Bluewater Gold Rush
By Tom Kendrick

When the first swell of the season hit Point _____, I did an immediate U-turn, speeding back to Irish Beach to get my board. Upon returning to the parking lot at the cove I witnessed an amazing sight—George Tomlinson was flying off the top of a wind blown twelve-foot wave on his surf ski. He sat on top of the strange Australian-made device with his feet strapped in front of him, and a kayak paddle clenched in his fists as he twisted high in the spraying sea air. To my amazement, the ski was deftly brought straight back into the face of the monstrous wave, where upon reentry, the shaggy haired wild man carved a long, sweeping bottom turn, then gracefully exited over the wave shoulder.

I was stunned, not only from the high-caliber performance I had witnessed, but at the exceptional quality of the waves that were entering the cove in long, evenly spaced lines.

After quickly suiting up and negotiating the rocky trail up the beach, I scrambled into the numbingly cold water to begin the long paddle out to the lineup.

Tomlinson passed me by on his way in.

“Nice wave!” I shouted. He splashed me with his paddle as we met.

 “I was wondering when you’d show up.” His fiery blue eyes issued both greeting and warning, for although we were friends, we were also competitors.

During the long paddle out, I was further impressed by the large magnificent waves as well as by the remarkable abilities of the local surfers who casually teased the liquid boomers with graceful turns and slashing cutbacks.

Upon reaching the lineup, I was met with an unfriendly silence and piercing stares from the six local surfers who were huddled together waiting for the next set. Following a time-honored protocol, I took my place farther in from the main peak and closer to the wave shoulder than the others. An established pecking order was in place here, and from the vibes being cast my way, it was obvious where I stood.

After letting several waves pass, and ensuring that all six of the local pack had caught one, I slowly moved into position, being careful not to place myself at the outside peak, which was a reserved area.

Three more waves passed. But now, a large swell loomed, and two quick strokes put me in the slot. My gaze locked onto the fellow next to me, but as our eyes met, he gave me a short nod. It was my turn.

The outgoing tide had created a sucking action, causing the waves to jump up quickly as they hit the reef, making for steep, near vertical wave faces. The thick lips violently pitched out over the shallows, breaking hard, with a deafening noise, followed by an impact vibration through the water.

I glanced into the thundering barrel during my takeoff. That moment of hesitation was all it took as the stiff offshore wind held me at the top of the wave, not allowing me into it. Even as I jumped to my feet, I knew it was too late. The lip of the wave threw out, holding me firmly in its grasp. I was flung like a rock from a slingshot, out, and over. Looking down, I was now resigned to my fate, and after a long, weightless free fall, I hit the concrete hard water with a painful splat.

The small volume of air that remained in my lungs was needed, for this wave, my first at Point _____, was not yet finished with me. All was dark now, and I was afforded a split second of quiet calm under the water. But I knew what was coming, as once more I was sucked up into the massive machine, thrown over the falls, and slammed to the bottom, taking the full force of the breaking wave as it rippled through my body. After being scraped over the reef and getting my face sliced by the sharp leaves of bottom-lurking palm kelp, I reached the surface where a much needed breath of air was stifled by a thick layer of foam.

The wipeout had taken up only about fifty feet of space, and fortunately was the last wave of the set, for if it had been the first, my beating would have continued.

Grateful that my board was still in one piece, as well as my body, I paddled back into the lineup, where I was greeted with more silence from the surly Point _____ surfers. Finally, one of them, an older guy with long gray hair halfway down his back, looked over at me. “That looked like fun.” A slight grin escaped, creasing his weather beaten face.

My next wave was a disaster as well. I got lazy on my bottom turn, was swallowed, and again mauled. I finally made one though, an insider that hollowed out and screamed by the shallow rock fingers. After two more clean rides, my confidence grew, and a wonderful three-hour session ensued as the stiff wind backed off for the afternoon.

After my obligatory thrashing, it seemed as though the Point Arena waves had accepted me. I was now permitted to enjoy their smooth, exhilarating power without fear of further punishment.

And although few words passed between us, I was grudgingly accepted by my wave-riding peers who had witnessed my pounding, as well as my observance of surfing convention.

And so I was welcomed by water and by flesh, and it was documented in my log that for one October day in 1987, my dues on the North Coast had been paid.

                                                                       ****************************

Money flowed into our bank account. Debbie was no longer producing income from her piano, but it wasn’t missed—my diving money had more than tripled. Besides, she was now a mother, and Donovan occupied most of her time.

Everything was clicking—the boat was running well, a healthy market prevailed, and the weather, up to now, had cooperated.

Santa Rosa, a metropolitan city twenty-five miles east of Bodega Bay seemed like a good place to invest our savings. After a few phone calls to realtors in the area, we drove over Highway 128 to Cloverdale, down 101 into Santa Rosa, and in one day, found a reasonably priced home in a nice neighborhood, and bought it as an investment property.

Our estate was growing, and I was filled with pride. We now owned title to two homes. My hard work was paying off and the money continued to roll in.

The future looked bright indeed.