Don't Turn Your Back to the Ocean, but Sneak a Peak.

They say you shouldn’t turn your back to the ocean. Whoever “they” might be, has a 99% chance of being right. Before I give you the caveat as to why it isn’t 100%, I’ll explain why the old adage holds true.

In January, Alex and I paddled out on a 6 foot day at Short Sands Beach, Oregon. Ordinarily, 6 feet is at the upper limit of my comfort zone, and that’s in California, home for me. In Oregon, I’d usually assume to not paddle out. But it was 60 degrees, sunny, I had the bad luck of terrible water quality in December in California, and Alex and I hadn’t done anything all January. Additionally, the sets were spaced out enough where it wasn’t going to be too much of a shoulder burn. All that in mind, how could I not paddle out?

After throwing the hoods on and getting a spin in the washing machine, we made it outside, and I immediately went on a beautiful left. Beneath my feet was crystal clear, ice cold Oregon ocean and a perfect sand bottom. Looking down the line, I could see trees coming down to the sand and a little waterfall in between them. I kicked out, high off getting a great first wave. With my guard down, I forgot that the reason the waves were as big as they were was because of the long period swell. Suddenly, we saw two guys about 15 feet ahead of us duck dive under a big set, and Alex and I had nowhere to go. We got blown up in the impact zone, and that cold Oregon ocean wasn’t cool anymore. Now I was scared, my heart rate was way up, the lights got bright, and I panicked. Another old adage is to never go on the first wave of the set. Feeling overly humbled and respectful of the power of the ocean, I made the decision to paddle my ass off back to the beach, to get out and re-enter down the beach. Foolish. In my panic, I forgot about waves two and three. While Alex calmly paddled over the set, I found myself at the lip of an 8 footer, completely unprepared to ride it. 

Next thing I knew, I was thrown into a free fall, making eye contact with the Roberts logo on my board as I crashed to the bottom. Crawling up through the whitewater, I got back on the horse and got rolled back to the beach. I hadn’t taken a beating that bad since I was 18 and a fall at the top of Ventura Point resulted in my fin slicing a hole in my wetsuit, chipping my fins, and dinging my board in the rocks. Alex, who hadn’t turned his back to the ocean, was fine. 

Now for the 1%. In Oregon, the scenery around you while surfing is starkly different from the parking lots of Southern California. Wide sandy beaches, trees that come down to the sand, big cliffs, sea stacks in the distance, sand dunes, and clear water make for an incredible arena. It’s hard not to turn your back to the ocean to take a look around. 

On our most recent trip to Pacific City, we had the good fortune of being able to surf in the rain. In Pacific City, if I look straight out at the ocean, I see a giant sea stack. If I look to my right, I see a cliff lined with trees and a giant sand dune behind it. Looking behind me, I do admittedly see a parking lot, but behind that parking lot is dense forest. If I look to my left, I see miles of beach break, breaking perfectly left and right. Looking down, I see rain droplets hitting the water and fish beneath my feet. To be able to experience this, then sleep in my car on the beach, wake up to beautiful 3-4 foot peaks, drive an hour south, surf my arms off until sunset, still surfing beautiful 3-4 foot peaks, is incredible. Another wonderful aspect of Oregon surfing, crowds aren’t nearly the factor they are in California. If I want a wave, I can go get it. After Alex and I surfed our brains out until sunset at Otter, the question became, what to eat? Cascade Alpine? Cookies? Candy? Chips? All of the above. I inhaled my food, cracked my car window, and passed out listening to the sounds of the ocean from 200 feet above. Woke up the next morning, and did it again.