Iron Fist

Tourists. I can’t stand tourists.

I’m standing in line for a wetsuit rental at a surf shop in Cannon Beach behind what’s apparently some sort of field trip. I’m guessing they hail from the Eugene/Springfield area, but the only basis I have for this is that two of them have on U of O sweatshirts. Although they are equipped with bikinis and board shorts and sandals, I am also guessing that none of them have ever been to the beach before.

I got the call Saturday night that we were on; Sunday morning we pulled out of P-town a little after nine, fully ready to get out of the city. We passed through a fog bank as we neared the coast and I thought we were screwed, but the sky over the beach itself was clear and blue, as only the sky can be when it’s your day off and you’re going to spend it in the ocean.

Before we can get in the water, though, I need to get a wetsuit. Which brings us back to the surf shop…

“It seems a little tight across the shoulders,” she’s saying, “and the sleeves are a little long.” STFU, n00b! I’m yelling inside my head. What are you expecting? Maybe they’ll ring for Mr. Jenkins the tailor, who’ll come out of his office with needle and thread and make a few adjustments to your suit for you? Newsflash: it’s a wetsuit, made out of neoprene and designed to hug your body and keep you warm. It’s not a goddamn prom dress, it’s not going to fit you perfectly. I know it’s called “Body Glove”, but think more along the lines of “O.J.’s Gloves” as in it’s going to be a tight fit and going to restrict your movements a bit. Plus, it’s a rental, you’re clearly not a pro, and you’re going to have it on for two hours at best, and I’m being generous there. So deal with it already.

“Um, wow, um…you’ve actually, ah, got it on inside out,” the clerk points out, much more politely than I would have.

“Do you maybe have these booties a half-size bigger?” their hippy mascot asks.

“No…it only comes in whole sizes.”

Some time later all of the members of the field trip are suited up and piling back into their van, and I overhear them say that now it’s “time for lunch.” Great, dudes. I get my wetsuit without any hassle, and we pack back into the car and we’re off.

We head south on the 101, back to Arcadia Beach. We suit up, wax down the boards, and head out into the water. It’s cold, but not bone-chillingly so. We get out to the breakers, the sun is beating down and the waves are good and it’s glorious, absolutely glorious. After adjusting to the temperature, the water actually seems sort of pleasant, which is unusual but not at all unwelcome. Also, we have the water all to ourselves; the tourist pack will not be thwarting us in the water, as well.

There’s a primal enjoyment to be derived from being in the ocean. It’s something that I don’t know if I can do justice in trying to describe. It’s got something to do with losing yourself in something as vast and ancient and powerful as the sea, even for just a little while; letting it toss you around and carry you down the beach and finally you find the right wave and it sweeps you along effortlessly and you’re standing up on your board and you’re part of the wave but you’re also you, and all is right with the world by the time you decide to hop off your board back into the waiting sea. It’s so much fun that you don’t even notice that the waves are pounding the crap out of you, and the current is pulling you down the shore. None of that even begins to chip away at the huge grin you have across your face.

We were in the water for maybe four hours of real time, although it seemed like all day. Then we drove into Seaside and had greasy Mexican food, and that was awesome too.

It’s days like that that make the whole rest of the week worth it.

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