Don't read this if you're from the Gorge or Maui. Truth is, I can't stand the wind anymore. I have absolutely no love lost when it's blowing over 10 mph. All apologies to my windsurf and kite buds on California's North Coast. This is coming from a guy who has spent thirty-five years - more than half of my life - windsurfing, chasing the wind all over the West Coast of the U.S.A., up and down both sides of Baja, around Maui and all the way to Fiji. I lived for small craft advisories. I’m talking real wind, the windier the better. Any windsurfer knows that, "if it's not totally miserable out, it ain't windy enough to sail." When the beach starts sandblasting your legs like 60 grit sandpaper and car doors magically slam shut, it's time to rig up. Anything else is out of the question. Twenty to thirty-knot winds at a surf spot is no picnic on the beach. For decades I lived this life - hard wired into the socket of God's tight isobars, played like a puppet on a string.
My break up with the wind was unintentional. It all started with a stand up board. I convinced myself that SUP surfing was something to do when not sailing in the surf. I liked the idea of one board, one paddle. It all sounded so innocent. Before long, I had a new sport. Soon after, I was opting out of gnarly windsurf days in favor of SUP surfing glassy waves near my house. My wave count started to go through the roof.
I fell in love with glassy water. In short order, the writing was on the wall. They may call the wind Mariah, but I was calling on her less often. It was only a matter of time before I broke up with all things windy. "It's not you, it's me.”
At a remote surf spot in the middle of the Seven Sisters of Northern Baja, I set up camp with mi amigos Baja Bob and Kirby. We named this spot “Mucho Viento” years ago for good reason. This neck of the woods has a nasty reputation for howling offshore winds lasting for days on end. This was my first SUP-only foray to Mexico. There were no prone surfboards or windsurf gear on this trip, a first for me. Day numero uno, we surfed fun-sized waves with light offshore winds, which was a treat after driving for three days straight. Kirby and I were out on our stand ups, Baja Bob on a prone board. Daybreak on day two was a whole new ballgame. Sunrise greeted us with giant plumes of spray ripping off the tops of a building northwest swell. My camper rocked me awake. By seven a.m. it was already blowing over twenty-five knots straight offshore. Knowing it was only going to get windier as the day heated up, we three amigos hit the surf before it turned into all-out chili con carnage.
Getting out there on a stand up board was literally a breeze. I blew right into, then out of, the lineup. Then the wind picked up even more. Getting back in was now a problem. A short and wide guy such as myself on a stand up paddleboard has plenty of windage. In less than a minute, I was blown like a leaf out to sea. After a harrowing and thankfully brief case of panic, plus working like a dog, I finally made it back to dry land. Kirby and Baja Bob also called it quits.
Back at Campo Stevo, we discovered that our table, all three beach chairs, an 8 x 10 shade canopy, and a good-sized chunk of astroturf were missing. The whole enchilada, had apparently been swept up and blown out to sea, headed towards Japan. After our short-lived surf attempt, all we could do was hunker down. Dirt and dust flew by the camp all day and into the night. By crack-o-dawn on the third morning, the relentless wind had revved up a notch. Now, in addition to blowing sand and dirt, we were also getting pummeled with small rocks and debris. Mother Nature was sending us a clear message. A no-brainer split to the Gulf side was the call. Six hours later on the Sea of Cortez, I had never been so happy to see calm water in all my life. Glassy water is as therapeutic as a soft couch.
Wind can do crazy things to your mind. It's an annoying and unbroken buzz bouncing around inside your head. It's as intrusive as a weird neighbor who just won't stop talking, or a fat guy constantly leaning against you on an airplane. It's the loud generator that's been on for hours, and you don't realize how much it bugs you until it stops. Yeah, it's that kind of screw-loose, nuttier than a fruitcake whacky. It's no wonder that the Dust Bowl settlers went bat-shit crazy.
The years have rolled slowly past. My divorce from Mariah-all-things-windy has been somewhat amicable. And the wind? She still messes with me every now and then. I still silently curse her under my breath. But my new infatuation with glassy water? Innocent as a lamb and steamy as a Turkish bathhouse...I think she may be the one.
-S. West
