Fear of Pearling

Fear of Pearling

by Gary E. Grissom

Tippy and I watched them as they started to paddle out that morning on Sunset Beach. Tippy barked as I held him in my arms and stroked his neck. One of the surfers looked over his shoulder and waved to us. There were four of them and they were true native Hawaiian surfers with broad shoulders and bronze skin that glistened in the morning sun. Their boards were about ten feet long and made of heavy wood that must have weighed about 100 pounds. The year was 1952 and lighter balsa wood and foam boards wouldn’t be made until the next decade. A few minutes later, two of them caught and rode an overhead wave that carried them quite a distance before they had safely rode over the top of the shoulder of the wave. When it broke, it roared so loud that my small body shook with fear. My father had said that anyone who would ride big waves on a surfboard was a “dare devil.” I had to agree, but I wondered if I would ever be such a dare devil. I doubted it though, because I had a deep seated fear of the ocean ever since a little girl had recently been knocked over by a shore break wave that pulled her into the surf before she could be rescued. The under toe was very powerful on Sunset Beach and, therefore, I kept a safe distance from the edge of the ocean. But still, in my day dreams I imagined that someday I, too, might have to courage to take off on a mountainous wave. What a thrill that would be!

Ten years later, the California surfing craze hit the beaches of San Diego like a sizzling heat wave. I was fortunate enough to live near a neighborhood named Ocean Beach. Most of my friends were buying new or used polyurethane foam boards and learning to surf. But since I couldn’t afford one, I was content to ride the waves on my blue surf mat. Eventually though, I was kidded about my surf mat because it wasn’t “cool” and not “bitchin’ “ like a surfboard. Therefore, I learned to body surf which was considered only second best but still cool.

I looked like a surfer with my natural blond hair, Hawaiian shirts and Mexican sandals that I wore. Because of this, my life was about to change. It happened when the most beautiful girl in the surfing clique smiled at me and asked how long I had been a surfer. Before I could stop my tongue from spewing a lie and exaggerations, I told her how I had learned how to surf on Sunset Beach from an old Hawaiian. As we talked, a couple of surfers listened in and before the week was over, I was sitting at their bench each day at lunch. Of course, I knew that eventually they would want to see me surf. So I immediately began saving my allowance so I could buy a used surfboard. I decided that I could borrow my father’s car on Saturday mornings and quickly learn to surf on a uncrowded surf spot up the coast where no one would know me.

From the money I earned through mowing lawns and by saving part of my allowance each week, I managed to be able to afford a used nine-foot Hobie surfboard and a wetsuit in February 1962. At the first opportunity, I borrowed my father’s car and drove up the coast to a secluded beach called Swami’s; where the waves looked small enough for a novice to attempt to ride. I had heard that beginners, or “kooks” as experienced surfers called them, always learned to surf by riding the white foam, or “soup”, of a broken wave. However, I decided that since the waves were only about three feet high, I would paddle all the way out and attempt to ride them. I quickly discovered, though, that paddling out was much more tiring than it appeared to be. For by the time I finally got outside, or beyond the point where the waves break, I was exhausted. All I could do was lay on my board and hope that my strength would return. The sounds of the surf excited me though, and a few minutes later I managed to point my board towards the beach, paddled in a few yards, and waited for my first wave. Soon, a seemingly large wave ominously loomed up behind me and I started paddling. Almost immediately, the wave lifted me to its crest and then I began dropping down its face. But before I could even think of standing up, the nose of my board plunged straight into the bottom of the wave. I had “pearled.” Then I found myself turning a somersault with my surfboard. As the wave broke, I lost my grip and the board flew out of my hands. Not knowing enough to dive to the bottom and wait till danger passed, I was hit on the top of my head by my board as it came down after being hurtled a few feet in the air. Luckily, I was only dazed and I managed to swim until I could touch bottom. Reaching up to feel my head, I saw there was blood on my hand. That’s what I get for being an idiot, I thought as I waded back to the beach.

The cut was minor and soon it stopped bleeding. However, a large bump had formed on my head. When I retrieved my board, which had been washed onto the beach, I decided I had enough of surfing for a while and walked back to the car and drove home.

That night I dreamed I was drowning and that surfboards, loose in the surf, kept crashing into me. When I awoke the next morning, I regretted that surfing was something I was going to have to learn in order to remain in the surfer crowd. Oh hell! I thought. Why can’t something like fishing be the IN sport? Why do I have to risk my life to have friends. Maybe I should hang around with the “sosh” crowd at school or the “hodads.” No. The sosh are a bunch of snobs and the hodads just want to fight all the time. I HAVE TO LEARN TO SURF! As soon as the last thought crossed my mind I became numb with fear again.

But soon I slightly comforted myself with the aged old adage: “YOU MUST CRAWL BEFORE YOU LEARN TO WALK.” Therefore, I decided that the next weekend I would borrow Dad’s car again and drive back up to Swami’s beach. Except this time I would start learning to surf the right way. I would catch only the soup of broken waves and the little waves near the shore.

My plan worked out and during the following months I mastered the basic skills of surfing: catching a wave, standing, turning and kicking out of a ride. But I still had frequent nightmares of drowning in the surf and the thought of paddling out to ride the large waves still frightened me. To add to my fear, a local surfer had actually drowned in the surf. Apparently, he had been surfing alone early in the morning and had been knocked unconscious by his board because there was a large gash on his head. In the meantime, I became an expert at thinking of excuses to not go surfing whenever friends suggested I go with them.

In the summer, my brother Lee took up surfing and joined me in my short trips up the coast. Within a month, Lee had developed a fair degree of skill. Finally, the day came when he asked me to paddle out to ride the bigger waves.

“To tell you the truth”, I lied, “I’ve been feeling kinda nauseated for the last ten minutes or so. I think I’ll just lay on the beach for a while.”

Lee paddled out and caught a four-foot wave which he managed to ride for about twenty yards before falling off his board. Within a half-hour, he managed to successfully ride at least one wave all the way in.

“Way to go!” I said when he came up on the beach. “You looked pretty good out there.”

“Thanks Gary. How do you feel?”

“A little better but I-I don’t think I’m going to surf today. I feel sort of weak.”

“Oh sure.” He said. “But Gary you don’t look like you’re

sick. Is something else bothering you?”

“Naw…I’m okay.

Later, in the evening, one of my surfer friends came over and watched TV with me. When a commercial for Chicken of The Sea tuna came on, Lee happened to be passing through the living room.

“That tuna is like Gary.” He said kiddingly. “He’s chicken of the sea too!.”

In horror, I glared at Lee as he walked out of the room.

“What did he mean by that?” my friend asked.

“Oh, I just like to go fishing and catch albacore tuna.” I muttered in hopes that my answer would suffice. Luckily it did suffice and we went on watching TV. Later, after my friend left, I decided that my moment of truth would have to take place the next day.

In the morning, I tried unsuccessfully to borrow my father’s car. Since I couldn’t drive up the coast, I decided to try a surfing spot which was only about a mile and a half from my home. It is named Pescadero because it is at the end of Pescadero St. Back in those golden days, only a few surfers rode its waves. This was simply because the waves at adjacent surfing spots usually had more desirable form and were faster. Thus, Pescadero was where I would attempt to conquer my fear of pearling and finally become a surfer.

It was a sunny, easy summer morning. Snow white seagulls floated effortlessly in the breeze. But I felt as if I was walking to my doom as I carried my surfboard down Pt. Loma Avenue and saw the surf breaking off Sunset Cliffs below. When I finally arrived at Pescadero beach, I laid my board on the sand and rested for a few minutes. I looked around and was relieved to see that there was only a few people on the small beach and that none of them were surfers that I knew.

My hands trembled as I waxed my surfboard with a small block of paraffin which I had pulled out of the back pocket of my swim trunks. Finally, I entered the surf and pushed my board through the soup and little waves until I was up to my knees. Then I waited for a lull between the current set of waves. When the lull finally came, I quickly got in the prone position on my board and paddled as fast as I could until I was outside. Then I sat astride my board and waited for the next set of waves. I reminded myself that to avoid pearling on a steep swell I would have to keep my weight back from the nose of the board. Half a minute later, the first wave of the set rose behind me. I pointed my board towards shore and began paddling. However, the wave wasn’t steep enough when it got to me so I couldn’t catch it. But the next one was a beautiful, well-formed four-foot wave, with just the right steepness.

As I paddled, I felt myself being lifted to the wave’s crest and then I began speeding down its face. Instinctively, I stood up and made the drop and cranked a satisfactory left turn and joyfully shot along the wall of the wave. It was a mystical moment frozen in time. I felt as if I were flying and it was much faster and a hell of a lot more fun than riding the soup. As the wave began to break, I straightened out and rode the soup halfway to the beach. I laughed ecstatically as I kicked out and began paddling out for another wave. I had never known such joy!

Later in the day, as I triumphantly carried my surfboard back up Pt. Loma Ave., a surfer I knew, driving an old Ford Woody station wagon, stopped and gave me a ride home.

“Where did you surf today?” he asked.

“Pescadero.” I answered casually. “The waves were a little slow, but I had a few good rides.”