket. But, the Atlantic Ocean is a tricky one, and really makes you realize why the other big ocean was named Pacific. I didn't plan for regular tidal ranges of 10 feet or more, or missing a whole day of surfing because of mistiming the tide. I also didn’t plan for the responsibility of being accountable for my own emotions plus everyone else’s around me. I didn’t account for bad weather, bad luck, or bad planning. I assumed I was better than that, smarter than that, and it would never happen to someone as smart as me. In short, I didn’t account for not being the man that I thought I was, and the constant challenges of traveling brought into focus exactly where my maturity and mental toughness were lacking. Just as you need both high and low tides to move the water where you need it for perfect waves, you need the highs and lows of the road to teach you the lessons you need to learn.
Biarritz, France. October 18, 2023.
Serene to Roaring at Grande Plage.
In addition to the tides, the waves in the Atlantic move quickly as well. In matter of hours, a swell can arrive and turn the ocean from serene to roaring. On a warm afternoon in Biarritz, I learned the true power of Atlantic windswells, which exposed substantial weaknesses in my maturity and confidence in myself, and my duckdiving skills. I learned this all not through persistence, but through giving up. Waves of humiliation, disappointment, and anger poured through me like the sets in that short interval windswell, and only after letting them flow through me did I realize the importance of believing in yourself, giving everything your best effort, and not giving up until you've reached your goal.
We drove by Grande Plage early that afternoon and saw that the waves were a fun and playful waist to chest high. We went back to our house, grabbed the small-wave boards, and then checked some other spots. We noticed the waves were much bigger than what we had seen earlier. We went back to Grande Plage, and realized that it had grown to well-overhead there too. Another trademark of Atlantic swells is that the interval, or time between the waves was also relatively short, which meant 2 things: you don’t have much time in between waves, and there weren’t many long breaks between the big sets. The five of us went out anyways. I walked up the beach a little, gave it a quick look and jumped off the sand. I didn’t expect my self-shaped 5’5 twin to paddle and duck dive as badly as it did, nor that the side shore current would sweep me to the middle of the beach as quickly as it did, but the main thing that I never expected was that there was never a break in the head high walls of whitewater. Once I got past them, overhead lips took their place. I've been in this position before, the endless paddle on a big day, and it gave me the closest I’ve ever been to drowning. But that was back at Silverstrand, where the sets collapse with such force that they send you to the bottom in 8 feet of water. This was wind swell, and wasn’t threatening to do any such thing. Still, I was winded and I was drifting toward only bigger and bigger waves, so I said fuck it and turned around. Of course as soon as I got to the sand there was a short lull in the sets, as the ocean always has a way of taunting you. At this point all my friends were already out there catching waves, but I’d join them soon enough, I thought.
So I walked back up the beach, a little further this time. I stood on top of the berm and watched the sets, telling myself that I’d be smart this time, and wait for a break. There seemed to be no end to the bloated waves squeezing themselves into the bay-shaped beach, and I questioned whether there would even be a break or if I should just go for it. At one point, I jumped in and then turned back around, doubting myself the whole time. I felt hot. Eventually I just jumped and started paddling, no plan in mind. This time, I made into the rip that divided the waves into 2 different peaks, and was able to use it to get past the normal lineup. My friends were there too, and I yelled to them that I just finally had made it out the back, still panting. On cue, a set loomed bigger and further out than any had before. My friends had a head start but since I was still catching my breath I was the furthest in, and I didn’t make it under the lip of the first one. 4 waves later I was mere feet from the shore.
Back on the beach, I wanted to be calm but couldn’t. I wanted to breathe and brush it off, but the embarrassment and surprise wouldn’t let me. Hawaii or Mexico will test you, but I did not expect it in France. I tried talking to my friends that stayed on the beach but anger boiled up and I had to walk away. I threw my board in the sand and just sat for a while, mind racing, body overheating. I mulled over whether I should paddle back out or not. After all, the waves that I’d be catching were not very good, and the board I had would not do well to ride one. My friends had also been out a while, and would probably come in soon. It probably isn’t worth the effort, I thought. On the other hand, if I really wanted to go out it looked as if the very far end of the beach, all the way at the cliff, would offer smaller whitewater and a shorter way out. Rage took over and I clenched with all my strength and shuddered at the choice. When anger is in control of you, making any decisions, especially rational ones, is nearly impossible. So, I chose to do nothing, which is what eventually bothered me the most--that I didn't decide one way or the other, to paddle out or to call it quits. I kept myself trapped in between the two options for painful minutes, going over the pros and cons of each, but mostly just mad at myself for failing to get out the back.
Only later, looking back on this, can I see that that moment of discomfort and indecision is the true lesson of the day. Both options had their pros and cons, but those aren't important. What was important was that whatever choice I made, I should have stuck with it. It would take a lot of confidence and belief in my own self worth to pick my head up and say, ‘Even though I didn't make it out, the results of my efforts today don’t define me, my abilities, or my value to others.’ Then again, the same fortitude would be required to face down more walls of whitewash. The problem with choosing neither, is that its clear that I didn’t possess that confidence, or that belief in myself. I chose, basically, to keep the door open for more criticism of myself. I sat next to my friend Nick, who also had failed to make it out. His demeanor never changed from before, during, or after his attempts to paddle out. He gave it his best effort, realized it wasn’t worth it, and returned to the beach, unbothered by failure, satisfied with himself. He joined the group and went on with his day, without making a big deal. Later, I watched Koya get dragged in the same middle rip that I did, the one that pulls you out toward where the biggest waves on the whole beach were breaking. I was waiting for Koya on the sand, trying to signal to him where he should come in, but he never did. He put his head down and just kept paddling. Through endless walls of whitewash, he never stopped. He ended up getting out past those biggest teepee peaks, then paddled all the way around and back to the lineup where he had caught his last wave. Obviously, my friends already understood these lessons that I was being forced to learn.
Mundaka, Basque Coast Spain. October 22, 2023.
Not more than a few days after the Grande Plage incident, another challenge was thrown at me. Like a fastball on the outside corner, it wasn't going to be easy to hit, but I had to swing at it because I wouldn't get another like it. A massive storm had landed on us in our final days in France, kicking up a huge swell that filled in and started to organize itself when we made our drive from Biarritz to Zarautz. I was aware of this, and knew that we’d have little time to settle into our new apartment stay if we wanted to make it to one of European surfing’s crown jewels during the necessary low tide. Now, I hate pushing my agenda onto other people. I’d much rather go with the flow than call the shots, but that day, things were up in the air, so I pushed. I pushed Tiffany and a few others to load up a car and head to Mundaka as fast as we could, eating Iberian salami for lunch in the car on the way there. I was still feeling timid, a little embarrassed and on thin ice after what happened at Grande Plage, but I knew I couldn't let this opportunity slip.
That first session at Mundaka was only memorable as an introduction to the place. Parking far away, you're forced to walk all the way down through town to get to the wave and it gives you a chance to take in the scene slowly. A pristine, peaceful, traditional basque fishing village. An offshore island and sweeping bay that seals in the landscape and funnels in swell. A major tidal estuary system flushing tide and sand into the right places. The two stone church steeples that rise high above the cliff and thundering waves will make you consider a higher power, or at least explain (not justify) what drove the Spaniards to spread their faith so far and wide. All of that, plus the two and a half meters of swell and inconvenient cross chop that was creating sectiony, double overhead lefts thumping down the sandbar. Taking it all in from the jump-off next to the harbor, I was amazed by it but unsure about what was waiting for me past the current that pulls along the cliff and rips a surfer out to the lineup. I knew that all I could really do was take a deep breath and jump in, so I did. A couple hours later, I came in with a new respect for the weight of the lip and consistency of the sets, but only had a couple short rides to show for it. In spite of that, I wasn’t mad at myself like I had been in France. This was a challenge unlike any other I had faced before, and I wasn’t going to judge myself on the results, just my effort.
That night was a holiday in the town of Zarautz, wherein groups of friends all dressed in matching outfits and went to the town square on the beach to dance the night away. The irony of this unexpected and whimsical holiday was not lost on our group of 9 friends, so we searched for something we could all wear to match each other. The only thing we could find were the good-luck bracelets my mom makes and gives to me before all my trips, and I've come to really believe in their good luck powers. So, I handed those out and we went off to explore the tapas (or rather Pintxos, in that part of the country) bars and accordion rock music of a bumping Spanish night, and for a few hours, everything was in its place and everyone just enjoyed the present moment.
The next morning, we awoke bleary-eyed to the sight of barrels on the Mundaka Surfline cam, and it wasn’t even low tide. The tide was actually rising to a mid-morning high, then dropping to an afternoon low. I didn't let the visions of good waves stir me into a frenzy, though, and we had a slow morning while we came up with a plan for the day. Even though the conditions were good, the waves were still huge everywhere around Zarautz so there weren't many other options for surfing. The swell was supposed to drop throughout the day, though, so the same group who had braved Mundaka the day before decided to run it back. Anticipation built as we wound through the fertile countryside, passing the town of Guernica, made famous by the Picasso painting of that name, a surreal depiction of the town being bombed by the Nazis during the Spanish Civil War. After Guernica the highway pulls you to the coast and it's not long before the island, then the rest of the bay appears, and the anticipation boils over if offshore winds are grooming overhead walls like they were that day.
By the time we parked and walked down, we could see that the waves and crowd were both of much more manageable size. We had arrived a couple hours before low tide, so things weren't quite full-on yet, but were rapidly improving. The lineup had much more space in it when we made it out, we were all able to sneak a few fun ones to warm up, and the dropping tide was only making things hollower. After an hour, I was starting to feel comfortable in the lineup and ready to go for some scarier ones. My chance came in the middle of a cleanup set, when a lump sandwiched between 2 set waves missed the outside takeoff zone and threatened to double up and dump all its energy on the inner bar. I recognized that I was the only one who could get to it. I also recognized that I was very deep, but I knew I had to take this chance. I had to swing.
All I remember as I freefell was how brightly the white foam and orange sand shone as the sun hit it, and I slid past. In the trough at the bottom, my rail caught water and I pulled on it, pulled myself under the lip and set a straight line to the exit. The lip too was still foamy from those bigger waves before it, and I was encased in white as lip enveloped me and the pressure built inside the chamber. I hung on hard to the rail as I got closer to the narrowing exit, expecting to be bucked from my board like I’d been so many times before. No such shot came, and I sped through the misty exit into daylight, astonished, hearing the hoots from guys on the shoulder. I wiped my face and kicked over the back of the swell and let it all hit me. Adrenaline, but mostly redemption, relief, and reassurance in myself is what I felt as I tried to burn the vision of that wave into my memory. That was the peak of my trip, without a doubt the best left I’ve ever caught. I felt accomplished and validated after all the ups and downs that led to it.
Even more miraculous than making this wave was the fact that we got it on video. Thanks Tiffany:)
The waves of life, the ones we catch, paddle for, miss, fall on, and finally make, are what teach us its most valuable lessons. It's one of those things that all surfers understand, but sounds so silly to anyone who has never experienced it. I can now see that the difficult moments, hard decisions, and emotional swings are what this trip was truly about for me. To show me where I need to grow, what I should be focusing on, and what’s really important. I learned some of that from trials on land but mainly I learned these from those punchy Atlantic swells, rolling over me and through me and forcing me to understand. The true lesson of living according to the schedule of the tides is to commit to that schedule. Put together the plan needed to arrive on time, keep the discipline required to stick to that plan, then be ready for whatever you might face when it confronts you. This goes for surfing of course, but can also apply to our relationships, professional pursuits, and anything else important in life. It pays to be decisive, to choose what’s important and invest in it and plan for it and be ready for anything good or bad that might come your way. I was under the impression that my surfing was what I needed to invest in, to focus on, and to emphasize for this journey but clearly it isn’t. Clearly, I need to focus on taking care of myself and the people around me, on my ever-looming emotional challenges, and on rising to the occasion when challenging moments happen. This, of course, is really why I decided to go on the journey in the first place, and hopefully now that I've experienced those waves I can always look back on them to remind me of the lessons they stand for.