Fear and Kiting in Los Cabos

DSCN0401Parental Advisory: Dear Mom and Dad, please don’t read this. I know how you feel about me kiting and this isn’t going to help. Love, Dawn

I don’t kitesurf in the summer heat. I consciously decided that kiting is a fall and winter sport for me because it’s hell getting the gear rigged on the hot sand. I’ve come close to heat stroke a couple of times. But on my first foray out this autumn, I came close having a stroke for a very different reason.

It’s always difficult to motivate to go out the first time after my summer break; I know from experience that half my equipment is going to fail because it’s been sitting around for months in the summer heat. The glue that they use to seal the valves in particular is degraded by high temps so when you try to blow the kite up, one or more valves go “pop!” and you’re S.O.L unless you know how to do repairs, which apparently I don’t. I tried to replace a valve last year, followed the instructions carefully, watched YouTube videos on how to do it, but failed terribly. I can’t even tell you where I went wrong.

My neighbor Walker, who’s a kiter, was here this week and convinced me it was time to get the kites out. The wind was blowing a good 25 to 30 miles an hour, the water was crystal clear, and it seemed as good a time as any to get out there. And I was glad to have some company for the first foray in many months.

Walker is an enthusiastic kiter. He’s been doing it since the sport was in its infancy and went through the hell of using kites that didn’t have all the built-in safety features that those of us starting up much later benefit from. He’s got some great tales of harrowing near-death experiences that I’m glad I got to miss out on. His enthusiasm means he was down on the beach at the first sign of whitecaps. I dragged my feet, experiencing the resistance borne of the knowledge that it was probably going to be a bit of a nightmare figuring out which of my well-used kites was flight worthy. Sure enough, after I got down there and helped Walker launch his brand new 7M Sling Shot, I tried three different kites, including one of Walkers that he’d offered up, and none of them were operable. Walker had forgotten to bring the bar (essentially the “steering wheel”) down for his 6M that I was hoping to use and before launching he suggested I jerry-rig it with my own bar. I knew this was a bad idea and did it anyway. The kite is different than any of mine and sure enough, when I launched it, it immediately dove to the beach and crashed, flew back up and dove, over and over again as the lines twisted on themselves. Frustrating!! Not to mention not so good for the kite. Before I could get it under control, it nose dived into a sundried porcupine fish, which penetrated the heavy nylon of the leading edge, but thankfully not the bladder and a foot long hole tore through the canopy. That kite was out of commission until it could be repaired.

Meanwhile, as I struggled to get the next kite (any kite!) rigged, Walker was out there flying back and forth across the water, intermittently crashing the kite into the water’s hard surface and then struggling to relaunch because he was under-powered. It was apparent from the tangled mess of the lines on the bar I was trying to rig that I didn’t deal with that issue before putting them away for the season. My bad. Untangling lines requires the patience of Job and after trying to get two other setups rigged, mine was waning. Walker came in while I was deep in the tangles.

When I explained what the hold up was, he offered me his brand new kite. Although he’d been underpowered, we reasoned it would be perfect for me because I weigh considerably less than he does. After a half-hearted protest that the kite was new! I thanked him profusely and got out there.  Employing what patience remained, I timed it right to get out through the heavy shorebreak without mishap and was up and whizzing out to sea trying to remember the subtleties of the sport.

Fifteen minutes into my session, I’d just tacked, heading back out to sea, when I leaned back and took a look down to marvel at the crystal clarity of the water backed by the white sand bottom and contrasting black and mottled brown rocks. The water was so clear it looked like it was only a few feet deep. I’d begun to turn my attention back to the surface and the kite, when I sailed over the outline of something that resembled a shark.

BigMouthWait…WHAT?!

At first I didn’t believe my eyes, and started looking around at the white caps, hoping one would resemble a shark and I could laugh at my paranoia, but that was denial at work. I considered further what I’d seen: it’s shape was distinct–a wide body, tapering to a long tail with an upright caudal fin that only one type of fish in the sea possesses, light grey on top and white underneath at the tips of its fins and a as I passed overhead, it flicked that tail once to impel itself forward, an unmistakable motion. As the reality that I had indeed seen a shark, a rather large shark, slowly sank in, I felt the vice grip of anxiety rise and take hold of my chest. I began debating what to do. I was still on a course that took me out to sea, to deeper darker waters, but away from where I’d seen the shark. I needed to give him time to continue on his way North. Unfortunately, my mind then had him pulling a U-turn and coming to see what that “thing” was that flew overhead. I wondered Are sharks curious? The darkness of the deeper water was frightening because of all that it could conceal. I decided it was time to tack and head back to shore, but with all that anxious thinking I was distracted and blew my turn. I sank into that deep, dark blue water up to my neck, and anxiety turned to panic.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT!” I said as much at myself as to myself. Get up and get going! I silently commanded.

And so I did, saying a little “Thank you God,” as I got up to speed without the kite crashing and exploding on impact (not an uncommon occurrence where I am concerned). I was headed to shore.

This is where the way my brain works frightens me a little; on my way back to shore, it occurred to me that I’d only been out kiting a short time and I began rationalizing that the shark was long gone. He’d obviously just been cruising, there was no evidence of him being in hunter mode. When the time came, I did not go to shore, I turned that kite and me strapped to my board and headed back out to sea. True or not, I’d convinced myself I was safe above water and blocked out the possibility of kite failure, major wipe outs, the wind dying, and several other instances where I’d be back in the water up to my neck only minutes after seeing what I estimated to be an eight-foot shark.

It’s amazing what the human mind is capable of blocking out when it wants to ignore the facts. I’d almost forgotten all about that shark, when on my next tack, I lost control of the kite and it shot right to left, yanking me out of my board straps and flinging me a good ten feet downwind, before crashing into the water with a resounding WHUMP! Suddenly, I remembered Mr. Shark. Pushing the question of where my board was aside, I concentrated all my attention on the kite and after a few nail-biting failed attempts got it relaunched. I looked back hoping to see my board bobbing on the surface nearby. It was nowhere to be seen. Shit! Where is it? I could feel the anxiety putting its stranglehold on me again. Desperation wrapping its suffocating arms about me, I began to body drag upwind in search of my board. I recalled thankfully that it has red footstraps, unlike the two boards I’d previously lost in scenarios similar to this one – white, I’d concluded, is a STUPID color for a kiteboard; they just disappear among the white caps. The recollection of losing those two boards at sea taunted me now. Would I find the board or have to body drag all the way back in? Please God, no. A couple of drags of about 30 feet, first one way and then the other and I could see the board bobbing in the wind chop. I relaxed a tiny bit. Quickly, I regained the board, slipped my feet into the straps, and power-stroked myself up and out of the water. I could breathe again.

A few more tacks and I wiped out again, this time though I didn’t crash the kite and remained close enough to the board that it was visible. I decided I’d tempted fate enough and it was time to go in. I couldn’t relax out there except when within easy reach of the beach. But there was a big swell in the water that day, so every time I got close to the beach, a huge wall of water would loom up behind me threatening to send me into shore ass over tea-kettle like a big piece of flotsam wrapped up in my lines. I imagined myself riding those waves and pulling out gracefully by launching myself like a bird, as I’d seen advanced riders do on Maui. As I approached the shore, I got my opportunity as a wave began to grow behind me. I rode it partway in before pulling the kite up to stop my forward momentum and skidding to a remarkably graceful halt before I crashed on the sand. Using the kite’s pull, I exited the water in a series of small hops. The sand never felt so solid, so secure under my feet.

Walker was no longer on the beach, so I did a controlled crash to land the kite. When I ran over to deflate it, what I saw made my breath catch in my throat. The plug for main intake valve was open, probably popping under the pressure of one of Walker’s more dramatic crashes. The only thing keeping the kite from deflating was the stopper, a little plastic ball that plugs the hole under back pressure. I was reminded of one of the earliest lessons we were taught by the instructor at Action Sports Maui: Always rig your own kite and if you don’t for some reason, double check the rigging before launch. I’d been in such a rush to get out there, I’d forgotten an essential lesson. I was lucky the kite hadn’t deflated when I crashed it way out at sea.

The next day when I related this experience to my buddy Meisy, he laughed and pointed out that when I body drag using the kite to move upwind to retrieve my board, I essentially turn myself into big fishing lure. Thanks Meisy, the image of a shark clamping down on me like a baited line will haunt me every time I lose my board from this day forward.

My Love Affair with Cortez

Ocean Wave by John Sweeney
We’re hovering at the peak of hurricane season here in Baja California Sur. By this point in the summer, we usually have had several tropical storms and hurricanes form somewhere south of the peninsula, generating waves, wind and occasionally rain showers. So far we’ve had three hurricanes produce some nice swell – Dora, Greg, and Eugene came and went with the only consequence being a few minor surf-related injuries and broken surfboards.
 
For the past two weeks, daily notices from the National Hurricane Center consistently reported that there was no chance of a storm forming. So when I awoke last Sunday morning to a sky blanketed in a layer of dark grey clouds, I was surprised. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been, considering how, throughout the night, bright bursts of blazing white lightning woke me every hour followed by the rumbling of distant thunder.
 
That morning, looking North up the Sea of Cortez, the sky seemed to seep into the sea – air and water, both the same color of gun-metal steel, obscured any separation between them. Overhead and southward, patches of blue sky showed, but to the East and West large thunderheads grew and grumbled, threatening to envelope the East Cape. Grey vertical lines told me it was already raining out at sea and, I thought, probably inland closer to the mountains.
 
I checked the surf at my local break through the binoculars to confirm the surf report indicating the current swell was peaking. No one was out yet, but the sets were coming in consistently, breaking well outside the boil I use to get a clear idea of size from my mile-distant vantage point.
 
I hurried my preparations, applied a coat of sunscreen despite the overcast, loaded the ATV with a small cooler of water and fruit while I let the engine warm up. I stopped on my way up the driveway to rally my guest, a surfer who quickly loaded his board and jumped on the back of the moto with my most portable canine, Peanut.
 
There were three people out when we arrived at the break and by the time I paddled out there was one more, making us five in all. My friend opted to wait on the beach and chat with another surfer who’d just arrived. The paddle out was uneventful and once in the lineup and not noticing any large swell lines on the horizon, I decided to paddle a little inside to catch one of the smaller waves I’d seen breaking consistently from the beach.  As I paddled past the other surfers, they chatted seemingly oblivious to the perfect wave lining up with where I was headed. A couple more strokes and I was gliding down the face, cutting back to the curl and then carving up and down across the face of the glassy, head-high wave. I laughed at my luck, how the wave seemed to come right to me. I’d barely been in the water ten minutes.
 
Paddling back out I noticed the tell-tale sign of a dark bulge on the horizon – a set was headed our way. I paddled further out past the other surfers who stayed where they were. I was intent on determining which wave to go for, so I didn’t notice when Dave caught the first, smaller wave of the set. The third wave was the beauty and I turned and paddled hard. I was a bit late and the wave jacked up threatening to pitch me forward off the now vertical face. I jumped to my feet and somehow, by some miracle, managed to dig the rail of my board into the face of the wave just right and make the takeoff. It was easily four feet over my head as I carved along the smooth face, feeling the surge of power under my feet. I kicked out just as it closed out and saw Dave digging through the white water generated by my wave. Two perfect waves in a row – this was boding to be a good session.
 
Somehow as the morning progressed I managed to be in the right place more often than not. I surprised myself at how good I felt on each wave. I finally seemed to be in tune with my new-used 6’8” Roger Beal hybrid fish – was it was the blue lightning bolts painted on the deck? As I considered the possibility, the clouds pressed in from overhead and a clap of thunder announced the coming rain.
 
It started gradually – I felt the odd drop on my back and then saw the dark impressions they made on the water’s shiny grey surface. As the drops grew in size, their impact grew to flashes of dark and light, a large drop of water rebounding with each one and then disappearing in the embrace of sea water. The sensation of the droplets’ coolness against my skin was arousing and contrasted with the warmth of the seawater enveloping my legs.
 
The tide was rising and there was talk in the lineup that the quality of the waves was diminishing. A couple people went in and then another, until finally it was just me and one other surfer. That’s when my friend paddled out. As we sat there, surrounded by grey clouds and pock-marked grey water, he remarked that he’d never surfed in the rain in Baja. “I feel like I’m in Indo,” he said. Indonesia, I thought, one day I’ll know what it’s like to surf Indo.
 
Soon it was just the two of us and while my arms were starting to fatigue, the waves seemed to be getting better than they’d been just a half hour earlier when everyone else went in to the beach. I smiled at my handsome friend and the thought occurred to me that it was a shame there were people on the beach – the coolness of the rain and the warm sea water caressing my skin sent me into a reverie in which I pictured the two of us peeling off our suits and surfing Hawaiian-style.
 
There is a sensuality about surfing, about immersing yourself in a warm sea that I’ve never heard surfers discuss. It’s that sensuality that I believe made me fall in love with the water the first time I felt it against my skin: Half Moon Lake, Quebec may be thousands of miles away and radically different from the Sea of Cortez, but it’s all the same water, evaporating, condensing and morphing from mountain stream, into river, and cool ocean currents. For me, it’s been a life-long love affair that just keeps getting better.
 
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