The mutant

I think that Ben drove that morning, it wasn't very cold but the coffee helped warm my spirits and stir the kinks out my brain from the previous night. He drives slow, careful and thoughtful of everyone around, meticulous and purposeful; we aren't in any hurry nor do we have a schedule to keep, so for now we get there when we get there. I like sitting in the passenger seat transfixed on the sights, the sleepy beach town passing me by as we rubber neck all the usual spots.

It was the first time I have been to this trail, in fact I usually don't surf in these parts too often, but on a whim it seemed like a good idea, besides, he is always up for an adventure and I can hardly get anyone else to follow along.

There were only a couple of images that captured my memory of that day, but the feel of the trip which it  embodied clings to the whole of my existence and I keep it in the treasure trove of memories. I remember the sheer amount of rabbits occupying the trail, munching on forage, hopping in and out of sight as we slid up the trail. Our path was partially hidden by coyote bush that hung low into the old farm road that had since been abandoned years before and now was guiding us to a large expansive field. The fog surrounded us but didn't sit to the ground, it was taking up the view of the tawny brown hills, a cool grey blanket that cut out the sight of the horizon where the trail was leading, what was beyond was kept secret.

As we wound through the open field you could feel animals playing a silent dance of predator and prey, hawk to field mice, fox to rabbit; the creatures of the nighttime were bedding down for a day of sleep while we were beginning ours. A large Eucalyptus tree hunched down beside the trail, its branches hanging sadly, waiting for the wind to sway and dance its boughs when the time comes. As our path shrunk from two wide to single file, the sloping hillside gave way to a gully and the heavy hand of moisture in the air gave way to a keyhole sliver of ocean. And so we walked further.

The second image that I remember so vividly was the fence that we ducked under, boards and wetsuits in hand tucked under cinched sweatshirts. I bent low to miss getting tangled in the loosely hung rusting barbed wire. The fence-line drew its course from the last wooden post at the edge of the bluff straight to the east up the hill and into the gray, disappearing in the fog. The thin wire commanded possession, but the slow and destructive appetite of water does not heed to anything, if the ocean weren't so hungry the fence would continue on forever. I usually don't condone trespassing, but I am willing to look the other way in the face of a goal, ours being a newly explored spot and amazing waves, both of which lie on the other side of the fence.

It was the first wave of the set, it was an indicator of what was in store, the sheer force and power of the break only revealed itself when I paddled a few strokes, brought my board under feet and was faced by a dump truck sized wall of crystal clear water bearing down on me. I did not make the drop, nor did I come close to making the section of perfectly almond shaped tube structure laid out before me; instead the mass swallowed me whole. It was unrelenting, it was powerful, and to add insult to injury, it was very shallow water. I slowly came to the surface; that was no ordinary wave, that is a mutant.

We surfed until our arms would no longer carry us into the waves; I was exhausted, I was spent, I was tired, cold and hungry and there was no way that you could wipe the smile off of my face as we walked the trail back.