Day 233

After recovering from my injuries, I returned to the water with a fire in my belly. A massive swell was predicted to hit. The definition of a “big wave” varies, surfers generally agree that anything over six meters (about twenty feet) on the face of the wave, is a big wave. The predicted swell would certainly see waves of this size and bigger. The timing could not have been better. I had a month to get back in shape and get my head back in the game. The night before the swell, I laid wide awake in my bed, too excited and nervous to sleep.

This is what I had dedicated the last six months of my life to doing. I was in the best shape of my life, mentally and physically stronger than ever before. I had been riding and practising on a big wave surfboard. I had the proper size board, big wave leash, floatation vest, and fin set up. I had completed a big wave survival course. I felt my skills had improved enough to be adequate for my own safety and the safety of others around me in the water. I was ready to ride a giant.

I woke before dawn to the sound of the swell hitting. My entire apartment shook as the bigger sets hit the beach. I now had earthquake PTSD, so the slightest tremor sent a shiver down my spine. I bolted up in bed–there would be no sleeping in today. I waited for my coffee to brew, then poured it in a blender with butter and coconut oil. I filled my mug and headed down to the beach to have a look. Despite the low, pre-dawn light, I could see the size was intimidating. Surfers were already beginning to gather on the beach, floatation vests in one hand, big wave guns in the other. You could taste the anticipation. Warriors were readying themselves for battle.

I decided it would be best to watch for a while to try to determine the best place to paddle out and the best place to line up. The thing about this particular surf spot was that if you made it out to the unbroken waves, then you had to catch a wave to get back. If you tried to paddle back in without riding a wave, then you would be caught in the impact zone, meaning waves would crash on you with the force of Niagara Falls. You had to ride a wave in, or at least fall attempting to ride a wave, and let the wave drag you underwater into shallower water. In short, I needed to be sure that if I got myself out there, I could get myself back in.

I watched and watched and watched. I went back and forth, questioning my ability for three agonizing hours, trying to distinguish my true voice from The Other. The sun had long since started baking me and sweat poured down my back. I snapped a selfie with a massive wave in the background, captioned it To go or not to go? and posted it to my Instagram story. It was a backup plan, in case I decided not to go, so people would know how hard I debated over the decision and how big the conditions truly were. Because so many people were watching and I couldn’t appear to be a fraud, The Voice reminded me.

The Voice continued with its usual shenanigans.

You stupid little wussy. Just get over your freaking fear. You have to commit. You told the whole world you were going to surf big waves and now you have the opportunity and you are letting fear win. You are weak! Get your ass up!

I half listened and got to my feet. The Voice turned on me once again.

You ignorant fool! Those waves could kill you! You’ve seen two broken backs already this summer and three broken boards already this morning! You don’t surf like those guys. You SUCK at surfing. What the hell are you thinking? Your ego is so big that it is literally going to KILL you!

I half listened again, turned back to watch just one more set, and just one more set, and just one more set…completely angry with myself for not being able to make the call.

And then the wind came up. It was over. Puerto Escondido is only surfable when the winds blow off shore. The trade winds had arrived for the day, and it was over. Just like that, I missed my chance. I started to get up to do the dry-hair walk of shame back home. I saw my coach getting out of the water with some friends. He walked right up to me, looked me up and down, noted I was still dry and then fired off the words that stung more than any other statement I had ever heard in the Spanish language.

“¿Por que no surfeaste?” Why didn’t you surf?

Although I’m not really sure, because I don’t have any, I think that statement felt like getting kicked in the balls.

The next morning, the swell lingered. It had dropped a little but was still significant. When the waves shook the beach awake at first light, I gave The Voice no time to speak. I made my fatty coffee, cranked angry punk rock music, held my breath for four minutes, practiced fifteen pop-ups on the tile floor, looked at myself in the mirror, face white with sunscreen streaked on like war paint, and forced myself to speak louder than any damn Voice,

“Melanie, you are a badass mutha F***er who don’t take no S*** off of no one!”

It was a line I heard from a movie, I think maybe Cool Runnings, but it was the best voice I could come up with in a pinch. The music jammed on, some female power ballad. I threw my hands in the air and danced around my little Mexican apartment until my body felt warm, my mind felt sharp and my ego didn’t give a shit what anybody saw or didn’t see. I was going surfing. And I was going to slay some dragons today!

I knew I wasn’t going to wait to see the waves first before I made my decision. The decision was already made. Today I was surfing. I grabbed my eight-foot-five-inch pintail quad fin, my impact vest, my ten-foot, extra thick leash, and I bolted for the beach before I had a chance to change my mind. I already knew where I wanted to paddle out and where I wanted to sit, because the swell was hitting at the exact same angle as it had yesterday. I took only a few minutes to double check that conditions were indeed the same. Once I confirmed that they were, I offered a prayer of gratitude for another opportunity to enter the sea, as I did before every surf session.  

I stood at the edge of the shore break, waiting for the perfect interval between set waves to make my dash for the outside. There were some fishing boats on the horizon. I noticed that they would dip below the horizon and out of sight as the bigger swell lines moved under them. This told me there were large set waves coming. I estimated the distance to the boats and the swell speed. Based on my calculations, I estimated if I saw that the boats had not dipped below the horizon for X amount of time then I had X+2 minutes to get through the impact zone, where only medium sets would be breaking before the big set would come. I knew from previous experience that I needed about four minutes to sprint-paddle to the line up. I tacked on an extra two minutes, because even the medium waves would give me a battle today. I timed the sets for almost thirty minutes before I saw my window–and I turned out to be correct. It took almost six minutes of all-out strength before I broke free of the impact zone, just in time to avoid a huge set barreling down on me.

I got lucky. Within five minutes, a wave with perfect form was coming straight at me. I looked over my right shoulder to see Greg Long, one of the best big wave barrel riders in the world. He was too deep for the wave. I looked over my left shoulder and I saw Coco Nogales, a team rider for Red Bull and Hurley as well as a Puerto Escondido local, considered to be one of the best to have ever surfed the Mexican Pipeline. In surfing, there is no female tee; there is no 30-and-over division. If you can catch the wave deeper than someone else, the wave is yours. This is the league I was playing in. Coco and I both turned around and began paddling for the same wave. It was breaking to the surfer’s right, which meant the wave belonged to me since I was sitting closer to the peak than Coco. He saw me going for it, but he put his head down and continued to paddle anyway. In big wave surfing, you have to commit. There is no second guessing, no last minute decision making. I paddled for the wave like my life depended on it, because it did. I came to Mexico unhealthy, scared I would get cancer, and heartbroken. I had since given up my entire way of life, traded in all my friends and possessions and my job, just so I could stand up on this wave. I had to catch that wave.

I was going on that wave, no matter what, 100%. So was Coco. I can’t blame him for thinking I wouldn’t make it, that I would back off at the last instant. I can’t even blame him for not caring and going anyway when I did make it; he was definitely the king of the pecking order. Getting dropped in on (the term used when one surfer takes a wave that rightfully belongs to another), by Coco Nogales in triple overhead Puerto Escondido, was an honor.

That wave established rhythm for me. I was high, in a flow state. Although I didn’t make it out of the barrel and Coco did, I quickly made it back to the line up and, within an hour, had ridden three more giants. By my last wave, I was floating on pure ecstasy. I had already ridden so many good waves, way more than I was expecting. One would have been plenty for my ego. But ego had long since been put to bed. I was surfing for pure joy, and surfing far better than I expected.

I felt the first breath of wind coming, and I knew conditions would change, quickly becoming dangerous. It was best to get out of the water ASAP. I resolved to take the next wave in, no matter how big or small it was. As fate would have it, it was not small. The next set coming toward me was bigger than all the others. I didn’t care, I was wave drunk. It was also faster and steeper. I didn’t care.  I smiled and laughed at myself, fairly certain I would not make the drop and I would experience the heaviest wipe out of my life. I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything any more.

I made the drop, I made the bottom turn, I made it into the barrel, and for a split second everything went green, an emerald room closing in around me. I was ecstatic when I hit the beach. I saw a guy running up the beach toward me. I recognized him as one of the Bonfil Boys who had flirted with me six months earlier, back in Acapulco, when I didn’t yet speak Spanish or surf waves over chest high.

“Mela, Mela, Espera me! West Side tiene la foto!”

He was telling me a photographer had captured my wave, the biggest wave of my life, my first real big wave. My surfing had spoken for itself. The Voice had nothing to say.

I surfed like a maniac for the rest of the week. The waves were big and perfect and I felt strong and in the zone. I had my heaviest wipe out yet. I went on a wave the size of a house.  The wave jacked up and got exceptionally steep and, in a split second, I had to make a choice to leap to my feet or sink the back of the board and let the energy go underneath me. I committed. In that moment, I knew I had about a 50/50 chance of making it and getting one of the biggest waves of my life. Or, I’d get get pitched and plunged to the depths. I was, however, 100% sure I would not hurt anyone else, and if I failed, I would be able to handle the consequences. Failure is often a better teacher than success.

It was intense, a long time underwater, with so much pressure that water came through my ears and out the back of my throat despite wearing earplugs. When I came up, there were several more waves to contend with before I was out of the danger zone. Each one plunged me back into the abyss, threatened to snap my leash and leave me without floatation. Each one gave me just a breath or two before the next wave punished me.

I paddled for the beach, feeling proud of myself for going for it. I then proceeded to get nauseous, and tears came. Tears, because I was proud of all that I had overcome, because the ocean had just let me feel more of her power than most humans will ever experience, because failure felt so rewarding, because I was alive in a way I didn’t know was possible.

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*some names have been changed to protect privacy

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