I can't remember how many waves I have caught on a Stand-up paddle board.

Hundreds, thousands probably.

The list is huge.

The first unsteady steps on a 12'6”.

Backward rolls as the board raced away.

Gliding down the face of a 1 foot peeler and

trying to turn what felt like a massive barge.

Wondering if it was really worth the effort yet loving the experience.

Next the 11'2”and finally a modicum of control.

Turns were possible. Not just turns but a certain style. Some nose riding. A few

cutbacks. Stilted and stiff but yet recognisably surfing.

Finally a ten five.

The joy.

Long board glide with more sashay than a hula dancer. Stoked!

Control and competency combined.

A plethora of waves over 5 years.

So of all those waves, which one is the most monumental?

The one that sticks most in my mind? You might think it difficult to separate all those

wonderful memories.

And they are.

Wonderful I mean.

Beautiful glassy days with cascading foam and the delight and wonder of people

seeing stand-up for the first time.

Foam and fear at times with deep overhead threats and thrashing underwater roils.


One wave stands out however. It lingers with me not like a haunting yet the memory

visits me every now and then when I think of the surf.

It wasn't an especially big wave or a fabulous barrel, not even a nose ride of note. Yet

it stands out for a specific reason.


I remember the sound.


It was one of those special days. Sunshine, families, chips, seagulls, ice cream.

The surf was about three to four feet. Clean, glassy and clear with little or no wind.

Although the bay was crowded there were waves for all.

The short boarders, boogy boards and long boarders were congregated in a group at

the main break.

My friend and I were on SUPS about fifty metres seaward.

The waves were breaking on an outer bank and passing through deep water before

reforming for the gathered throng.

My companion and I were picking off the set waves and powering through the deep

water. We then were working the break so that we both went wide when we hit the

reform. This allowed the prone paddlers to sort out the excellent peaks amongst

themselves. We had as many waves as we wished and they had their pick of the

reforms.


I don't think it was greed. Certainly I had had my share.

It probably could be excused as compulsiveness or spontaneity.

Whatever.


It reared up as a set wave.

An A frame four to five foot glassy peak and with no one to hassle me it was easy to

pick it up.

Down the face and then the wave fattened as it hit deep water.

Paddle deep and skate along like ice skating on a stand up sled waiting for the reform

and here it comes.


Every other time that day I had turned to the left. Always a wall had formed.

Few of the prone surfers could get on to it because the paddle gave such an

advantage. I would get a nice re-entry or two, a nose ride then finish in deep enough

water to paddle back out.


He was about forty years of age.

Forty, forty five or so.

Long boarder and he was paddling hard. He was inside me to the right. All day I had

been going left, despite being aware that that the right hander was a better ride. It

ran at least twice the length of the left hander. Sometimes it barreled and often

walled up


I turned right. A nice flared turn, set up to walk forward and trim.

The wall was still forming and it was such a lovely wave I knew there was nose ride in

there somewhere. A few back hand re-entries and then a roundhouse turn at the

end as the wave neared the beach.


There it is


The one wave in thousands that I remember clearly after so many.

What makes it so memorable? The wall? The nose ride? Was it the cut back at the

end?

Probably not.

It was that sound.

The sound of a forty something long board surfer groaning as the one wave that he

had been waiting, hoping and maybe praying for all morning was taken from him. He

possibly had been looking most of the day for such a wave. A reformed A frame

with no one else in his proximity but a stand up paddle boarder that had been (up to

now, going left all morning.)

He didn't swear. He didn't shout.

There was fate here and he was open to her vicissitudes.

He simply groaned.

That groan has imprinted on me more than all the “oys” and “my wave's” yelled in

the surf ever could.

Sorry mate

great story

I too encourage everySUP to make the effort to take out atleast one old fossil mal rider each session.

Great read, keep it up!

Beautiful. It is funny how some waves stick and others are filed under "general Surfing"