king neptune
We see Laird Hamilton at Starbucks now and then and he seems nice enough. Smaller, when he’s ordering a decaf vanilla latte than when he’s surfing, but friendly. He’s tall and sandy-haired with that kind of graceful ease all natural athletes have. Brown eyes, sandy hair, a crooked front tooth.
He’s a surfer, though that’s like calling Bach a pianist. He surfs waves that are 50 feet tall. No kidding. Someone tows him into the swell on a jet ski because those waves form so big and so fast no one, not even Laird Hamilton, can paddle fast enough to catch one. So there he is, on a surfboard he invented with a tilted keel and straps for his feet because on a 50-foot wave, you fall down the face of it so fast you’d lose your board if you weren’t attached to it. Laird makes those waves look small. OK, not small, exactly, but aside from the bravery and bravado of it all, he looks so exactly right that he brings the waves down to his scale instead of the other way around.
When I’m standing on the bluff above Paradise Cove and I see someone toss one of those long, fat paddle boards into the water, the kind surfers use to build up their upper body strength, I catch my breath. Is it? Is it? Could it be that time of year? If Laird Hamilton is putting his paddle board into the water, then it’s almost summer. Screw the solstice – Laird calls the shots on this one.
The first time I saw him was about five years ago. This crazy guy was standing on his board and using an oar to paddle. He went from the tiny yellow shack on the beach to the south of us all the way to Little Dume and back. That’s a good morning of paddling for me in a kayak. Laird does it in about an hour. What gets me is the mental part of it, how when I’m kayaking, I’m in charge of the 30 or so feet around my boat. Any more than that and it’s too scary.
But Laird Hamilton lays claim to the whole Pacific. He carves his arc through the Santa Monica Bay like it’s a subset of a subset, like he owns the place. It’s like watching Neptune. He paddles in and out of the surf line, catches waves, surfs them to shore, pulls out and paddles back. He never lies down on his board. He never falls. Local surfers who would as soon as kill you as let you into the lineup part like kindergartners for Laird. He comes, he surfs, he goes, and no one else surfs for the next little while. They don’t even try to catch a wave - I mean, who needs that kind of comparison?
So whenever Laird Hamilton comes to Paradise Cove, for me, at least, that makes it summer. Bring on the hot days and sultry nights. I want to kayak under the full moon. I want my flip flops. I want barbecues on the beach and house guests fighting for the sunscreen and leaving sand in the shower. Feeling crazy-happy like that, giddy with the sometimes embarrassing rush of joy you get living here in on the edge of the continent, it's like being 10 years old again. It's summer again, no matter what the sun says.
He’s a surfer, though that’s like calling Bach a pianist. He surfs waves that are 50 feet tall. No kidding. Someone tows him into the swell on a jet ski because those waves form so big and so fast no one, not even Laird Hamilton, can paddle fast enough to catch one. So there he is, on a surfboard he invented with a tilted keel and straps for his feet because on a 50-foot wave, you fall down the face of it so fast you’d lose your board if you weren’t attached to it. Laird makes those waves look small. OK, not small, exactly, but aside from the bravery and bravado of it all, he looks so exactly right that he brings the waves down to his scale instead of the other way around.
When I’m standing on the bluff above Paradise Cove and I see someone toss one of those long, fat paddle boards into the water, the kind surfers use to build up their upper body strength, I catch my breath. Is it? Is it? Could it be that time of year? If Laird Hamilton is putting his paddle board into the water, then it’s almost summer. Screw the solstice – Laird calls the shots on this one.
The first time I saw him was about five years ago. This crazy guy was standing on his board and using an oar to paddle. He went from the tiny yellow shack on the beach to the south of us all the way to Little Dume and back. That’s a good morning of paddling for me in a kayak. Laird does it in about an hour. What gets me is the mental part of it, how when I’m kayaking, I’m in charge of the 30 or so feet around my boat. Any more than that and it’s too scary.
But Laird Hamilton lays claim to the whole Pacific. He carves his arc through the Santa Monica Bay like it’s a subset of a subset, like he owns the place. It’s like watching Neptune. He paddles in and out of the surf line, catches waves, surfs them to shore, pulls out and paddles back. He never lies down on his board. He never falls. Local surfers who would as soon as kill you as let you into the lineup part like kindergartners for Laird. He comes, he surfs, he goes, and no one else surfs for the next little while. They don’t even try to catch a wave - I mean, who needs that kind of comparison?
So whenever Laird Hamilton comes to Paradise Cove, for me, at least, that makes it summer. Bring on the hot days and sultry nights. I want to kayak under the full moon. I want my flip flops. I want barbecues on the beach and house guests fighting for the sunscreen and leaving sand in the shower. Feeling crazy-happy like that, giddy with the sometimes embarrassing rush of joy you get living here in on the edge of the continent, it's like being 10 years old again. It's summer again, no matter what the sun says.
posted by V. at 7:16 AM
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