It was a summer evening like any other at my local, average, beach break. The masses of people that infiltrate it by day had long left the beach for their homes, vacation rentals or a bite to eat at one of our 4 humble restaurants. All that remained were the stragglers, lighting campfires, roasting hot dogs and cracking beers. And this is when I head to the beach. I go about my day, avoiding it all together, make dinner and then, with about three hours to go before sundown, I suit up at the house, drive to the parking lot, run the half-mile trail through the old-growth forest until my bootie clad toes hit the beach with enough time for a 2 hour session before nightfall. I never check the waves. I don’t care. I know it’s going to be small. It’s summer in Oregon. It’s always small. Plus, just being at this place is special. Both ends of the cove are flanked with jagged, raw, rock cliffs and lined with evergreens: fir, pine and spruce. On the north end of the beach, there is a waterfall that gently spills to shore and on the south, amazing tidepools show themselves with the daily low. Kids poke anemones, dogs chase frisbees, parents lug the coolers. It’s a special place and even though I loathe the amount of attention it gets; it is well deserved. The place is stunning and I feel lucky that it’s my go-to beach, even if the waves are oftentimes pitiful at best. On the night in memory, however, the waves were fun! A sinister north wind had whipped up a local wind swell that was breaking in the chest to shoulder range. I had managed to find a little right peak in the middle of the beach that nobody seemed privy to and was having the time of my life. What’s better than a perfect little peak all to yourself? Nothing! And that’s when I saw him paddling over. “Son of a bitch!” I thought to myself. Here I am, minding my own business and this guy decides to come crowd my lonely little peak. I was pissed. We sat there in silence. I never speak in the water unless spoken to. After a few minutes a set approached. I turned and went on the first one and as I kicked out, I saw this ultra-stylish regular-footer absolutely dismantling the wave behind mine. Wow! This guy can surf. We met back at the peak and he said in a funny little accent,
“Some fun ones out here, hey mate? I was watchin’ ya from up there a bit and had to have a sniff of my own. I hope you don’t mind the company.”
My initial hatred towards this person was now gone. Not only did he rip, but he had the cutest little accent and seemed to be a fellow of the most kind.
“Oh, no worries! You ripped the shit out of that thing. Nice surfing!”
We continued to chat for a bit between sets and he’d always say to me,
“Here comes a set mate. Which one you want? Take any wave you want. I’m just visiting. Pretend like I’m not here and I’ll get whatever you don’t want.”
My fondness towards this man was escalating quickly. Finally, I had to ask.
“Where are you from anyway?”
“New Zealand, mate. I’m just up here by myself cruising around and checking it out.”
“Oh no way! Wow. New Zealand. I’ve always wanted to go there. What’s it like.”
My new Kiwi friend paused for a minute. He took a long look around my special little cove. He studied the big jagged cliffs, the relentless evergreens, the waterfall and the lazy smoke billowing into the heavens. “Mate, you know what? It’s exactly like this, but with way better waves.”
And after visiting the land of the long white cloud with Dane Gudauskas, Pete Devries and Noah Cohen last year, I would have to agree. But don’t take my word for it. The pages you’re holding in your hand make it pretty clear.
Words by Mark McInnis for The Surfer’s Path
Surfers: Noah Cohen, Pete Devries, Dane Gudauskas.
Motion: Nate Laverty for Transition II
Images from this trip were used commercially by Rip Curl, Vans and Hydroflask. Editorally, this was a full feature in The Surfer’s Path, issue 103.
Extra special thanks to my dear friend, Rambo Estrada. You helped more thank you know, brother.
