We headed west shortly thereafter. A small, southwest swell was what the internet had indicated, and small was certainly what awaited us. After securing some space, setting up a couple of tents and circling our chairs around an empty fire pit, we slipped into our suits and paddled out. It was pretty good and glassy. Shin to thigh with a few wild ones. I surfed my old man's Mark Martinson, which is wider and thicker than my Feral Pig, but only half as heavy. It was alright. Four hours forward and we were out of the water, heating up hot dogs and drinking beer in the back of Junior's new Custom Cruiser.
Saturday morning was the same. A bit bigger, though. And then the sky turned a sad shade of gray, with a western wind blowing big clouds toward the coast. We surfed until the tide was all the way in. Messy. With fish heads and all kinds of kelp floating at our feet. By the time I had stripped out of my suit and showered, a handful of our friends had arrived. Tarps and tents and tri-pod grills. We circled our seats around the aforementioned fire pit. Karissa cooked some steak and we ate Angel's pasta salad and drank wine in red cups and brandy from a flask. It was an excellent evening.
Sunday sucked. It was raining when we woke up. A big puddle had appeared just outside our slider, and I'll be damned if I didn't step in it. The wind had rotated and was now sending sideways water into our tarp town. There was a fire, though. And we cooked eggs and bacon and sausage. Everyone appeared to be at their end, however. The waves had turned to white water and the wind showed no sign of stopping. We fed wood to the fire for as long as we could, cleaned up the campground and then went our separate ways. Karissa and Angel and I headed to the Sol Duc hot springs, while a few of our friends stop at Siren's for bacon burgers. It wasn't the best weekend, but we've certainly had worse ones.
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