Rodrigo Koxa Go Bigger Big Wave charger Nazare Portugal

Big Wave Fever: Portugal

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Ericera surf town

Ericera, Portugal and a point picking up some swell.

I told ya I have a bad travel bug. Thanks for your patience with my obsession, I promise it is subsiding as I am realizing my bed has never felt so good. Work has also been sending me on a few trips and that more than anything has made me miss certain routines and my kitchen hobbies and kitties.

As I become more adult-ish, it’s easy to see my dad’s perspective and understand the person he was. He was an avid traveler, mostly for work, but found adventures in it and made friends everywhere he went. Though both of us are different in many ways—he never met a stranger and I see them everywhere—we are similar in the sense that we love experiencing new places. As long as those places have a reputation for being awesome and full of adventure.

And Portugal was.

In fact, I asked my dad before he passed, if he could go on one trip with me anywhere, where would it be?

He would vary in responses, sometimes Jacksonville for a fishing trip or the Caribbean, back to his favorite island, St. John, but this time he said Portugal. He and I laughed when he explained that the food is supposed to be excellent.

I’d like to think my dad goes with me everywhere I go—for me, there’s been definite signs he’s there. And if I share with you how I know, maybe you’ll think I’m a loon, but at this moment, I knew he wouldn’t miss this trip.

First leg was a 12-hour flight to Munich with an eight hour layover where I attempted to explore a tiny bit of Germany. The second leg was to Lisbon, a starkly different experience than my mini-German stint. Cold, wet humidity hung heavy with the smell of the sea and overtook my nostrils the second we left the plane.

Everyone had been coughing and hacking on the ride to Munich. I hesitated to breathe in the air because I am a germaphobe.

During the entire duration of my Lisbon flight, a lady refused to let one bit of silence settle in the otherwise quiet plane ride and proceeded to, what I suspect, henpeck who I thought was her partner in the seat beside me. I can’t tell you who was exhausted more—myself or him. All this drove me to my propolis throat spray though I later came to find out this didn’t matter.

First night was an interesting hotel in Lisbon where I attempted to de-germ myself…I shouldn’t have slacked on my zinc, I thought, as I reorganized my packing. The next morning, I found croissants, Nutella and a cafe Americano and then my rental car—Ericeira was my next stop.

Belem Portugal pastries

Pasteis de Belém and a cafe in Lisbon, Portugal.

Renting a car seemed like the right ticket for me though, a bus sounds better for future Jackie. Nervously gripping the wheel, I’d catch glances of landmarks and architecture but have to quickly pay attention—European drivers are a force to be reckoned with. I’d frequently miss my turnoffs through the many roundabouts and got lost more times than I could count, despite Google

Maps. In fact, one of my miscalculations had me literally off-roading on what appeared to be a one-way path down a dirt road reminiscent of a greener Baja. It was a local road in Sintra and irritated Europeans would come rip-roaring from the other direction, though I couldn’t exactly pull off to the side as there was a very old stone wall to one side and a nice 10-foot ditch to the other. My face would burn from stress and embarrassment, or maybe that was the fever? Oh yes, for the first time in my adult life, I got sick during a trip.

My long, toll road-free drive found me cruising down cobblestone streets of Ericeira, Portugal’s equivalent to San Clemente, in my opinion. Hurley, Billabong, Rip Curl all within a very short walk of me—even an immersive surf experience sharing all of Portugal’s protected surf spots or “surf reserves.”

The town welcomed me with open arms as I collapsed in my hotel. Every night I ventured out, I found new friends to chat with—the first night a young German girl and an older Italian guy who talked of secret Euro surf spots and trips to Bali and “nothing is more gnarly than New Jersey.” The second night, a young French girl and an Argentinian guy, who described their surf world tours, whimsical ideals—all conversations about surf, all perpetually stoked, most eager to learn everyone else’s story when egos weren’t involved.

Then the fever hit me like a ton of bricks, right when the swell started to arrive—I didn’t realize it at first and walked to Praia Do Sul to check the waves. I couldn’t understand why I had no energy. I had a fair amount of pasta the night before. Could one espresso martini really put me under like this? Nah.

I found a bench grounded on the rocks right where the right-hander was breaking…barely. A guy, who for some reason, insisted on wearing no booties but donned a helmet, carefully negotiated the rocks to jump off into the break. I chuckled to myself. He was carrying a potato chip board and the waves were barely allowing logs in. They stood up outside and teasingly died as they mushed to shore. I was trying to picture myself paddling out.

big waves Portugal Nazare

Belly of the beast, Nazare, Portugal.

I could, I should paddle out…but I don’t want to. I sincerely don’t want to fight for mush and quite possibly pass out from exhaustion. Holding my head up feels excessive right now. I regrouped back at my hotel—everything smelled awful and nothing tasted good. My tummy bubbled. Did I exceed the dairy budget? I didn’t hold back on croissants, pastel de natas and espresso, that’s for sure. After barely surviving my drive through Sintra, I collapsed in my hotel room to deduce that from my aches and hot/cold sweats I had a fever. I was due at Maria Fernanda’s big wave photography workshop the next day, but I feared I wasn’t going to make it. I scoured Dr. Google, which only made my anxieties worse. I called my travelers insurance who told me I could certainly go to hospitals that were several hours away, I even called United to see if I could hitch a ride back home for fear I had something more serious. Comfort was needed, but the time difference made passing ships of all my friends except Cassie, who feigned to the hotel front desk that she was my mother and that I would be staying an extra day, of which she paid for. My other friend Heather put me in contact with her travel agent for advice and Debbie checked on my kitties, much to my crazy cat mom paranoia. Maria messaged me every hour, worried and offering a driver to pick me up. Friends are terrific. I am so lucky.

Finding comfort food in a foreign country is challenging when you are sick, the least of all trying to find the Portuguese equivalent of chicken broth and saltine crackers and ginger ale felt impossible. But I committed to the bit—I’d quarantine myself for the evening for one day and would do everything I could to break the fever. Arrested Development was my only solace until I found crackers and sprite at a grocery store via Uber Eats—Uber Eats! What a decade we live in.  Everything else had dairy or sugar or required physical effort.

Hoping for a nice tuck-in inside of Nazare.

The fever broke the next day and I decided to stay in bed and rest, unfortunately missing the first day of Maria’s workshop. Sunny, her business partner descended upon my quarantined encampment like an angel bringing medicines and two different types of soup to save the day. She felt my forehead and said I was warm—back to the battlefield I go. If I wasn’t so worn out, I would have hugged her tighter. Maria still making every effort to get me to Nazaré.

The next day, I woke up with more color in my face and was determined to leave the stinkiest hotel room I’ve ever stayed in—the smell leaked through a drain in the bathroom and would make me gag every time I used it. Nazaré never sounded so good, despite my lack of energy, though I would miss the apnea training by the time I arrived. Maria’s hugs alone are a cure all—the second I pulled into OHAI Resort, excitement got the better of me. The last time I saw Maria, she was riding on a motor bike with her friend in Sumatra heading to— for another epic photography adventure.

This adventure had Maria and Sunny teaching a small group of students including myself exploring all things surf photography in the water, jet ski and on land at none other than Portugal’s premier big wave spot: Nazaré

No joke, this was the real deal. Skills endemic to surviving big surf while capturing stunning images, like breath work, paddling techniques, the importance of CPR and first aid, reading the waves, understanding ocean safety all paired with in-water photography sessions. Photographers are truly an unsung hero out in the lineup—literally carrying a weight out in the water to capture beautiful waves and surfers charging said beautiful waves.

The cake tho? That was the jet ski experience. If one thing wiped the sick slate clean as well as the last month of intense work days and travel, it was this.

big wave surfing Nazare Portugal

The biggest off-the-life I’ve ever seen in person.

I’ve never been sky diving or heli skiing, but I imagine jet skiing out to and in the Nazaré lineup during a swell, granted the beginnings of one—we will call it “small” for the Herculean humans in the big wave world, is a similar feeling. Antonio “To” Cardoso was my jet ski driver and didn’t hesitate to gun it out of the harbor with me whooping and laughing as we jaunted over the swell and out to the rocks. I had seen images like this in surf movies—photographers capturing the ride out to Mavericks or Nazaré, but now that was my reality, and in the distance, “small” mounds of water stood up and broke outside. I’d watch jet skis whip surfers into waves as they’d drop in like ants on the silver faces. “To” would take me right in front of a breaking wave or on the shoulder as it detonated 15 feet below our ski. We would watch the Go Bigger team drop in and carve the face smoother than Thanksgiving turkey. It was as though they were skiing down a double black diamond—carving inverted sections, only I don’t think a floater was warranted but one surfer busted an air as though perfectly posed for my little iPhone lens—it’s so cute, you guys.

My eyes were wide with excitement and everything I saw made my heart explode in sheer confetti-style stoke. There was what felt like organized chaos—jet ski drivers and tow surfers zipping in and out, paddle surfers, walkie talkies, conversations and pure stoked in Portuguese verbals. Huge peaks crumbling and barreling left and right. I had surf lineup ADD and taking it all in was, at one point, overwhelming the senses, dizzying almost. My instinct was to figure out the break and the peaks and the landmarks and there was constant action, no time to focus. Adrenaline rushed through me similar to when I’d cover a breaking news story involving SWAT or police. Heart thumping but man, I’m ready.

Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and practically blown away at Supertubos.

But To paid special attention to the horizon, always focused, always safe and always ALWAYS stoked, pointing out great shots for my wittle baby lens. The teams all work together to ensure the safest and most fun surf session for everyone. I don’t think I saw one angry person out there—smiles ear to ear. I could get used to this contagious vibe.

There was a healthy amount of fear when an outside set would come through but I had the luxury of escaping certain destruction with To’s insane ski skills. I felt safe, in fact, we rescued the same surfer who busted the fat air. He was caught inside, so we gave him a lift on the ski and had some blood trickling from his nose, but the sandy-haired fellow was all smiles and laughs as we drove him to his Go Bigger teammates. I caught sights of Mykayleah — on her hot pink —name of board—

High fives from Rodrigo Koxa, founder of Go Bigger team and world record holder, after he scored an insane left.

Rush after rush, wave after wave, I had more energy than I had been in the last three weeks with the biggest smile to boot. Adrenaline pumping, words are escaping me and thoughts can only be expressed through the photos, though I am kicking myself that I had no DSLR, but the iPhone worked out okay.

And my, how the lighting terrifically changed the mood of the place. Photographer Ryan Osmand and I were the first on the skis, which gave us grey skies and moody clouds. Analia —-and Natasha —-saw the sun come out the second they stepped onto the ski, which made their photos dazzling hues of blue and transformed the canktanerous grey barrels into deep blue caverns.

Each one of these  photographers shared a special talent that reverbs in my memory—their struggles, their feats, their successes and journeys reflect in each piece they capture and edit. An expressive bunch, it motivated me to be curious about water photography—always thinking it was for very talented people with expendable budgets and technical minds. But like anything, if there is a will, there’s a way.

And after our day out at Nazaré, we were bedazzled with overwhelming emotion that only expressed itself through our feverish edits and ravenous appetites (mine came back!) Just in time for a traditional Portuguese dinner at Rosa Dos Ventos, courtesy of our talented mentors Maria and Sunny.

As we were walking down the street to the restaurant, I could hear the surf pounding, tenderizing the beach through the dark, thick sea air. The restaurant hung images of fishermen pulling in their catch while the surf exploded over the rocks in the background and I just kept wondering about life before Google Maps and Uber Eats. Before Surfline and buoy readings, surf report hotlines and cars that yell at you when you speed. The connection with the sea felt deep in the brief time I experienced Portugal. Wouldn’t mind coming back…maybe with some Imodium in tow.

Some video footage, too.

As seen on Frothy Fools.

I‘ve also got tips to share on The Inertia.

Some video footage, too. 

Sampling the North Shore

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I can’t tell if it’s the cold brew or the sheer adrenaline feeling I get from sitting on the sand and watching Pipe explode in glorious and violent close outs, but in short—I got the shakes.

Boogies are out, nary a surfer in sight, but plenty of people and tourists, including me, trickling onto the sandy arena to watch what most of the world spies on from a Surfline cam and jaded North Shore locals snooze through: walled Pipeline

north shore oahu pipeline

For a brief moment, a window in the wall at Pipe.

 

No shame in acting like a tourist now, as I hide in the shade, perched in front of bushes. My phone battery is about to die, but I’m trying to capture any semblance of the iconic break showing its face for the boogies charging. I gotta pee so bad, but that urge is corked the second a set rolls through, my heart pumping, my eyes searching for a clean wave.

Nope! As a boogie pulls out to save their neck.

I wonder where Polly is surfing as I pontificate, watching waves detonate on the reef and burst onto the sand. She would be surfing today, she charges.

I hear Pidgin and Portuguese; my stomach screams for food from the previous night’s lilikoi cocktails at Turtle Bay with Christie. I’m due at Emily’s house and then KK’s on South Shore, not sure how I’ve made it this far running around nonstop, surfing with some of my favorite surfer girls, and eating more poke than I care to disclose.

Between this and my recent serving gig at a sushi restaurant, mercury poisoning might be a thing if I keep up the pace of eating what feels like the Pacific Ocean’s entire tuna population.

There is an energy to North Shore—one that separates you from the hustle and bustle of the outside world and keeps you obsessed. A beautiful and strange culture clash of trust fund kids or the insanely rich shooting the breeze, tourists with surface level thoughts of surf lore, and those scraping to get by in the name of surfing, well, really, big wave surfing. All here to take in more than just the plumeria scent that dances on every breeze twisting and blowing toward the next rain cloud that hosts a rainbow on every corner. Starbucks? Nah, rainbows—everywhere. And they get you hyped, too, heart pounding in fact. It’s like the earth just smiled at you and no matter what mood you’re in, you smile back because: rainbows and North Shore.

But for kicks, drink some coffee, because it’s pretty damn good, too.

Pipe ebbed and flowed in a soupy fashion with swells marching over the lesser groomed sandbars and reef—supposedly the sand needs to move around more and the west swells can help with that from what the girls tell me. But as a tourist, I’m here to watch and observe, zero percent desire to paddle out, just watch it up-chuck boogies like frogs ejecting themselves from a hot frying pan. A cleaner, much more frightening freight train version of Newport’s Wedge. Not at the level of literally feeling the ground shake, but I’ll take it, my bucket list mostly satisfied.

The last time I stumbled upon Ehukai Beach, it was the week of the Fourth of July in 2009, and some kind of wind swell showed up. I had no idea at the time where the hell this break actually was, but I was there at hallowed ground all the same. No match for the raw power combusting in front of me now—shape be damned.

surfer girls north shore oahu chuns reef

Great to be back and surfing with these chargers.

I could’ve passed out in the sand from all the hopscotches I’ve played for the last several days, but hunger drives me onward to Hale’iwa town to Emily and a breakfast burrito with kalua pork calls my name.

North Shore makes you start over—square one, except you face moving carpet currents, at similar annoyance levels of HB. Small is firing by SoCal standards, at least that’s what I kept telling KK when we were out.

“If you weren’t here, I might not have paddled out today, it’s small and windy,” she laughed in between blustery north wind sets.

“Really? You’d be surfing with 50 of your best friends if this were California,” I joked back.

For the second time this year, I felt like a Floridian, only this time I was frothing over what some consider small waves, still shoulder to head high on me. First time Floridian feels was during the SurfAid donation rally, where I was met with afternoon chop slop waves—something that our east coast kinfolk are accustomed to.

My opening day on North Shore began paddling out with Tori at Shark’s Cove to a spot called Laniakea, or “Lanis.”

A familiar sight: KK’s smiling and sunglassed mug in the lineup, all three of us wearing team black surf suits—mine finally worn the correct way (hint: ask KK about the incorrect way). I tried out Tori’s XO Coco Bliss 5’3 fish. Waves were extremely manageable and fun, and fish was fast enough to make the sectiony lefts.

But because it was North Shore, my heart was still in my throat and all I could hear in my brain were the tall tales from books and friends back home who had surfed it a million years ago, pre-kids, pre-mortgages. Talking to me as though every story was a precautionary tale, as though I might drown in those random, bigger sets, while my Hawai’i friends laughed and hooted when a bigger set came through.

Sure, bigger sets would come through and my eyes would go wide, but somewhere in between KK’s laughs and the pit of my stomach, I managed to crack a smile and sing a song out loud—much to KK’s dismay:

pipeline bathroom north shore oahu

I’m guessing this was an add-on…

“Pinky pony club! I’m gonna keep on dancing down in West Hollywood!” I busted out

“Damn, Jackie, now that’s in my head, only I changed the lyrics because some grom kept paddling right in front of me last minute—‘get out of the way…grom stop dropping in on me,’” she chimed to Chappell Roan’s tune.

I laughed and continued to sing it every time the horizon darkened.

As soon as I took a wave, I got the jitters out; there were maybe four other people out. Everyone else saved their energy for what came later in the week and where one might eventually find my tired ass burrowed in the sand at Pipeline.

Chuns, Piddlies, Hale’iwa and Lanis some more—nothing death-defying, just sampling and exploring. I forgot about the size for two seconds after my obnoxious singing and KK helped me crack a smile. Then I wondered what my reaction would be if I saw a solid triple overhead wave—I might short-circuit…or maybe need some loudspeakers.

Christie says I could handle it. I chuckled because she has an impact vest and gets towed regularly, so she surfs that size no problem.

“Seven seconds, Jackie, that’s the most you actually get held down. You’d be fine.”

Regardless, it makes me proud to know these gals. Maybe I should stick to my “exposure therapy” strategy.

In Terminator fashion (because what else would you expect a Connor to say): “I’ll be back.”

 

As Published on Frothy Fools

Mentawais west sumatra boat ride

The Mentawais: a Fever Dream Come True

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surfboards mentawais boat big wave babes

A small sample of all the boards–we could have opened our own board shop. Photo: Maria Fernanda

You know that feeling when one day blurs into the next? One that makes you completely disregard time? I feel like that only happens when things are going really good or really bad. This is really good, for the first time in a long time.

I went on a surf retreat and it was truly a fever dream come true, life-changing and I met some great friends. Located off the coast of Western Sumatra, my path to get there began at 3:00 a.m. with my friend dropping me off at LAX where I flew to SFO to meet the ladies who invited me. We then flew for 16 hours from SFO to Singapore and crash-landed at the Crowne Plaza. The next day, we flew from Singapore to Jakarta and then to Padang, where we stayed one night. The NEXT day, we caught the fast ferry to Pulau Silabok and Sunset Surf Villas.

Remote. Far gone. Fuck it.

We surfed several breaks in the Mentawais: Ombuk Tidur, Tikus, Suicides, Telescopes, and Icelands …the biggest surf I’ve ever been out in my life. Stoked, humbled, scared, amazed, and inspired, I walk away with a newfound respect for the ocean, my fellow women surfers (& Pingui “Weii!”) and myself. I learned so much from this trip and am beyond grateful for the opportunity to have spent two weeks in Southeast Asia and the Mentawais, a place that is notoriously difficult to travel to, with a completely different culture and reality altogether.

But these women inspired me—they inspired me to explore, to reach within myself and find the confidence to push myself literally over the edge, even if it wasn’t THE bomb, per se. It was my bomb.

So honored to be amongst these big wave babes. Photo: Maria Fernanda

I have written all the board dimensions and phone numbers down, toasted a few Bintangs, found a couple of shells, watched the rain come and go with the occasional rainbow and laughed a TON, (abs are coming back finally—weee!) and have a head full of salt water and smiles. Mentawais, you are a total fever dream.

 

My friend Tiffany invited me to go with her and her friend Raquel on a surf adventure with Big Wave Babes, a group that aims to empower women to tackle the big waves in and out of the water–together. Polly Ralda, professional big wave surfer, launched this group and charges Nazare’s mountainous walls of water. Maria Fernanda, professional big wave photographer, was capturing every beautiful moment alongside Lolo Pak, drone queen with Professional Surfer Vicente “Pingui” Diaz coaching the babes.

I think I assumed this retreat would be more focused on teaching the basics of surfing bigger waves but, typical surfer crowd: if there’s surf, that’s what we are doing. And with froth to spare, surf we did. Every day at least twice a day. We couldn’t keep the calories in long enough to sustain us. So many electrolytes and Nutella consumed, so many bug bites, bruises and scratches earned, So. Much. Nutella.

And peanut butter.

Thank God for KK’s Costco-sized jar.

A few memories in particular—The first time we surfed a spot called Telescopes, I got to experience what it was like to get caught in a squall while surfing. Telescopes offered perfect barreling lefts and a ton of people. At one point, Polly was telling us to just take off on waves, no one is being courteous here. So, we did. Sat in the channel for a bit and watched the rain clouds roll in.

jackie connor duck diving mentawais

Ombuk Tidur duck dive. Photo: Maria Fernanda

The first day was something out of a novel. The Ments was flexing this day, showing off her big beautiful blue walls of crystal clear water at Ombuk Tidur, aka: the sleeping wave. Photos bright enough to light up anyone doomscrolling Instagram news feed—God knows we need it. After all day travel through smelly hotels filled with smoke and stares, the 10 of us were hooting and hollering on the boat ride to Ombuk—didn’t matter what we would find, we were all just so stoked to be living the dream. Despite it being double overhead, none of us flinched; every single one of us jumped in the water and caught waves or wipeouts. Duck dives felt like a scalp massage.

The solid swell met us again at Tikus where she dazzled us with golden lighting, plus a gentle shower and a double rainbow bent over Tori’s smiling face.

She welcomed us with open arms that hugged our surfboards as we’d cruise down her wave faces, despite having just jumped off day three of travel to get there.

The Ments set the bar high for day one.

But Telescope’s storm—this rain was meant to chase us out.

telescopes mentawais sunset surf villas

I don’t think you can get more stoked. En route to Telescopes, before we got chased out by the rain.

I didn’t mind the light rain and declared that out loud—not but two minutes after vocalizing my rain welcoming, did it downpour. I waited a bit, drifted a bit, waves were well overhead on the sets but, funny thing was, I couldn’t see them. And as the downpour got heavier, I looked to the horizon to watch out for a set…but couldn’t see anything.

The rain was blinding and suffocating as it pelted down my face, with no success trying to shield my nose and eyes. I began to wonder if this was what waterboarding is like. It became so heavy, I had a hard time breathing and paddling at the same time.

Fortunately, the wind chopped the sets into little pieces and I made it back to the boat, completely soaked, freaked out  but stoked. My first sorta squall. Later that evening, we were woken up to the sound of loud slams and howling wind and rain. The real storm later paid our little camp a visit and blew everyone’s boards and beach gear into an even more chaotic mess than it already was before. Tiffany, Raquel and I scampered out of the bedroom and began collecting boards and gear while the wind and rain ripped through the beach. Polly, Maria and KK joined in on the fire drill to quickly collect the gear with Chappy yelling “fuck fuck fuck!!” In the background, stomping around like a deckhand managing a flailing sailboat on the high seas, collecting gear and stressing over our all girls troupe. I think if he could, he would make this an all-boys island.

We fashioned our board leashes around the boards so they wouldn’t fly away and gathered all the flyaway stuffs under heavier objects, like clam shells, or stuffed them in a corner. I ran out to the beach to find more gear blown under the house and leapt back up the steep wooden stairs soaked head to toe. Went to bed wet, woke up stinky.

The next morning, humidity, heat and mosquitoes descended upon our cabins, and there was no relief. A cruel joke, nighttime had cold showers and was the only time we could run AC and during the day, the shower was almost as warm as the ocean, which sat around 86 degrees. But it’s hard to argue with the imposed heat and the Mentawais weight loss regime of double surf sessions in pumping swell, sweating the calories as quickly as we could consume them and snorkeling with some of the craziest sea creatures: crown of thorns, angel fish, lion fish, coral, giant clams, Honu, parrot fish, basically anything you see in “Finding Nemo.” We were anything but miserable. Everyone kept having to pinch themselves—we aren’t dreaming because now there’s a bruise on my arm!

jackie connor surfer girl

One of my favorite boards in my quiver, just needed it to be a little longer. A freshie from The Guild. Photo: Maria Fernanda

Iceland’s first go-round made a human out of me again. Three sets of 8-12 foot waves on the head will do that and as I found the surface, each time more and more worn, I’d get in my head more and become more terrified. I know I have to face my fear, I thought, but today’s not the day. Defeated, I paddled to the channel and watched everyone get waves. Frustrated for not getting a single wave this session, I quietly pitched my own tantrum with myself and steeped in self-pity, asked my friend Brad for support, and he came in with all the best. The next day, FaceTime me to check in where we were both left smiling.

Icelands, session two, the redemption session, Pingui pushed me into my first wave, It definitely wasn’t one of the 10 foot bombs but it wasn’t small. And it was backside for me. I went with it and got the jitters out. After that, I took a few more waves on my own feeling more confident than ever before, silently throwing an imaginary big middle finger to those who didn’t think I’d ever send it. Roll it back, Jaclyn, I tell myself.

Lolo Pak surfer girl

The stoke is clear with Lolo Pak, drone queen and one of the most sendy surfer girls.

The waves made stark raving lunatics of us all, transporting us to a blue, terrifying and inspiring bliss and for a second, I thought we’d go “Chappy” stomping around, striking up random conversations, cursing and changing our minds every five seconds.

No, we were perpetually stoked—double, even triple overhead waves, chest high waves, running around the property as naked as possible, trying to find refuge in the shade or the ocean…imagine a month on Pilau Silabok. I think after the last jar of Nutella, we’d all be sun-scorched pieces of human jerky yelling “Wilson!” to our empty Nutella jars while stealing each other’s boards that weren’t already broken in half (thank you, Icelands and Pingui for sending Lolo on that bomb).

An ode to it all that humbled us, turned us feral for a second, had us laughing and posing for thirst trap photo shoots, because why not. Anything we could have dreamed, an all-women’s surf retreat became our reality for a week, two if you count the travel. Soon we will be back in the creature comforts of home—soft beds, hot showers, traffic and softer bellies, but hopefully not.

My mind is focused—I got a small sample of bigger surf and, maybe it’s the warm, clear and inviting water, but I’m intrigued. I want to try it out. I have to be distracted and not take it too seriously, don’t take myself too seriously and just have fun. Hawaii, the girls keep chanting, just need another board.

One thing I took away, perhaps one of the biggest from this trip: Commit to the wave—whether it all goes wrong or right. Just go for it.

sunset surf villas

Why it is called Sunset Surf Villas.

Evening surf session at Trestles

Summer South Swells Have (Finally) Arrived!

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SoCal surfer fireworks may have been a little late this year, but better late than never.

Trestles barbwires waking up

Barbwires spares no expense and generously gifts a few rare corners.

The latest and greatest run of south swell had me pushing my boundaries a bit with some serious size and heaviness, to boot. No doubt I expected my usual nervous surf twitch to take over while in the water, but alas! No twitch occurred, but my heart may have skipped a beat in its place.

The first day out was Friday, 7/15 when the chunky beginnings of the swell started to creep into the sets. A friendly guy who was charging shared some encouraging words with me and a very plain-faced fellow lady surfer who, despite his attempts, seemed jaded by his niceties. A few ringers came through and after dodging some bombs with no shape and learning how out of shape I am (ugh cardio!!), I decided it was time to go where I was met with more encouraging words from said dude with a pink lightning bolt board. Faith restored. I’ll be back.

upper trestles 2022 south swell

Who needs light? Let there be swell!

Saturday, I woke up knowing Trestles was going to be a shitshow and took my time drinking tea and eating toast knowing that potential craziness could ensue. Waiting for the early morning crew is always worth putting up with a little more wind to me. Early morning surfers never seem to warm up to a kind smile—must be the water/air temp that perma-freezes their resting bitch faces. Miles of cars lined Cristianitos as surfer traffic was at an all-time, reckless high in between bouts of young and throttle-happy Marines zooming through on their souped-up vehicles. Guys hooting, honking, coming back, heading down with stern or elated looks on briny faces about to be baptized in some Summer South Swell skimmed past my purview as I militantly put together my giant backpack. Careful, I thought as I heaved it onto my back and gingerly reached for my board…I might faceplant into the mystery sludge gutter.

The Uppers left and Barbs showed some real size on tap, and for a minute, I peered at the horizon as if half expecting a monstrous set that would change my mind. As I was walking to the water’s edge to paddle out, a lifeguard stopped me and said—”Are you okay to surf today? It’s pretty heavy out there.” I took a minute to pause and briefly reflect on his genuine concern for safety and kindly responded “yes, I’ll be fine” and found a channel where I enthusiastically, but still cautiously paddled out. I know my limits, mostly and though the boundaries were pushed when a big set would roll through that day, not once did I feel my life would be endangered. I caught several waves and beamed with pride though some locals still had that salty, RBF look. I don’t blame them—crowd became out of control with every Tom, Dick and Harry from the I.E. jonesin’ for their share of a sweet summer wall.

confessions of a surfer girl stoked shaka

Mission definitely accomplished.

Every wave, at least two or three people were clamoring, hooting, and throwing air fists at each other for their slice of a perfectly shaped wall. Uppers was a constant yard sale/speed bump trap with surfers taking very little mercy on those paddling back out. No thanks, the left and Barbwires were it for me.

Monday came and went with one eye on my new job and another spying the cams every hour with a Surfline report that read 6-10 feet. I called Malarky, so once again, Barbs and the left were the tickets, but there was indeed some more size—one wave in particular brought out that twitch a little and had me say “oh shit” really loud while everyone else hooted, paddling for the horizon with smiles on their faces. I had busted out my Terry Senate 6’0 step-up board that scored me some sick barrels in Nicaragua almost a decade ago. Despite my quiver preparations, the waves mockingly rolled through with not enough push like Saturday to get me into something decent. And then again—there’s the cardio issue.

Time to get back to bootcamp!

Summer swell bounty, she is a ‘plenty right now, my cardio may suck, but my muscles should be limber enough, thanks to my return to hot yoga…hopefully, everyone else gets too tired before the weekend.

Cheers to gorging ourselves on solid swell in SoCal!

 

Maya Gabeira Surfs Biggest Wave by a Female Surfer…Gets Blown Off by WSL

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On January 18, 2018, renowned Brazilian big wave surfer Maya Gabeira charged the mountainous peaks of Praia do Norte in Nazaré, Portugal. According to videographers, oceanographers and academics, her wave clocked in at 80 feet.

8-0, people.

Let’s take a moment to marinade on that number.

That’s eight stories tall…when the rest of us are shaking in our boots over 10 feet, multiply that by eight and that’s what Gabeira rode. The hard-charging waterwoman matched Garrett McNamara’s November 2017 record of 80-feet at the same break.

“Since 2013, I have been trying to bring the idea that we should have a women’s world record,” said Gabeira. “I started talking about it through emails with The Big Wave Awards, which, a couple years back, was bought out by the World Surf League. Since 2013, I have had very vague responses on it…nothing was clear at all.”

Aside from being one of the most decorated and pioneering females in the big wave arena, her 2018 wave was not Gabeira’s first record-breaker. In 2009, she broke the record for biggest wave ridden by a female at Dungeons in South Africa clocking a 46-foot ride, nearly half the size of her Nazare wave.

With her mind focused on riding the world’s biggest waves, Gabeira set her sights on Nazare’s massive size-holding capabilities, a wave that nearly ended the young charger’s life.

In 2013, Gabeira nearly drowned after wiping out and losing consciousness on a massive wave at Nazare.

“It almost ended my career with the complications I had with injuries and to come back and be able to surf, it was already my dream,” said Gabeira.

After five years of dedication, recovery and training coupled with her passion for big waves, Gabeira put pedal to the metal and caught a massive mountain of water–a wave large enough to put her in the Guinness Book of World Records.

Photo Courtesy of: Stephanie Johnes Maya would go.

Photo Courtesy of: Alex Laurel
Maya would go.

When Gabeira approached the Guiness Book of World Records, they referred her back to the WSL for certification.

But despite reaching out,  the WSL gave very vague and inconsistent responses to Gabeira’s amazing accomplishment. Every few weeks, Gabeira followed up with the WSL and still no confirmation of any progress. Frustrated with the organization’s lack of support or responsiveness, Gabeira let them know her intentions and in August 2018, started her petition.

Although, the organization did at the last minute ask her to present at the annual Big Wave Awards this past April for the Men’s Big Wave Award of the Year. To add more salt to the wound, during the women’s division, none of her clips were displayed.

“I had to hold my tears, breathe and go back stage to then present the men’s division,” said Gabeira. “I was kind of really baffled because I flew all the way to LA to not see any of my waves [displayed], to be celebrating the winter and pretend I wasn’t participating in the winter. While all my [male] peers had all their waves they rode on the same day exposed and won awards and records.”

After multiple backstage apologies from the WSL’s director post-awards, Gabeira sat down with him where he reiterated the WSL’s interest and dedication to her accomplishment. But radio silence from the WSL soon followed…again.

“I just want this [record] to be established because I think it’s important for women–it’s always been to me, at least” said Gabeira. “When Garrett [McNamara] discovered Nazare, it’s always left such a big impression on me to be able to see somebody credited with “The biggest wave ever” and have a number on it. Being in a sport that’s very subjective, it was something that I got attached to. I just want to finish it off so the next person doesn’t have to make it all happen from the beginning. They can just have the category established, surf a bigger wave and break the record and BOOM–it’s registered.”

With the WSL’s recent leadership falling under CEO Sophie Goldschmidt, Gabeira was hoping this would propel the industry and open a new chapter for women in the sport. The WSL gave this response via email:

“We have a huge amount of respect for all our big wave surfers. We have been in active discussions with Guinness for some time on the topic of reviewing Maya’s incredible ride from Nazare earlier this year for submission, and look forward to continuing to celebrate men’s and women’s big wave surfing with an announcement soon.”

The WSL got back to me within hours with this response, however, when I asked them specifically why the process took as long as it did and why the WSL couldn’t give Maya a solid answer, I was told…(am I surprised?)–> all they could say was just that.

“I don’t know if it’s just a lack of professionalism or if it’s just a lack of care for an athlete,” said Gabeira. “It’s my job, it’s what I’ve done for many many years of my life and to not take that seriously, it’s extremely disrespectful and it really hurts.”

To no surprise, after Gabeira’s petition launched and the world became aware of what was going on behind the bro-curtains of the surf industry, the WSL now crowds her inbox. :)

Best of luck, Maya. We are rooting for you! <3

Check out Maya’s video:

 

Patrolling the Dawn, Vol. 2

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February 25, 2016 // Dana Point, California //

Off-shore winds lightly rattled my windows while crawling out of bed and rubbing my puffy eyes to the sound of a 5:30 a.m. alarm. My board was already tucked in my car the night before, just needed to throw my wetsuit in the trunk, in case I decided to actually paddle out into the forecasted huge surf. :)

The view from Strand’s parking lot made any question in my mind about paddling out a definitive ‘no.’ Large sets could be seen from the top of the stairs rolling through, lurching and then mercilessly pounding the sandbars.

Later that morning, for the first time in seven years, the 31st Annual Quiksilver Eddie Aikau big wave invitational was held at Waimea Bay on O’ahu’s North Shore.

I CONFESS: I’m so glad I brought my camera.

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Be Nice, Wedge

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Wedge always makes for some glorious wipeouts and plenty of jaw dropping fun. As opposed to Trestles, Swamis or Rincon’s perfect shape and long shoulders set as the stereotypical California wave, Wedge is well-known for it’s beastly crappy shape and carnage. One human munching machine after the next marches through to consume the few who dare. However, every once in a while, Wedge’s all-too familiar jaws loosen and a couple of lucky souls find escape hatches/rides of their lives…when they’re not risking them.

As opposed to my last entry dedicated to “carnage,” it’s good to see the positive in all things…even Wedge.

The ‘Oh Shit’ Files-Vol. 2: Hurricane Norbert

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Storm patterns have turned my weekends into glorious photo bliss coupled with daily surfaris up the coast. A few weeks ago, Hurricane Norbert graced our coastline with waves aplenty and warm water temps that I will surely be dreaming about six months from now. The category 3 hurricane veered up the baja coast and onto the inland southwestern region of the U.S. and delivered a much-needed dose of rain …now if only he swung a little more west, California’s serious drought problem might have been temporarily staved.

Save that water people!!

Until then, my journey plopped me in front of Newport’s finest carnage-inducing break: Wedge. Whether you surf, sponge or skin it at Orange County’s premier balls-to-the-wall sandbar slab, Wedge will do more than ‘kick your ass.’ It will turn you inside out, grind you in sand and spit whats left of you out onto the shoreline.

It might be wise to seek some sage advice from a seasoned pro or local before setting a toe in the water. I wonder who would be considered Wedge’s ‘Turtle’….brah….or would that be ‘bro’…?

Either way at Wedge,“…you’re gonna get drilled.”

#HurricaneMarie

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If you were held captive inside an office like me during one of the biggest swells in 20 years on August 27th, 2014, your only outlet was: ###SoCiAlMeDiA.### As I arrived to work a bit embittered, random Facebook, Instagram and Twitter checks ensued. With every epic media update, my stomach twinged, my jaw dropped and mouthed in the stereotypical surfer fashion: “No waaay.”

I’ve never felt like such a social media stalker as I watched thick wedgey peaks plow through all corners of the California coast.

*Repeatedly bangs forehead against desk while the drone of the computer mocks all senses*

Some popular hashtags:

  • #hurricanemarie
  • #hurricanemarie2014
  • #bigwednesday
  • #thewedge
  • #waveporn
  • #purpleblob
  • #newportbeach

Despite the fact that I didn’t shoot the coveted Wedge pumping out 30 foot walls or Newport Point doing it’s best Pipeline impersonation, I managed to squeeze in some quick photos of certain spots before and after work…sans carnage…sadly.

The line, yes there was a LINE, to get onto the Newport peninsula was comparable to the city’s popular Fourth of July or Christmas parades. My terrific ‘love’ for crowds and parallel parking combined with the setting sun left me in a time crunch, so after one U-turn , my wheels were rolling towards Laguna and Dana Point. Newport be damned.

After narrowly escaping a park ranger’s citation (but not her lecture about possibly killing an endangered pocket mouse), the sun set over the corduroy-ed Pacific and I finally felt like my freelancer-self, again.

I’m alive!! I said, as I skipped to my car with blurry photos in tow, the park ranger glaring behind me.

Big Wednesday 2014 not only woke up the Pacific, but also reminded me of my passions that no amount of social media or any computer/smart phone can replicate.