The talk of the growing swell reverberated from the pleasure center of my brain to my loins and back. I would definitely be out there tomorrow, I thought on the preceding night.
I made my way to the 101, then towards Wisconsin Street. I instantly regretted my turn south, as given the swell direction, Wisconsin and Wisconsin-adjacent would undoubtedly be less than firing.
Sure enough, my eyes confirmed what my mind had wrought, and I had no choice but to hoof it to the pier. In all, I walked thirty minutes. In the last fifteen minutes of my walk, I was treated to a front row seat of good conditions, decent swell, and more closeouts than you could pan your telephoto lens in between. The waves were consistent, and they were consistently closing out. Guys would either catch waves and bail right off the bat because of the steepness of the waves or they would make it to the bottom. The latters' reward would be a cracking of the lip onto their heads, surfboards, or if they were lucky, only an underwater drubbing.
I thought, well, I am going to paddle out because I haven't in almost three weeks and the tide is coming up so it can only get better.
All of the waves I caught were bad. I'd think I'd have a corner and out of nowhere the section in front of me (and usually, the section in front of it) would experience a last second push and burst right in my way.
The tide was slowly rising and you could sense the shift in the surf. Unfortunately, it got even worse in the sense that the outside sets were having less and less push, leading to not even a hint of hope. As Tennyson put it, it was better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. I will spare you, dear reader, of detailing each individual baby step towards madness.
In all, I saw one guy catch a wave and get a turn out of it. I had the later morning shift with the baby and we retraced my steps. I am happy to report that the surf still sucked and I didn't have to sit at the amphitheater with blue balls while my dog panted and my baby slept.