drift, perspectives in surfing

Words: Ethan Jackson

Photos: Richard Tassin

South Carolina, August 16th to August 20th

Cue montage of phones ringing, computers scanning surf and buoy reports, more mobile phones ringing, emails being sent, faxes being received…
Soundtrack: Loverboy “Working for the Weekend”

From Monday to Thursday I received countless calls, texts, emails, and handwritten notes via carrier pigeons from fellow surfers discussing their plan of attack for the upcoming swell being generated by Hurricane Bill. It’s been flat for a long time. Folks were frothing and most were expecting a triple overhead swell to bomb our coastline. Some made plans to go to beaches that could hold big swell, some jumped in cars to position themselves in more favorable conditions in Florida or North Carolina, and some jumped in boats to hit secret spots. There were more theories and speculation than in an Oliver Stone fan club.

Friday, August 21st

For me, I like to show up early and get on it, checking too many spots takes the fun out of it. I made it to the Washout at Folly Beach on Friday after work along with every other surfer this side of Atlanta–there were even tags from Mississippi. It was head high and choppy. One buddy got his card pulled early and cut the top of his foot pretty good with his fin. He asked the doc to put in staples so he could get out the next day. It felt good to get in the water and wash away the drive with big water, but the real deal was predicted for the next morning. The local media made it sound like Al-Qaeda would be arriving by water on Saturday morning and no one should be near it. The local shops were not renting boards due to insurance liability. Thank you, guys.

Fortunately a friend set me up in a place alone in Charleston that night, where I spent the evening screwing in fins, hydrating, stretching and getting to bed early. I was set to meet my injured friend and another CKS gang member at 6am. That night I halfway slept and checked my watch every hour or so to make sure I didn’t miss the alarm.

Saturday, August 22nd

I awoke out of a dead sleep at 4:45am. We arrive at the beach and it’s pitch black with stars still shining. It’s definitely cleaner. We decided to take out longboards. It didn’t look too big and the period was so long that you could make it out. It never fails that it’s always bigger than it looks from the beach. We clawed into some overhead sets on longboards and make ‘em clean. Sick. After a few too many to the beach, I couldn’t get the log back out, so I darted in for my shortboard. In the meantime, my compadre smacked the side of his face so hard on the water that he ruptured his eardrum. Alpine had already gotten hacked on the foot and now this. We expect him to receive a purple heart and he left the water wishing us luck. RC and I continued to trade double overhead bombs until our arms stopped working. The crowd was thin, with a “we’re all in this together” survival surf vibe. Two guys even tried to get out in sea kayaks only to get their asses handed to them.  Post session chow down at the Lost Dog, compare notes with our sworn enemy and friend from the Machies, TM–and the waves kept coming. One more afternoon session at low tide with choppy, mixed up, chunky wedges.  Other friends took off in a boat to an empty line up that fires, we cry uncle and call it a day.

Sunday, August 23rd

I woke out of a dead sleep at 4:45am, grabbed the worst cup of coffee that a gas station can offer and followed the same drill, down to the Washout with RC. It was head high, easy paddle out with noticeably more people in the line up. I took a longboard so I didn’t have to sit back with the herd. It was much different; more fun, more ripable surf. However, there is always a drawback to that. After a couple of hours, the real numbers showed up and was elbow to elbow. It was like all of Charleston turned out to guard the beach, locking arms in the water so that no wave could pass. There were the typical flare ups, tempers lost and fits had. It still trips me out to see a 40 year-old screaming, in all seriousness, “I’m gonna kick somebody’s ass today!” at little kids. Apparently, this old thug needed a hug. Our session ended as the tide filled in and we went to talk more story with TM. We found the rest of the CKS, who got their fill of Bill at another spot: JB, AC and AB have smiles of post surf bliss.

You couldn’t ask for anything more from Bill, the one that finally delivered and put this grown-ass man to bed at 8pm.