27/06/2023
Dear legends … 5 years ago I sailed away to chase waves around the Atlantic. I write about this and lots of other stuff…https://www.nationalbusinesspost.com/?s=Finding+Grateful+
You can follow me here or on Instagram Grateful Travel. But here’s one about the day a slab wave on a reef got the best of me….
Swell of Gratitude. Doctor staple. Finding Grateful, Canary Islands, Spain. Day 864, December 2020
A gnarly left barrel has been taunting me for weeks now where the colored volcano meets the sea, just a few hundred yards from my anchor. In the black of night, Waves bash the rocky heads, moments later I feel the swell under Grateful...like lightening and the delayed thunder…bete noirs as we roll.
When I first arrived here for the season I rode around the island by dingy checking coves and points for potential. In this cove, I met Nacho, all alone on a peak. As I passed by in the dingy, board in tow, he waved to show me where to anchor, and I pulled addled over. I didn’t know about the spot before, so he showed me the take off zone, which tides work, and when to expect the crowd. We traded sets for another hour, just us two. Magical.
That was weeks ago, and by now I’ve charged the wave a half dozen times. Besides some scraped knuckles and a few dings on the Parrish 7-3, I’ve made it in and out of a few mid sized tubes.But yesterday, it was bigger, and I wanted to go deeper. I made the drop, faded, was about 6’ back, a technicolor reflection and the crack of fresh salt water mesmerized my senses. I had a song in my head, a clear view of a guy paddling out...then it all went black.
6. Not sure how long I was out...a few seconds I think, but I felt a a sharp pain on the back of my skull...and there was blood. The surfer came to me, checked the gash, and simply said ‘puntades’. Pure adrenaline fueled me to my anchored dingy, about 200 yards away. But when I pulled up the rode, no anchor was attached! Despite my head condition, I made 3 free dives trying to find the anchor and 3’ of chain. Nothing. I abandoned the anchor search and motored back to grateful.
8. New ding on the board, blood everywhere, and now no anchor...what next. I lifted anchor on grateful and motored to the marina 15 minutes upwind where I knew a medical center was close by. I approached the dock where normally sailboat like mine aren’t allowed, but I was desperate, cracked skull, blood and lacking full reason…the harbor master tried to wave me off, but when close enough…I saw him lose a bit of color in his face…and he grabbed my shore lines, then pointed the way to the hospital. Let’s just say there was sufficient blood.
9. Surf seasons in remote archipelagos is a pilgrimage for fully dedicated surfers. Scattered around the world, in every different climate imaginable; Hawaii, Maldives, Indonesia, Tahiti, Ireland...and the Canaries. I’ve chased these sometimes elusive, streams and pockets of stored energy that we call waves for 50 years. Slung across vast seas from violent low pressure systems hundreds and thousands of miles away, the energy beckons and draws us into the water. We want to be close, closer, to feel the pull and the turmoil of these fleeting organisms as they expel their fury on the ancient, solidified volcanic lava.
10. There’s a crew that comes here for the season, which lasts about 10 to 12 weeks. At this point, of the couple handfuls of hardcore chargers on the island, you get to know most of them, some becoming good friends and others you recognize their style. More boat in, some just for the day. But the lineups never become too crowded, and the vibe is never angst. And by this time, more than a handful are injured out: broken toes smashed into the rocks, twisted knees, pulled backs, torn rotator cuffs...they stand on the sidelines hoping for a faster recovery.
11. 7 weeks into the season now, at least 3 hours a day in the water, like most of the others, I am languid and fit. I can eat all I want, but keep very lean. We move around the island to optimize swell direction, winds, and tides.
12. I knocked on the locked door of the med center, and peeked inside to see a guy eating what must have been a late breakfast. He came to the door, looked at my head, told me to wait outside, then went back and finished eating. This is Spain, island style. No hurry…finally he opened, led me to an operating table and told me lay face down…
13. The island doctor seemed to be relatively used to this sort of thing. With my head on the table, he squeezed the hell out of that bloody knot. Then the stapler...one at a time, letting more of the red stuff out till it was almost flat again. There was a troubling pause between each staple. I could see from corner of my eye the big guy maneuvering around, always keeping one hand on the hole in my head. And pressure. LOTS OF PRESSURE. Anesthetic? Meh...this guy knows his clientele.
14. Then I could see him wielding that damn stapler again and it would disappear beyond my field of view, my blood soaked hair hanging across my face not being any help. Looking down, which was the only way I could look since he had a firm grip on my skull, I watched as his feet would adjust for coming torsion...then the damn stapler again. Squeeze, blood, adjust, BAM, staple. Only 8. Ocho. He gave me a little bit o pillow talk before he would pull the trigger each time. Sweet. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that sort of pain before. Raw. Just like the island.
15. On the way back thru town I saw Fedra and Miguel, A sailor and a diver whom I made friends with recently. They offered to find my anchor. We sailed back to the grateful anchorage, and I took Miguel to to where I remembered the dingy anchor was. He used my scuba gear and in less than a minute came back with the iron. Hero. I brought the camera with me, and as I was pulling away, back to grateful, this beauty winked at me.
16. Epilogue: I’ve been back on Grateful now for 2 days. Healing well. I had the carniciera cut me a nice pork chop, and I made an excellent red sauce with caramelized onions and garlic. I used the best olive oil I had. And the beer was very, very cold. Meanwhile, I have been flooded with messages and calls from countless people. Thank you!!! Love the connections. Most of you have asked me to please be more careful. Wow. Nice vibes. Thanks.
17. But here’s a perspective: I grew up in an LA suburb. I drove trucks to dads job sites, taking a wrong turn, more than once I ended up in East LA, on some dark side street and saw some gangsters, headed my way. I was fodder. Would floor it, run. Scarred. Oakland in the 90’s wasn’t far off from that nightmare either. Both were scary places to be. It always bothered me that I may have to put my life at risk,in that way, just to make a living. Maybe it’s made me calloused to risk still? But at least now, I am making the calls on when and where the risk is...
18. I love getting reader-mail responses. Here’s a few about this post: one from Brian and another from Diane: From good friend Brian: Dear Duane,Your life is an amazing story, makes me realize what a sheltered conservative life I've lead. But you were born to be adventurous. That's your DNA and reading about your travels tells me you are exactly where you need to be. At least for now(haha). I never get in the water these days. I was getting injured surfing mellow mushy California waves. Missing work was becoming too much and the aggressive grommets and stand up paddlers drove me into retirement. Those waves your experiencing are worth the risk. One has to live without regrets.
19. Grateful is now home, but with an anchor, and sometimes some shorelines being grounding devices, sometimes I feel disconnected. But one response, from a high school friend, struck a chord with me, to delve further into what the hell am I, and lots others like me, doing out here anyway?
19. Diane Douglas writes: Dear Duane: Thank you for putting your experiences into words . But surfing..is it a sport (spiritual practice? Art form?) that has fascinated me forever but I am too big a chicken to wade in water that big and fierce. Glad you are alive. Keep writing and riding.
20. Dear Diane: You’ve asked meWhat is this surfing…spiritual?, art form? Sport? I’ve never tried to classify it actually. I just remember in 5th grade at Los Robles elementary when school president, Mr McDonald played a surf reel at lunch on a rainy day, first forward, then in reverse, I knew right then what I wanted my future to be. So, here’s my little theory of water and surfing: Humans have tried to explain the allure of the sea and the waves for millennia:
21. Duke Kahanamoku: Out of the water, I am nothing. ..”. And I’m pretty sure most surfers feel the same about waves.
22. Unseen energies pulse thru, and haunt us all. I’ve never met a human who would doubt a spiritual presence is each of us. My board and boat act as a sort of lightning rod for this etherial light. And, think of the ocean as huge battery cell: Solar, light-energy from the sun stirs the atmosphere, creates storms and converts the energy into waves. Our spiritual energy, our light, wants to be in the wave. We want to connect to the life-energy-form of the wave. Become one. Complete.
