MavericksFeb 13, 2010
|
|
| One of my favorite things is to approach an event by foot. Even after many decades, I remember the excitement I felt as I walked with my brother to the autumn gates of the Minnesota State Fair. I remember walking the vast Bloomington parking lot to see Allison, Battey, Killebrew & Pascual. Later, I remember climbing the crowded stairs at the Fillmore, where I was given a magic apple and electric bands blew my mind. In foggy, blocks-long lines I shuffled toward Star Wars, and I still remember the green acres of Brands Hatch in England, where I trudged to Dingle Dell for my first Grand Prix. More recently, I coagulated every year among tens of thousands runners for the Bay-to-Breakers, and on a glorious blue-sky day I gathered in the Stanford Quad as Gorbachev gave us false hope before the turn of the century. So I was feeling good in the early morning as I walked north this February toward Mavericks, and the ultimate surfing competition. As I approached the yacht harbor, the sirens of Emergency Response Vehicles screamed up the coastal highway, and I wondered if an early surfer had drowned, but how was I to know? So I walked on among excited crowds, around the bird sanctuary and up the hill to the cliffs north of Pillar Point, which were already crowded with citizens of the left coast. Someone said that monstrous waves had wiped out the competition. A Russian group behind me began an endless, incomprehensible babble, but with my binoculars I was able, somehow, to capture sudden, slashing rides on the wall of death. Helicopters hovered overhead, and jet-skis hunted for the brave surfers caught inside and suffering a horrible mid-face wipeout. No one died, and the legend grows. |
Advertisement 
|
