A Parable: Curren and Cottons

That day at Cottons was glassy.  

An oily glass texture that day allowed the rising sun's light to dance across the surface.  And while the sun was gently rising, crystal prisms refracted the light into shades of tourmaline.

Yah it was one of those days!  Sheet glass, oily, light reflecting.  A slight offshore breeze, maybe 4-6 knots, tickling the tops of each passing lump, amplifying the wave's natural inclination to draw out.  A Fall day to be certain.  A combo swell no doubt.  And turmeric skies North as far as you could see.  

It was wildfire season.  The offshores bursting onto the scene wreaking havoc on the dehydrated vegetation.  No County protected from the risk.  This season was particularly cruel in Santa Barbara.  The fire had driven residents in some areas to seek refuge away from the smoke, out of town, inside as last resort, anywhere but there... anywhere but below the suffocating fumes now percolating throughout the city. 

And San Clemente happened to be the perfect refuge for a surf legend from Santa Barbara.

20 years on and I can relive this session as if it happened yesterday.  

There was a smattering of surfers that dotted the line-up that day;  most were catatonic from the driving beams of light as the sun arose..some intoxicated by the beauty of it all.

The waves, unlike the morning glass and the disco light, were quite everyday.  It was 2-3 foot, a combo swell, and stunning.  And as I turned to avert my slumbering gaze from the toils of the rising sun there was no mistaking what I saw. 

Looking to the horizon you might be blinded if not for a raised hand shielding your eyes... but looking back toward the beach everything was crystal clear, the sun's light irradiated the ought spray from a down carve, the caramel sand's edge, and most importantly...it bookmarked faces.

No, there was no mistaking it...or rather, no mistaking WHO.

A blur, a symphony of alignment, cloaked by pace, sped by at what I can only assume was Mach 6, inter-dimensional, glistening crystals for thrust behind him, I was struck by the speed, obviously, but also by the effortlessness of generating momentum.  

For the common surfer there is great effort in generating speed... "Speed" ha ha... for the average surfer speed is parochial. It's a feeling. A transient motion state with no better descriptor but to call it speed.  A pedestrian endeavor thought of but never.  

For Tom Curren though, always, and in perfect harmony, speed just existed.  We'd have to ask, but I'm sure he wouldn't have given much thought to "speed" either... maybe in that way the average Surfer and Tom Curren had something in common.   

My feet counter rotated under my board, gently turning me to track the wave's progress, Tom's progress, arced turns, heavy spray, carving his way down the line.  Weightless. Stylistic.  Beautiful.  End section annihilation.  

"Geezus!  I swear that's Tom Curren." said silently in my head...  Microprocessing  synapses unable to process.  What the F*** is Curren doing down here!?!  A 2-3 foot, glassy, remarkably unremarkable Cottons day!?!

As he punched through the second wave on his way back out, to no particular honey hole, the entire lineup his offering, there he was.  Curren. 

I realize how this must sound.  Corny at best, irrelevant at worst.

But 20+ odd years ago, in my waning young adulthood, at one of my favorite surf spots, with a couple close friends, a perfect Fall day became more.  This is when the day transcended. 

For the next 20 minutes I inconspicuously watched Tom surf. A muted green full suit for armor;  well worn and low-key.  A deep green board... or maybe it was ocean blue. The board no more than 5'4", or so I imagined, likely a fish or four fin:  loose, nimble, lively... speed generation second nature.

I was puzzled that no one else seemed to notice.  Maybe it was the lully swell. You couldn't help but to be mindless that day.  

He just stalked the inside. Casually paddling for waves no one else thought to look at. You could tell his relationship with the ocean was more... instinct.

A fleeting and delirious experience.  And at once... he was gone.  

A flickering moment, moving about the other surf riders with a grace, an efficiency, a deftness, to go unnoticed;  likely all by design.  Maybe by default.  Disappeared; or rather evaporated...along with the spray, a transformative mist becoming at one with the natural order of things.  And he was gone.  A singularly focused session cut short not for necessity but for contentment.  So many little humdingers.  So much fun. Underwhelming power with very good shape (it was a combo swell like I said) brought to life by an icon of style and fluidity, a honed approach recasted time and again by the deepest of bottom turns and cleanest of rail work... not to be duplicated now, and not having been duplicated since.  

I wondered if it was all a dream.  

After all, the sun was glaring, it was sheet glass, there were turmeric skies, revelry throughout, and it was a 2-3 foot combo swell on the most perfect of Fall days at Cottons.