Scoring Barrels and Belly Flops at Kelly Slater’s Surf Ranch

It’s dark.

I’m driving down Highway 99, heading toward California’s Central Valley, making turnoffs onto this very obscure road bookended by farm fields. I’m looking for Kelly Slater’s Surf Ranch, but I’m really looking for this casino hotel.

Every cloud of dust can be mistaken for something in the road. I’m from Texas, I can hang. I’m familiar with these backcountry two-lane highways funneling dirt vortexes at my cars’ headlamps. Trucks way too big for these tiny roads barrel by my car giving it a little shake.

Oooowee I pop on some Johnny Cash.

This highway is a mood—the perfect scene for a hitchhiking serial killer. I was raised in the 90s when stranger danger thrived and when you combine it with watching one too many murder documentaries, you know better than to pick up slack jawed mystery folks in the dark.

Thoughts are disrupted and my heart rate jumps when a large semi barrels down the other side of the tiny highway shaking my Subie and kicking up a dust storm in its path. My nostrils thank me as I blast the air vents to avoid inhaling farm chemicals, burnt rubber and trucker exhaust. I toggle between freezing, adrenaline and sweat, much to my air vents’ dismay as it finally earns its keep. I think ‘No wonder people go crazy’–sheer sensory deprivation and good luck if you are harboring demons. The chemical fumes are mind-altering and isolation maddening. It’s like Timothy Leary meets Charlie Manson meets Gollum.

There’s no doubt a small, anti-social part of me wishes I could just make a hard left toward the coast and find some colder lonelier peaks, but I think of the place I’m surfing tomorrow–it has “lonely” peaks too sans submarine-sized sharks and one hell of a price tag. I’ve got 46 miles to go on my 210-mile trip–where is this casino? It should light up the sky, but the darkness swallows any evidence like a black hole.

A few more turns and the casino appears like a beacon atop Gondor—and I call for (sleep) aid.

I find the front desk and a few non-gambler-looking guys from Stab, strike up a conversation to learn they are, in fact, also nervous as hell to surf Kelly Slater’s coveted wave.

With Surf Ranch in our media sights, we call it a night after a few beers and don’t sleep a wink.

Who needs an alarm when you have a cocktail of adrenaline and anxiety? I’m up before my alarm doing my standard morning stretch and push-up routine knowing that it doesn’t make up for the weeks of no surfing–life, death and managing all of the above will do that. I’m just here for the party.

First one to get to the Surf Ranch, I stare at the gate, willing it to open and expecting the gate to be bigger considering the sheer size of the pool—looks are already deceiving. Behind the smallish, unassuming gate is a pool that is seven football fields long and hosts one-minute-plus rides.

My mouth goes dry and my heart thumps so loud I can hear it echo in the pit of my stomach. I am in, I have my own locker intermingled with the dudes—watch the towel changing, guys.

My first heat is at 10:00 a.m.

Heat—I’m in a…heat? It’s stacked? I’m fucked.

 There are TV monitors everywhere you turn—never miss a minute.

And who might my judges be? Surf media, surf industry leaders and pros. No biggie.

10:00 a.m. arrives way too soon, I’m about to shit my pants. I smile and can feel my throat tighten like the anxious grin that’s plastered on my face. I ordered a fruit plate filled with my favorites—watermelon, blueberries, strawberries—I counted on one hand how many pieces I ate and began to pace the grounds. I tell myself—no one actually cares about my surfing. I’ll be fine.

The air temp is a comfortable 85 degrees Fahrenheit and climbing, the water is a balmy 80 degrees Fahrenheit, clear and glassy. Picture perfect.

The only thing close to sharks were the photogs swimming about to catch the perfect shot. We “paddle out” next to a structure, classic rock and 90s alternative blares over the speakers. I’ve got a jet ski full of surf coach cheerleaders screaming and hooting my name—shouting encouragements because they know I’m terrified. My mouth goes drier than the Central Valley air, my tongue is numb and my surf coach super duper mellow.

Suddenly I hear over the loudspeakers: “CT4”

Heart palpitations begin. The wave appears out of nowhere it seems as a train barrels down a track. In a brief moment of humor and desperate attempt to distract myself, I wondered if anyone ever rides the train.

“Yeah Jackieeeee!!!” yell the surfer girls on the ski.

Turn around, shakily paddle, confused as hell—where do I aim my board agai—oh shit. The wave rolls right underneath me and the next person takes it.

My mouth has now become sandpaper. I hang my head in surfer shame. Not too long after: “CT4”—I miss it–again. Buh bye, $2,000 waves. I felt like whatshername in that movie where her big moment at Pipe is finally here and she chickens out. I’m looking pretty bad right now. Finally, the coach pushes me into my third wave, a CT4, or an intermediate wave, and I’m off and runnin’ down a dream, a la Tom Petty.

See, audience who is no doubt watching from all the monitors? I actually can surf, I promise.

Wave number four earns back some confidence and I call for a CT3, a rippable wave that ends with a barrel.

The jet ski full of my favorite cheerleaders follows me screaming and coaching me the whole way. Brooke tells me to get to the bottom of the wave, and I stall, think about Nicaragua and drop it like its hot, booty waaaaay out. I can feel the lip pouring over me and for a brief second, get the view every surfer craves and think—I can do this!!

I’m doing it!!

I’m….going over the falls!! Smash, flip and flop.

I forgot how many somersaults I did, but I didn’t hit my head—that much I’m stoked about.

I come up sucking air.

Heat descends on our troupe, job requirements kickstart my brain’s serious mode as water drips from my nostrils. I sit down giggling and tweaking out on adrenaline. It is currently impossible for me to stop smiling. I think I made a few of the media guys giggle.

“Want another hit?” asks the media gal.

I nod with enthusiasm as if someone just gave me a sample of the best drug on the market, she giggles and now, I get another one—adrenaline. No wonder these athletes dedicate their careers to this. The water has my brain in a trance dance and now I don’t feel so out of place.

Heat two was nothing but CT3s and me attempting to ride the barrel only resulting in belly flops and crashes each time. But I’m just proud that I tried. I could have done that all day and still been stoked. Every time I surfaced, despite being out of breath from the hold down, I came up smiling and stoked. I bet if I keep trying I could eventually get barreled and come out, I thought.

What was once a spasmodic mad dash through darkness came out the other end in a proverbial spit of glory. The surf coaches unanimously gave me ‘Wave of the Day’, which earned me a cool T-shirt and a temporary hold on Kelly’s 6th world title trophy…in addition to being treated like an absolute queen.

Sent a few required bragging rights texts, got many “fuck you” responses and I don’t think I stopped smiling the entire three hour drive home.

My dad always wanted me to be a competitive swimmer like him, but I didn’t like the idea of waking up early, diving head first into a cold pool and eating powdered jello. But my dad still managed to get the ocean bug to bite me, which led to the surfing bug. He always got a kick out of my ocean adventures and would tell me about the time he learned to surf on the Jersey shore. He said he didn’t like surfing very much. Cut from the same cloth but used for different garments, I guess.

During my drive back, I kept saying out loud, “Dad, I know you had to have seen me today, right? You’d be so proud right now.”

At the end of the day,  I felt he already knew what I did. I didn’t have to say a thing.