A Texas Surfing Thanksgiving Vacation
December 1, 2003
by Michael Walls

“Dude, there’s a cold front coming in – some light, offshore breezes expected by tomorrow. Good day for surfing, mate,” said Darren, my Australian-born brother-in-law. “Good for these parts, anyway.”

For years I listened to Darren’s surf reports from around the world. From Australia to Northern California to Long Island, and now Southeastern Texas – tails of monster to moderate surf, temperatures from tropical to frigid.

“Rains expected late in the afternoon, but morning temps should reach 70, water temp about the same. Hopefully the wind won’t make it too choppy. How ‘bout it mate?”

“I’ll try anything once,” I say.

“No worries mate. Should be fun.”

So began my Texas surfing Thanksgiving vacation.

Sunday morning we rose early to chilly temperatures and a slight fog in the air. We loaded Darren’s longboard into the bed of his truck – and with board shorts on, travel coffee mugs in hand, we headed south from Houston to the beaches of Galveston.

Galveston is a tiny strip of sand jutting out into the Gulf of Mexico – known mostly for it’s offshore oil rigs and oil refineries. But for big surf-deprived Southeast Texas surfers, it offers the only opportunities to catch a point break or ride a rolling swell.

“We get tossers coming all the way down from Dallas to surf here whenever a storm comes through.”

As we barrel down highway 45, we pass a couple of other trucks, an SUV, a minivan – all with boards on top.

“See, as soon as the big waves show up, they all start to come out of the woodwork.”

I’m a bit apprehensive, as I’ve never surfed before, and Darren gets a kick out of telling his broken nose story, or discussing the sharks he’s seen off the West Coast. I get him to change the subject to giving me some pointers about surfing.

“Don’t get caught in a break. Try to get your board over it, or duck underneath it before it breaks. Otherwise, it’ll toss ya around and bounce you off the bottom.”

Great.

We reach the end of 45 and cross over a bridge to Galveston. The sun is starting to break through and looks to be burning off the fog a bit. As we cross the small island we come up over a gentle rise and suddenly there it is – the Gulf of Mexico. I only get out one word. “Holy…”

Darren looks out at the water. “Aww…it’s a washing machine.” The water is a boiling, churning mess of angry waves, without any distinguishable rhythm. “The wind is kicking up the chop. Let’s drive along and see if it’s any better further down the beach.”

We drive along Seawall Boulevard, with it’s run-down motels and shops along the left, and beach, as far as the eye can see, along the right. Out in the Gulf, through some breaks in the fog, against a gray sky, I make out a few oil rigs. Dark gray, motionless ghosts on the horizon.

A few miles later we start to see some vehicles parked along the side of the hurricane seawall. A few surfers stand atop the wall looking down at the beach and out into the surf.

“Here’s a few surfer dudes,” says Darren.

“Well they’re standing here, but I don’t see ‘em surfing,” I say.

“They’re out there – look.” He points out to the water.

I look and look, and finally see a half dozen bobbing figures, floating among the breaks. Far out past the frothing mass of choppy waves, that has my stomach churning in anticipation. “Jesus! They’re out far…”

“That’s where the swells are, mate. Let’s keep driving, see what else we got.”

We drive another mile or so and out of the fog, jutting out into the water is a massive pier – with a 6 or 7 story structure sitting on top. The Flagship Hotel.

“Right before the pier is usually a good spot.”

As we get closer it appears others know this spot as well. Cars are parked all along the beach and surfers and gawkers are milling around, eyes on the water.

To me, the water looks like the same bubbling, washing machine. But Darren points out the rhythm of the waves and the relative locations of the breaks.

“Oh, it’s still a mess, dude… But worth a paddle!”

He hangs a u-turn and heads back a half-block to a surf shop to get me outfitted. The surfer dude working at The Underground Surf Depot hooks me up with a longboard rental. “Try not to get any blood or teeth marks on it,” he says with a chuckle as I fumble with it out the door.

Back in front of the Flagship hotel we park, get out and stand alongside other surfers scouting out waves, watching the successes or failures of other surfers. I pretend to do the same, but I can’t distinguish between good waves or bad, and have trouble even catching glimpses of successful rides. I’m mostly just looking for sharks.

“Well, let’s get at it,” Darren says.

We pull our boards out of the truck and Darren lays his down and starts to add a layer of wax to the topside. I lay mine down and notice that the top of my board is already coated with a thick layer of wax, but with an added topping of embedded sand. I run my hand across it and it’s got a texture consistent with #80 grit sandpaper.

“Oh, mate…” Darren laughs. “You’re gonna have a good case of nipple rash tomorrow.”

We climb down to the beach, put on our ankle straps and march into the angry ocean. The tide is low, making it easy to walk out past the first couple of breaks. Still, the first big break grabs my board and flips it up over my head and I have to jump away to keep from getting clocked in the head.

Darren shows me how to keep the tip of the board over the break or how to duck under the water while dragging the board behind me.

We walk out until the water level is chest high, and I’m already tired from jumping up and over waves and getting knocked around. For every three steps I take, a wave knocks me back two. We finally jump on our boards, and immediately I feel vulnerable, unsure, and unsteady. I shift my weight front to back, back to front, to get a feel for it – recognizing the importance of being in the right position and being balanced. I keep the tip of the board up, start paddling and follow Darren’s lead further out.

The waves are bigger out here, thus the breaks are more powerful. I take a few head on, trying to paddle up and over them before they break. A couple break on top of me and I get sent backwards in a wash of white, choking on salt water. It truly is a washing machine, and as quickly as I get my board pointed in the right direction, another wave sideswipes me, knocking me off my board and giving me another uninvited drink. For a moment, I have a vision of Mark Wahlberg floating around the Atlantic Ocean during a hurricane at the end of The Perfect Storm. The only difference is I’m about 100 yards off the beach and can touch the sandy bottom in between waves.

We finally find a spot where the swells are temporarily breaking behind us. We sit up and watch some of the other surfers fighting the same battle. I watch them paddle in front of a swell, just as it’s about to break, and take off with shot – sometimes jumping up to their feet, other times just ditching for one reason or another.

Darren decides to show me how it’s done, rather then try to describe it. He turns his board around and waits for a particular swell rolling our way. When he spots it, he starts to paddle furiously. Suddenly, the wave is on top of him – but instead of rolling past him, it picks him up and shoves him forward. He’s no longer paddling, and in an instant pops up on his feet and is surfing. Darren rides for about 30 seconds before the wave dies and he falls back into the water.

I’ve seen my share of surf movies and documentaries to realize that this is just amateur hour, a surfer’s kiddie pool – compared to the monster waves in other places around the world. But for me, this is new – something to conquer, something to check off my list of “things-to-do-before-I-die.”

I paddle around trying to get a feel for it. I’m having a hard time timing the waves, and they mostly roll past me. Darren helps me out by giving me some coaching. As I lay on my board, pointing towards shore, I look over my shoulder at the oncoming waves. Darren’s sits on his board watching the same waves, saying, “Hold on, hold on…” Finally, he sees a wave that looks to be right and starts yelling at me. “Paddle mate! PADDLE!!”

I start paddling like a madman, but don’t feel like I’m making any headway. Suddenly my board starts to rise and I’m being thrust forward with great speed. Darren had given me instruction on how to “pop-up” onto my feet, but at the moment the only thing I feel like doing in holding on for dear life. I’m gripping the board tightly with both hands as I gain even more speed – faster than I had imagined. I feel like there’s a school of dolphins pushing me along, as it’s hard to believe a simple wave could be doing this. And even thought I’m laying flat on the board, and probably look like a total wuss, I let out a good ol’ fashion Texas-style “Yee-haw!”

The wave pushes me all the way back to the beach, so now I have to make the tough trek back out past the breakers. But this time I’ve got a grin on my face, and a new confidence.

When I get back out there, I tell Darren I’m ready to “surf”. We go through the same start routine, with Darren spotting waves for me. He gives me the green light with some motivational screams and I start my paddling. As I feel the wave catch me, I push up with my hands and try to “pop-up” onto the board. The result is a sloppy, unbalanced landing and I go head-over-teakettle into the water.

My second attempt is more successful, as I manage to hold an upright position for nearly 5 seconds. And finally my third try yields a somewhat balance, “surfer” pose.

Just as I’m getting cocky about it, I have my first real “wipe-out”. I’m spotting my own waves now, and I see a monster coming. I start paddling and feel the swell underneath me. But I’m not moving fast enough, and I’m starting to see frothy, breaking waves on either side of me, overtaking me. Suddenly the nose of my board disappears below the water and gets sucked out from underneath me. I get crushed by the break, and get tossed and bounced around under water. I poke my head up just in time to see my board getting spit up about 10 feet into the air.

I recover my board, cough up some salt water and check to make sure my board shorts are still clean. I paddle back out to a laughing Darren who says, “Duuude, that was a monster wave!”

We spend the next couple of hours trying to sort out the good waves from the bad. I have a few more good rides, but nothing I’d consider flawless. And for every good ride I had, I could count five crash-and-burns.

I spend some time watching other surfers, and start to recognize the levels of others. Out of the dozen or so other surfers, no one in particular is impressing me – except some dude with long blonde hair. But as Darren points out, “If you have long blonde hair, you have to be a good surfer.”

I tell Darren I’m having difficulty lifting my arms, no less able to paddle anymore, so we decide to call it quits. He suggests we ride our boards all the way into shore, to lessen our walk. So when the next big swell rolls our way, we paddle side-by-side and catch it perfectly. Cruising along at a rapid pace, I'm feeling it, and decide to push myself up on my arms and jump to my feet. Darren looks over at me, surprised to be staring at my feet, then looks up and yells, “DUDE! YOU’RE SURFING!!” I ride the wave all the way in.

The rest of the week I nursed a couple of sore muscles and aching ribs, as well as a bad case of nipple rash from the surfboard. We managed to get out again on Thanksgiving morning, but the surf shop was closed, so we had to share a board, and the waves weren’t as good. I did manage to watch The Endless Summer (1966) and Big Wednesday (1978), two classic surfer movies that, according to Darren, are a prerequisite for any serious surfer.

Aside from my aching muscles and bruises, I feel I have a brief understand for the culture of surfing. It’s not just a thrill-seek or extreme sport, or some sort of adrenaline rush. There’s a Zen-like sensation associated with surfing – a temporary detachment from the world, where it’s just you against nature.

Sitting out there amongst the swells and other surfers, watching the big ocean move and breathe, is an amazing experience and I can see how it can have an effect on you. And once you learn to ride the wave and become "one" with it, the fear and anxiety and nipple rash will become insignificant.

(Michael Walls is a volunteer staff writer for 2 Walls Webzine)