by
Richard Chackerian
The first time I saw the waves at San Onofre in Southern California I said, “Oh, shit, I am going to get killed out there.” My friend Bob just laughed, but I could tell from his tight-faced stare that he had similar concerns.
It was 1957. Bob and I had never seen waves as big as these. Our surfing was limited to San Francisco’s Ocean Beach and occasionally Santa Cruz, a town sixty- seven miles south of the City. The San Francisco surf is very rough and choppy, several rows breaking at the same time. Typically, the waves are not very tall, usually no more than five feet.
We learned from our San Francisco surfing experience that waves much smaller than those at San Onofre could do surfer and board quite a lot of damage. More than once after I fell from my board while dropping down a wave face, its force pounded me down until I hit the bottom, limbs jerking around like ragdolls.
The breaks at San Onofre were beautiful, moving steadily from left to right. Standing there on the beach, I was imagining surfing a wave face like those in front of us. Five feet of bluish green water just over my head and six feet of wave under, pushing me just beyond the break.
These waves were moving nearly straight in, not at an angle, allowing a relatively slow-moving wave to push a board nearly parallel to the beach while moving toward the beach. In addition, these tall waves give a faster ride because the downhill slope is steeper and longer. Such a combination of wave height and direction generates heart-pounding anticipation of breathtaking speed. If I were lucky, there could be six feet of water over my head, but if I weren’t, tons of water would be crashing down on my head.
In the late 1950’s, surfboards didn’t have a leash attached to the surfer’s leg, as contemporary boards do. Consequently, board and surfer often parted company, with the board’s destiny left to the surf. I worried most about a flying board; occasionally a board will fly straight up and come crashing down point first. Being hit by a thirty-pound missile, point first, is not good.
And it didn’t help my confidence that on that day the beach was completely deserted except for us. No sunbathers, no swimmers - nobody. We were completely on our own.
The splash of Bob’s board brought me out of my reverie. It seemed as if I had been standing there on the beach for an eternity, trying to get up the courage to do what we had planned for weeks. We had spent a small fortune on boards and transportation, and also done more than our share of bragging that we were going to surf the “big waves” at San Onofre. We had no choice but to jump in and hope for the best.
The initial paddling out was easy because the waves were breaking a good distance off shore. In addition, since there was very little wind, the water between the beach and the breaking waves was almost glassy. Slowly, as we got closer to the wave break, small wakes from dissipated waves swelled up, creating small hills of water to paddle over.
Our big, heavy boards made it relatively easy to plow through wakes. As the wakes got bigger we would slide on our bellies to the front end of the board, wrap our arms around it, put our heads down and hold on. Most of the time this got us to the other side of even large swells.
Big waves come in sets separated by long pauses. During the pauses we just sat on our boards waiting for “the wave.” We let a couple go by, but then what promised to be the perfect one started humping up on the horizon. When it was about 100 feet behind us, we started paddling toward the beach as fast as we could to generate enough speed to slide down the wave face. If we didn’t go fast enough, the wave would pass us by, or worse, its white water would pound us into the bottom.
Bob and I caught the same wave. For an instant I saw Bob about fifteen feet to my right, sliding down the wave face. In the same moment, I glanced down to the wave base and up to the curl. I was flying down the wave face, hoping that I would be able to make the left turn that would allow me to ride the curl all the way to the beach.
But I didn’t make the left turn. Instead, the speed of the wave drew me up toward the falling crest. As the crest fell I began to fall down the wave face, at times airborne. My board went its own way.
The next thing I remember is being underwater, my arms and legs banging on the bottom, then struggling to get to the surface for air. When I did make it to the surface and to the beach, it took me a few minutes lying there to fully realize what had happened and that all of my body parts were in working order.
As I rolled over onto my back I saw Bob gathering up his board. It was broken cleanly in half, the nose smashed flat.
My board was whole, but my eye was drawn to a dent in the topside center. The dent was about six inches wide and three inches deep. We both realized at the same time that the dent was a perfect fit for the flattened nose of Bob’s board.
“Oh, shit.”
It was 1957. Bob and I had never seen waves as big as these. Our surfing was limited to San Francisco’s Ocean Beach and occasionally Santa Cruz, a town sixty- seven miles south of the City. The San Francisco surf is very rough and choppy, several rows breaking at the same time. Typically, the waves are not very tall, usually no more than five feet.
We learned from our San Francisco surfing experience that waves much smaller than those at San Onofre could do surfer and board quite a lot of damage. More than once after I fell from my board while dropping down a wave face, its force pounded me down until I hit the bottom, limbs jerking around like ragdolls.
The breaks at San Onofre were beautiful, moving steadily from left to right. Standing there on the beach, I was imagining surfing a wave face like those in front of us. Five feet of bluish green water just over my head and six feet of wave under, pushing me just beyond the break.
These waves were moving nearly straight in, not at an angle, allowing a relatively slow-moving wave to push a board nearly parallel to the beach while moving toward the beach. In addition, these tall waves give a faster ride because the downhill slope is steeper and longer. Such a combination of wave height and direction generates heart-pounding anticipation of breathtaking speed. If I were lucky, there could be six feet of water over my head, but if I weren’t, tons of water would be crashing down on my head.
In the late 1950’s, surfboards didn’t have a leash attached to the surfer’s leg, as contemporary boards do. Consequently, board and surfer often parted company, with the board’s destiny left to the surf. I worried most about a flying board; occasionally a board will fly straight up and come crashing down point first. Being hit by a thirty-pound missile, point first, is not good.
And it didn’t help my confidence that on that day the beach was completely deserted except for us. No sunbathers, no swimmers - nobody. We were completely on our own.
The splash of Bob’s board brought me out of my reverie. It seemed as if I had been standing there on the beach for an eternity, trying to get up the courage to do what we had planned for weeks. We had spent a small fortune on boards and transportation, and also done more than our share of bragging that we were going to surf the “big waves” at San Onofre. We had no choice but to jump in and hope for the best.
The initial paddling out was easy because the waves were breaking a good distance off shore. In addition, since there was very little wind, the water between the beach and the breaking waves was almost glassy. Slowly, as we got closer to the wave break, small wakes from dissipated waves swelled up, creating small hills of water to paddle over.
Our big, heavy boards made it relatively easy to plow through wakes. As the wakes got bigger we would slide on our bellies to the front end of the board, wrap our arms around it, put our heads down and hold on. Most of the time this got us to the other side of even large swells.
Big waves come in sets separated by long pauses. During the pauses we just sat on our boards waiting for “the wave.” We let a couple go by, but then what promised to be the perfect one started humping up on the horizon. When it was about 100 feet behind us, we started paddling toward the beach as fast as we could to generate enough speed to slide down the wave face. If we didn’t go fast enough, the wave would pass us by, or worse, its white water would pound us into the bottom.
Bob and I caught the same wave. For an instant I saw Bob about fifteen feet to my right, sliding down the wave face. In the same moment, I glanced down to the wave base and up to the curl. I was flying down the wave face, hoping that I would be able to make the left turn that would allow me to ride the curl all the way to the beach.
But I didn’t make the left turn. Instead, the speed of the wave drew me up toward the falling crest. As the crest fell I began to fall down the wave face, at times airborne. My board went its own way.
The next thing I remember is being underwater, my arms and legs banging on the bottom, then struggling to get to the surface for air. When I did make it to the surface and to the beach, it took me a few minutes lying there to fully realize what had happened and that all of my body parts were in working order.
As I rolled over onto my back I saw Bob gathering up his board. It was broken cleanly in half, the nose smashed flat.
My board was whole, but my eye was drawn to a dent in the topside center. The dent was about six inches wide and three inches deep. We both realized at the same time that the dent was a perfect fit for the flattened nose of Bob’s board.
“Oh, shit.”
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