Like Totally Bra…

Every body that surfs the shores of south eastern Virginia will tell you that there’s more waves in a bathtub than in the ocean. But this week had more than the usual droll of another “ankle-slapper” surf report. There was a storm brewing off the coast and it looked promising. It was between August 3rd and August 13th of 2004 and hurricane Bonnie was floating across the Atlantic. When I heard about this torrent of wave slashing power, I called all of my friends and immediately went through everything I needed to survive the weekend. The surf session of a lifetime was on. But little did I know that when my life was on the brink of ending, all those phone calls I made would give me a lot more than an unforgettable road trip.
It had to be no later than six a.m. when I made my first phone call to my surfing buddy Scott Sterling. After the phone chirped a few times I heard a voice on the other side.
“Dude, please tell me you’re thinking what I’m thinking” shoots across the line.
“I’m all ready like eight steps ahead of ya” I said throwing my board shorts. ”Are you gonna be ready in the next five minutes? I’m all ready to go.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ve been ready for like an hour now. Let’s hit the shit!” and with that the conversation ended. By the time the receiver hit the base on the wall I was out the door and in my car.
He was already outside when I pulled up in the driveway. I turned the car off and walked over to where he was waiting. We ducked inside and set up our base camp in his living room. We sat watching the news and Frisco was getting some pretty heavy surf. I couldn’t wait to leave because Frisco beach was only a three or four hour drive and I had plenty of gas if Scott pitched in. So I turned to Scott and asked him what he thought about the drive. But with waves that good and the Weather Channel giving the report, few words were spoken as we headed to the car.
Once we were on the road, it was smooth sailing. We made it to the outer banks in less than 2 hours and the next stop was Frisco. All that was left was to pray that there weren’t too many people there to crowd the best waves.
When we pulled up, there wasn’t a sole in sight. The waves were breaking about a quarter mile off shore and they were big. The official tally was 17 to 20 feet in seven wave sets. So after a bit of a workout, we crossed through the breakers.
After my first few waves, I started to drift pretty hard toward the pier that was north of us. I figured if I caught one in, I’d walk down the beach and paddle back out. Well that’s where my troubles began. I took off on a smaller wave and misplaced my leading foot. I slipped off my board and was crushed so hard by the lip of the wave that my feet folded over my head to the point where I could feel the back of my knees touching my shoulders. My right side was hyper extended so severely that I separated my floating rib and left stretch marks that looked like a purple lightning bolt. That first hit hurt so bad it knocked the wind out of my lungs and clouded my vision. I fought the pain with one hand and swam away from the pier with the other but it just wasn’t going to happen. Wave after wave came down on me like buildings in a demolition project. But right before I thought I was in the clear, the pier sucked me in and there was no getting away. So the next thing I did was not the smartest decision I have ever made, but I did it. I charged the pier.
As the first pylon came within arm’s length, I flipped my board up and braced for impact. The wave that pushed me into the pole forced my legs swing across the barnacles that were attached to the pylon and sliced through my skin like razor blades. Once I got some control back, I pushed off the pylon and started towards the other side. I didn’t get very far when I realized that my leash got wrapped around something underwater.
Once that happened, I gave up and I prayed. I prayed to be delivered from the mess I was in and for my life to be spared that day. Even though it seemed like I was under that pier for eternity, my leash gave way and I was pushed out the other side to safety. By the time I reached dry land my body and mind were shutting down. Tunnel vision, massive blood loss, and dehydration were taking effect. The last thing I remember was the car. I was done.
Since that day I have not touched a surfboard. There’s something about the water that gives me a feeling I never had before that. The ocean holds a new form of respect in my heart because of that day. It showed me that recklessness can come with a price I’m not willing to pay just yet. I now know that there was a purpose for those waves that day. The pier was north of us and not south for a reason. Even though I screamed at the top of my lungs for over an hour, no one heard me. And I was alone on the brink of death. There are more than 100 deaths in the coastal U.S. because of surfing accidents. That’s 12,383 miles of coastline in the U.S. including Alaska and Hawaii. That’s one surfer every 123 miles. Now I should have died but I didn’t. I survived without a single scar. I missed out on the statistic and stereotypical logic that comes with surfing. I’m just glad I’m alive.