The surf is charging, 10'+ and clean. It keeps me up all night, and before dawn I wax and rewax my board, waiting for enough sun to light my way down to the beach. A friend joins me on the short walk, helpfully armed with a video camera and ready to capture the swell of the season. Past the first beach, a lovely, light offshore blowing spray off the backs of the waves, low tide incoming slowly, perfect for my favorite break. Macaws squawk and drop almond shells from high above as a troop of colorados chitter and chomp on sweet orange jobo fruit. The final push along a narrow trail, watching out for the sharp spined plants jabbing in from both sides, checking that the rustling in the underbrush is the usual anole or skink hunting bugs and not some more worrisome reptile. A slow scramble over the small tree that fell in the night, careful not to ding the board, my 6'6" Christensen "Charger," lovingly crafted for a day like this.
The path opens to the playa. The waves are as I dreamed, hollow and double overhead. Two guys beat me there, and one of them drops into a monster that shacks him into one of the cleanest tubes I can remember seeing here. It’s like a surf magazine brought to life.
Eyes locked on my target, I surge forward, maybe 100 steps from the water, about to leap from the sandy path to the beach.
At which point, I kick the shit out of my left foot and toes on a hefty rock, half submerged at the mouth of the path.
There’s the usual, one second delay as the pain travels from point of contact to point of consciousness and recognition. The usual doubling up into standing fetal position, shaking lightly, trying to compress my body back into itself, some atavistic way of coping with all those fiery neurons sending their dread signals to my core. Hopping on the good foot, sort of the equivalent of blowing on a burn, some other mechanism to dilute the insoluble.
Finally, looking at it, to see what your mind already knows. The blood, the smashed nails, the joint twisted askew. The middle toe’s phalanx is dislocated, of course, blood bubbling from below the eponychium (cuticle); the big toe’s nail plate is split down to the lunula, and the hyponychium is pulled back like a burst blister. It’s a fucking mess.
For about fifteen minutes I can’t do much more than sob softly to myself. My friend has the decency to say nothing, although in retrospect she should have filmed it for later laughs. I know I have to set the toe, but grabbing it and pulling it is a start and stop affair. Grab, gingerly, but no pull. Deep breath. Do it. There’s a mild hope it will offer some panacea, but it doesn’t. It hurts more, and honestly I don’t know if I did it correctly, but at least it looks straighter than before. I huddle there again, cursing the gods, or at least my clumsy haste. After the initial, unbearable rush, the pain settles into simple agony. I look again at the waves; they’re getting better every second as the tide fills in. My window is now.
I gather up my board and rash guard that I had dropped immediately after impact, check quickly for any further damages and find none, no insult to injury. Must be a sign. Despite initial appearances to the contrary, I announce my intention: I’m paddling out regardless. Again, my friend says nothing, just watches and readies the camera as I limp to the water’s edge, study the horizon for a lull in the sets, and leap into the roiling surf.
It doesn’t feel any better in the water, but the paddle allows me to focus on other things, like the set I hadn’t seen trying to push me into the rocks that come into play anytime the surf is above 6’. There’s that familiar moment when adrenaline treats time as its bitch, and bends it to the task at hand. The body gives you the chance to survive; you just can’t miss a step. Duck diving, holding the board like a lover as the wave tries to tear it away, pushing through to the other side.
Once in the lineup, I show the guys my foot, like a newly acquired excuse for any kookery in the session. Chuckles all around, plus some reservations about me chumming the water with all that blood. Not to worry, I only want to get one or two, and then I’ll go in for some ice and treatment. A solid set comes into view, lighting up the indicator rocks on the point, prompting the usual realignment of the pack, the jockeying for position. I select the third wave, out of deference to the two guys there before me, and also because I rarely take the first waves in a heavy set, given that if I screw up on the drop or anywhere outside of where I’d like to end my ride, I’ll have several more waves waiting to pound me back into the impact zone. No bueno.
In the instant of catching the wave, there’s no pain, no distraction from the mission, which is dead simple: make the drop. Since I’m a regular footed surfer, my right foot is my back foot, and after I negotiate the plummet from crest to trough, I lean on it to make the bottom turn which sets up the ride. The fins carve the surface and set my line. Now the front foot, the wounded one, must work. It can’t. Can’t press on it hard enough to snap the nose back to the desired trajectory, in this case down. I’m pitched, thrown out from the lip and back onto the flats, and then hammered. Down, down, to the bottom, resisting the natural urge to fight my way back up. You just have to chill. Couldn’t move the mountain of water on top anyway, and the water, turbulent and aerated as the wave cycles past, lends no purchase to the fine art of surfacing. Don’t fight, don’t waste energy. Let go, lie limp and be shaken until it releases, like some dog with a chew toy who eventually gets bored and drops it. The pressure will ease eventually, and hopefully you’ll have enough air inside to get back up to the surface, to gulp a fresh breath and locate the board now dragging you shoreward along the wave train (appropriately known as “tombstoning”) into further hardship. Pull it back to you, and reposition quickly for the next wave that, inevitably, is just about to smash on your head.
Even though I know now what will happen, I paddle out to do it again. This time I take a more modest route, not trying to go top to bottom on the wave, but wanting just to outrace the section and then cruise. It’s still a thrill, and allows me to avoid the ignominy of paddling in when there’s a wave to surf instead. It wants to take me to the rocks, and, accepting defeat, I turn to the beach instead of going up and over the back for more punishment. The last gasp of the wave explodes behind me and I drop to my stomach, buoyed by the foam and force to the beach. It’s a tricky exit, a steeply angled slope that has a deep trench right at the shorebreak. The wave reforms and wants to drive you into the sand or suck you back out to sea. Time it right, get tossed onto the actual beach, and you’ve still got problems as ostrich egg sized rocks pin ball around, cracking ankles and shins. Or in this case, my toes again.
I stagger up the beach, my suffering limned in the camera. There will be no more surf today, or the next. Or for a week or so after. I’ll be limping, and the change to my gait will set off a cascade of tendon and muscle ailments from ankle to hip. All over a busted toe or two, breaks that you can’t do a thing about except grin and bear. Hardly a warrior’s injury. Instead, another lesson in patience. Keep the ultimate goal in mind, but keep your eyes on the path.
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