AN EMPTY WASHINGTON COAST NO WETSUITS, NO SURF SHOPS, NO SURFERS The actual ocean is a two-hour drive from Seattle. I had hiked along the Washington coast extensively with my family as a kid and seen waves on some school trips, but I wasn’t sure if you could ride them, or what rid-ing them would look like. I knew how beautiful it was and loved the wild feeling of the forest meeting the beach, and the tide pools and sea life. I had a neighbor, Tom, who surfed in California and went charter fish-ing in Westport and said he had seen a surfer there by the jetty—that was the first I had heard of a surfer in Washington. It was exciting to know it was possible. I went to the downtown libraries in Seattle, and they were loaded with surf books from the ’50s and ’60s—there were books on travel and shaping and step-by-step learning. One was The Surfers Al-manac: An International Surfing Guide, and in it was a two-page chapter on Washington and Oregon. It mentioned a few spots and sounded like it was mostly unexplored wilderness. After high school, I saved up some money mowing lawns and two friends and I drove down the coast in a Chevy Nova looking for adven-ture and waves. We stopped in Santa Cruz and rented Morey Doyles from the Westside surf shop that had logo art by Jimbo Phillips, surfed the Cowell Beach sandbar for two days and it was incredible—the bar was perfect and day one we were getting long rides down the line. I was stoked out of my mind. One of my buddy’s nicknames was “Gerk.” I was really excited and kept yelling, “Gerk! Gerk!” which sounded like “Shark! Shark!” One local longboarder gave us a proper talking to. We were ab-solute kooks, but the stoke was not going to be denied. We then drove farther down the coast, sleeping in the car, or on the ground next to it, all the way to Los Angeles and ended up in Newport Beach. We went into a shop and said we wanted to buy two used boards, but all we had was $60 each. He took us to the used rack and there were two 7-foot single fins: a Sunset Swallow and a rounded pin Plastic Fantastic. That was the last bit of money we had and we were a long way from home, but we bought the sticks and some soft racks, and surfed our way home. Going home we broke down in San Francisco and slept in the streets outside the garage that was repairing our car for a couple nights. But we made it home, and now we had boards. Gerk and I started driving to Westport in his Ford Pinto, camping in the parking lot and surfing as much as we possibly could. We met the small local surf crew there. Gerk met a gal and faded out of my surf world, but I had my own VW bug by then and converted it into a camper of sorts by taking the back seat out and putting in a plywood platform. Once I met Mike Olson, Mervin Lessley and John Heine, we’d explore Washington and northern Oregon in search of waves. We built our own surfboards and eventually got good cold-water wetsuits—I’d been in a thrift-shop dive suit at first, then upgraded to a thick, used beaver-tail dive suit that rashed the shit out of me, and booties that were so tight I couldn’t get them off when my hands were cold. Over the years we found a few gems and got to name them. I still hear people using some of the names we gave spots today. The journey into the unknown and potential for discovery is as good or better than the surfing itself. It’s a bit different now because everyone one has great wetsuits and boards, but the swell changes every day and the adventure and discovery is still out there if you are willing to work for it. PETE SAARI 073
The Snowboarder's Journal The Snowboarder's Journal 20.4: Page 73
