Currently we're waiting the start of the annual Mavericks contest; here's a reflection on an unfortunate event from years past:

In December of 1994 the surf at Pillar Point had been recently "outed" by Jeff Clark. During that big wave season Mark Foo drowned surfing his first session there. It was certainly tragic, made the national news, and struck a chord with many of us. Because of the newness of Mavs, the danger, the cold, the distance from safety, and the fury of the waves the incident shaped the ominous reputation of that spot. This is an account of my surf session the Day Mark Foo Died. Only rode three waves that day; the session was long stretches of sheer unadulterated terror, interspersed with short, but incredibly intense orgasms.

Swell was certainly big and dangerous that day, up and down the Northern California coast. People ask me why I don't surf Mavs. My stock answer is two fold: Number 1, I am not nearly good enough to surf out there with the real hell men. Number 2, when it's breaking at Pillar Point it's breaking in Santa Cruz. I don't need to drive 70 miles from home to endanger my life. There's plenty of danger right in my backyard. The Day Mark Foo Died was a perfect example.

I knew the swell was huge; it was the early days of the surf indicators on the web, and I had been checking it from work. I got off work early, drove home, loaded up the gear and the dogs (I am called DogMan because of my surfing' dogs), and headed for the coast. Decided to hike into Tres Amigos to check it.

I always wonder what compels us to go into the ocean in such dangerous conditions. On that day I know what compelled me. The view from the cliff was awesome, large waves triple overhead plus were rolling in across the Pacific Ocean, and slamming the reef with incredible power. No one was out, but the waves looked so makeable, so inviting, so perfect. I could visualize myself ripping across the faces of those monsters, and having a wonderful time doing it.

Nonetheless I was checking it from the cliff, and not making any moves to paddle out. The cove looked closed out, I doubted I could get by the Death Rock, and couldn't quite see a safe route from shore to lineup.

Just then another surfer came up behind me. We checked it together; his stoke added to mine and convinced me to give it a go. Then he said "Come on, I know a secret beach where we can launch."

We hiked with my dogs overland across a few acres, then down into a cut between two points. It was a beach I had seen, but never visited. We suited up on the sand, stashed the gear, and I admonished the dogs to "stay on the beach." Then we paddled out in a slight channel. Even then it took me three tries to make it by the shore pound, but I kept giving it another chance. Once beyond the break line I paddled out and around a large point, back to the lineup at Tres Amigos. From there I couldn't see the beach from which we launched, our gear, or my dogs. But I had other things on my mind as I tried to find a sweet spot where I wouldn't get caught in the mackers, and from where I might catch a shoulder.

The other surfer made it out before me, so I paddled up to him and compared notes. Sitting in the path of such monster waves was the most incredible feeling. Strange and scary, awesomely beautiful, and powerful as hell. When a wave rolled underneath us and we sat in the trough on the backside of it we couldn't even see the tall cliffs along the shore.

Well we didn't paddle out just to look! The other surfer made the drop on a 12 footer, surfed a long way then paddled back. This helped me find my courage. I shoulder hopped a wave, made the drop, cut back to the lip, and it was over. The wave was a major league mush burger, not a peeler at all. But it did demonstrate that I could actually catch and ride one of them.

Next we both circled around out there, looking for a safe but sweet spot from which to catch another wave. We didn't have it wired, and the danger of sitting in the wrong spot was too much to risk. Seemed like no matter where I stopped, a bigger wave than I had previously seen would appear on the horizon and threaten to take me down with it.

Soon enough a 12 to 15 footer approached, and I couldn't deny that I was lined up for it. Dutifully I paddled and caught it perfectly. Dropped down the face to the bottom, and cut to the right. Damn! another mush burger with no down the line section. By now I was getting a bit antsy for a real ride, especially when the other surfer caught his second wave and rode a real beauty.

More time went by. I got even more tingly with apprehension, and more impatient for a real wave. More waves rolled under me, some startling me with feathered lips and soon to break faces. I spent a good amount of adrenalin and energy jockeying for position and safety. Then my wave came through the lineup.

It was likely the single biggest wave I have ever ridden; 15 to 18 foot face is my guess. I'll never forget a single thing about that wave; it's indelibly etched in my mind. This wasn't going to be any mush burger! I stroked hard to catch the lip, then finally the lip caught me. I struggled to my feet, and found my balance just barely in time to dig in for the bottom turn.

Then things got a lot easier. I was zooming across the face of the biggest wave of my life, with unlimited stand up sections in front of me, stretching as far as I could see. I climbed to the lip, and dropped again to the bottom. I was beginnning to feel like a real hell man; I thought "time to cut back, get into the pit, and just maybe see what it's like to get really tubed."

I looked over my shoulder to start the cut back; I can see it now as I type this as clearly as I saw it then. "Holy S*!$%ttt!!!!" The tube looked big enough to swallow a house. It was rimmed with spinning, swirling, foamy water, and the center of it was filled with roiling spray, and filthy diced kelp. The sound was like a jet engine during takeoff. It was and remains one of the scariest sights in my young life so far.

Needless to say, all thoughts of getting anywhere close to that hideous beast flew right out of my brain, along with any pretense that I was any kind of hell man. I felt real good about being waaaaaay out on the shoulder of that wave, just coasting along, moving up and down, and staying WELL ahead of the falling lip.

So I rode and rode, and rode some more. Decided to make the most of that wave, and took it all the way to the next beach South of Tres Amigos, back toward Santa Cruz. The wave stayed tall and critical and fast the entire way to the shore break. I proned in the closeout, and washed onto the beach. I was at least a mile overland from where I had originally launched.

Whew! Made it! Good time to end the sess. I climbed up the cliff, hiked back to the put in, then down the cliff again to find my dogs and gear. Amazingly they were all there, just waiting for me. I packed it in, petted Jasper and Ruby, then trekked out to my car. I like to say that I rode that wave so far it chapped my butt. Wetsuits are not designed for hiking, and I don't wear anything underneath (don't tell). By the time I got to my car I had a major league rash on both cheeks. The only lasting souvenir, other then my memories.

Back home I cracked a cold one, and turned on the evening news on the T&V. The story of Foo's drowning, and footage of the waves at Mavs dominated the telecasts. I was struck with the risk, the danger, the huge stakes of playing in the ocean under such conditions. Above all, I was extremely grateful to have ridden that wave and to have survived the experience.

OK, so that's a huge indulgence in the tale of my biggest wave, how about yours? Email me with your experience on the biggest wave of your life, and I'll post it in a future column.

CU Out There,

DogMan