It’s spring at last, a series of nice-size swells have been rolling into the South Shore, and sometimes in the midst of a windy morning you get that smooth pause and a glassy peak heaves up that sends you flying down the line, held up by the wind, all the way to the Christmas tree on the reef.
The seasonal crew is back.
School’s out, so a pack of groms materialized on the inside on a recent weekday morning.
“Time for me to go in,” Captain Cal announced with his pirate grin.
But I’ve resolved to be more open-minded about the kids thanks to the red-haired Grom Whisperer. A dad of two youngsters who don’t surf yet, he’s been befriending the juniors in the lineup, giving them feedback in waveriding maneuvers and guidance in surf etiquette.
“If adults don’t teach them manners, how are they supposed to learn? I mean, I don’t see their parents out here,” he said. “They’re, like, having brunch at the club or whatever.”
The Whisperer confided that he’s now an honorary grom: The other evening, post-surf, the mom who drops the group off and picks them up offered him a ride as he chatted with the boys out by the curb.
“I said ‘no, thanks, I have a car,’” he relayed with an amused smile.
Lately, aside from Dark Frodo and his minions, groms whose drop-dead glares do not invite guidance from me, at least, I’ve been more vexed by the grown-ups who should know how to share but are set in their ways. There’s this one guy, a plump, slick-haired, pretty boy who seems totally entitled, chatting animatedly with the guys while pretending the women don’t exist.
Whodaguy doesn’t live in the neighborhood. Whenever he comes out to Suis — which is nearly every day, now — my spirits sink. He sits just inside of me and paddles for every wave I go for and he always wins. He’s bigger, stronger and more agile.
“He’s a good surfer,” Captain Cal and Boogie Pete told me when I complained. In other words, he is entitled, so get over it.
I feel like if he’s so good, why doesn’t he go someplace better? Challenge himself a little? He’s an inside wave-hopper, he doesn’t wait outside for the big sets.
I try to be cool, but the other day I exploded.
“I hate him! I hate him!” I said to Pete, who shook his head.
“Don’t be a hater, Mindy,” he scolded.
Pete was right. I resolved to get a grip and improve.
Surfing well is the best revenge.
IF only.
As a rule, an offshore wind is good, but the other day it was blowing so fiercely I couldn’t paddle into a wave.
“I’m going to quit surfing,” I told the Captain. “I hate this wind.”
“Aw, don’t quit, Mindy,” he said. “I gotta get you out on a windsurf board.”
“Never,” I said.
“You gotta get yourself one of those foils.”
“No!”
Then Whodaguy went in and it was as if a curse had lifted. An outside set rolled in; a peak rose up in front of me, and I turned and took it without time to think.
It was the euphoria of flight, rushing along the face, held up by the wind, pumping through one long section, then another, as whitewater crashed behind me.
A neighbor dad, one of the few who is out there all the time with his young son, roared at me.
“Way to go! Did a quick spin-around and caught it with half a paddle, great wave!”
Providing feedback, he’s a natural coach. I watched his son study the horizon, turn and start paddling for nothing, it seemed, until a right-breaking wave jacked up and he hopped on as if he’d conjured it.
I got trounced on a couple of set waves, but revelled in the strength and energy of a real groundswell. On my last drop I found my feet and charged a little barrel in the second section with the help of the tail wind.
It’s been a long time since I surfed till my arms felt they were gonna drop off.
When I walked up the beach, my favorite slippers were gone: an inadvertent offering, but a small price to pay.
“In the Lineup” features Hawaii’s oceangoers and their regular hangouts, from the beach to the deep blue sea. Reach Mindy Pennybacker at mpennybacker@staradvertiser.com or call 529-4772.
