As the last shards of sunshine danced on the sand, we got to Big Flat at 8 p.m., setting up camp 200 yards from the ocean and 50 yards from Big Flat Creek, where we could filter water. A small private parcel of land with a crude grass airstrip lay 500 yards to the north, past the point. Its cabin was deserted. We gobbled some food, tossed our sleeping bags on the sand and passed out to the roar of waves. The tent never made it out of the pack.
We woke to a sun that would shine unabated for the five-day trip. Big Flat was empty except for us and some grazing black-tailed deer. The waves coming off the point break to the north looked good, so we pulled on our 4mm wet suits and paddled out a calm channel just to the south of the break. When a set of waves approached, we all paddled for the first one. Nobody caught it, but not for lack of size. “That had to be 12 feet,” I said. Tony declared: “Spooky huge.” We would have liked some mellower warm-up surf, but you get what the ocean gives, and how could we turn this down?
I’m a total sucker for surfer stories. Must be because we went to see “Endless Summer” at the drive-in when I was 6.