Righthander #1
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| Somewhere south of Gisborne, June 2010. Photo: S. Jacques Stratton |
If time, budget, or social schedule constrained exploration to one region of this long emerald country, I would choose the stretch of coast centered on Gisborne. The region boasts a marvelous diversity of quality breaks, from points to reefs to beach-break sandbars, and a contorted coast that transforms one spot's onshore crumblers into offshore peaks at another. I won't state exactly where this wave is--no doubt surf-minded residents of the area will appreciate my sense of discretion--other than to mention that adjacent spots have graced the cover of Surfer's Journal and the nearby environs have a reputation for localism.
On this particular day, late season cyclone swell from the north mingled with wrap-around energy from an Antarctic low, a fortunate combo, as the break acted like it preferred an energetic ocean and might get better with size. The bigger waves formed juicy peaks with long walls, great for that style of top-to-bottom surfing characterized by carving turns and off-the-lips. The smaller waves provided ideal platforms for roundhouse cutbacks; a surfer might string three or four in sequence before the maneuver turned monotonous. I surfed an hour by myself, until two Kiwis, jealous of my solitude, determined I'd found the best reef for the conditions and paddled out to join me, followed a bit later by a smiling young longboarder from Japan. For the next several hours we hooted each other in to set waves and traded surf stories, a motley crew unified by our appreciation of well-formed waves and the thrill of riding them. Periodically I'd look back at the beach road, watching for the arrival of additional cars and the sight of surfers donning neoprene, sure that quality waves must inevitably draw crowds. Yet no one else appeared, and the four of us surfed until hunger and cold turned our attention to matters other than swell, wind, and tide.
Righthander #2
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| Another roadside attraction, somewhere between Gisborne and Coromandel, June 2010. Photo: S. Jacques Stratton |
Drive north from Gisborne toward Coromandel and you MIGHT encounter this phantom wave. I call it a "phantom" to emphasize its whimsical temperament. Highly dependent on swell direction and tide, the enticing peelers witnessed in a moment of sunshine might turn to grey closeouts in the time required to don a wetsuit and wax a board. Despite this caveat, the beach had a photogenic appeal that made a visit worthwhile. The water, glossed with turquoise hues resulting from the play of sunlight upon limestone sediments, resembled a swimming pool. Breaking deep within a sheltered, isolated cove, the wave expressed a skittish personality, as if it needed an offering of food and a sniff of my hand as a prerequisite to more friendly relations.
Wave #3
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| Coromandel corduroy, July 2010. Photo: S. Jacques Stratton |
To me, this shot offers a quintessential image of an east coast New Zealand beach scene: caramel sand, picturesque offshore islets, corduroy lines of swell. This spot sits next door to a well-known break that, in the manner of well-known breaks, owes its celebrity status to showy crowd-pleasing performances. Meanwhile, surfers with a more refined sense of wave savvy, and the patience to wait for the proper tide, might hope for this little right-hander to turn on.
I use the word "little" intentionally, because from what I could tell the break couldn't handle much more than about 8' on the face. On this particular day, the swell, diminished from the intensity of the day before, delivered shoulder to head-high grinders along the outside sandbar section.
The lineup proved shiftier up close than when viewed from the beach. I settled into position near a greybeard local whose robust wetsuit regalia, replete with gloves and hoodie, made me feel under-prepared. The water isn't that cold, I thought to myself, trusting my senses. I guess this guy just likes his neoprene. With the deference of travelers to locals, I took a position that let him know he had priority for the next set. The set arrived, and I waited for him to snag the choice wave. Strangely, he remained passive, uninterested. A feathering lip formed, yet my companion continued his stoic seaward stare. Hating to let the wave go unridden, I quickly spun around, lunged forward with the lip, and raced a sandbar screamer that by most standards ranked high on the quality meter. This scenario repeated itself about five more times, until I came to regard the stoic disinterest of the greybeard as a kind of silent rebuke of my enthusiasm. Finally, nonplussed by my companion's apathy to what I considered some dang good surf, I ventured conversation.
"Some fun ones out here, eh?" I prodded, my voice modulated to my excitement.
"If you say so, mate," came the deadpan reply. His eyes, lit with an ethereal glow, seemed to illuminate the underside of his hoodie visor.
"Well, I'm surprised how uncrowded it is. I mean, we're the only guys out, and it's pretty much going off out here. I just caught a smoking down-the-line section!"
"Sometimes it's not about the surf," he explained, his voice slightly contemptuous. "Sometimes it's better to just feel the motion of the water, breathe, and appreciate the waves for their beauty alone." He fixed his eyes on me to see the impact of his words. "Sometimes it's better just to paddle out and enjoy the scenery," he emphasized.
An English teacher by trade, well versed in the tenets of critical thinking, I considered this idea with an open-minded tolerance. Then I thought about the waves I rode, remembering the sweet resistance of water pushing against my inside rail as I dug into a bottom turn, and the weightless suspension of body and board as I smacked an off-the-lip. Better to paddle out and enjoy the scenery? Are you f-----g kidding me? "Well, it's going off out here," I reiterated, as though the statement contained all the logic necessary to refute the greybeard's philosophy.
Another set wave loomed, and I returned to the business of riding waves, while my companion returned to their contemplation. I had a strange sense that as much as I saw the folly in his ways, he saw the folly in mine.
