While competition continued at Cape Kiwanda, I suited up and paddled past the flag pole, just to the north of where everyone was waiting for waves. It was good and glassy. With waves from the northwest, pushing past a 327 foot tall stone that sits out at sea and breaking just a few feet from the beach. It was crowded by comparison, but I managed to make my way through the mess. These fuckers were fast, though. Standing up along the sandbars and breaking almost always to the right. I paddled the pig into everything I could, sitting on the outside so I had room to rotate. Dragging my fingers across the face, tucked in tightly, covered up completely. Some waves went my way. One threw my stick to shore. Left it lying belly-up beneath the tailgate of a truck. Suppose I still need to work on my backside boogie-woogie.
