Merrr… Merrr… Merrr… The rhythmic foghorn buzzed in the early morning like a time bomb, counting down as we prepared the jet skis. Sitting along the coast, 29 miles south of downtown San Francisco, Half Moon Bay is a sleepy beach town with a not-so-hidden big wave known as Mavericks. The word on the street, “Today will be a small one, but don’t let that fool you. Always keep an eye on the outside.”
Sunrise colors paint the sky as the fog lifts and we prepare the jet skis to leave the marina’s protection towards the thundering Mavericks. Photo by Dalton Johnson
Chuckling to myself as I double-check my camera settings are correct for surf photography and latch down my Aquatech waterproof camera housing, I guess 20 to 30 feet is a small day, huh? Sitting on the curb in my wetsuit, tightening the screws to the pistol grip, triple-checking the leash’s velcro is strong, spitting on the glass port, and giving it a sloppy lick, I was in the flow state just waiting for the green light to hop on the ski and zip out into the danger zone.
If I owned business cards, my title would read Adventure Photographer. The job description is vague but typically goes as such: An adventure photographer travels the world in search of people pushing the limits in places few dare venture. I’m not much of a daredevil, so I don’t know how I ended up here, but 8 years into this career I couldn’t image doing anything else.
“Kid, you ready to head out there?” My chauffeur asks me. For the past two seasons, he has called me kid. I’m certainly the young gun with a camera trying to put in my reps. Honestly, I only sarcastically use the word chauffeur because I don’t own a jet ski and am grateful for the ride out there. Paddling out didn't go so well one time, but that is a story for another time. Typically, he drops me off in the channel and I use a longboard to snap images. Paddling back and forth to change my angle, sometimes standing up when the conditions are right. From time to time I get in a sticky situation when the wind is at my back, blowing me towards a set wave. If I got caught inside, it would be a kook of the day moment or worse.
“I am ready.”
The sun is now high in the sky. A bluebird morning filled with waves thundering, spiting, and spraying. Locals catching their fill, one wave after another. Some, going deep on the occasional outside bomb while others shoulder hop snagging their first big waves of the season. The predicted favorable conditions even drew a crowd of newbies hoping to prove themselves. By early afternoon the line-up was thick. Twenty to thirty people jocking for position. Trying to find a wave for themselves. Yet, the vibe remained lively.
One of the locals zips past me after getting picked up by the safety crew, “Great wave! How is it out there?” I shout to Peter Mel.
“So much FUN!” Mel shouts fun as he rips his head back with an ear-to-ear grin and shakes a hang-loose my way. “Everyone is just here to have fun today. It’s perfect!”
Hearing the egos are checked at the marina makes me happy, but I still want to get a shot that makes me proud. My shooting today has been reserved. Sitting atop my longboard in the channel, trying to read the waves. It’s time to settle in and paddle to the barreling left. My back will be to the wind the entire time. I understand the risks and paddle around.
Out and around the line-up I paddle. Keeping an eye on the horizon, I take a wide birth around the surfers so I don’t get caught by a set wave, sending me over the falls on a nose-riding longboard holding my camera. Then, I hear Woot woot! Yeah! No Way! Do it! Send it! The line-up shouts as they all paddle towards me. I guess I just have bad timing. A set wave is here.
Thankfully, my extra paddling paid off and as I look back at the wave crashing it dawns on me the entire line-up got caught inside. That could have been me. Nobody made it to the other side. Boards scattered everywhere. Carnage.
The radios buzzed and the safety crew went to work. Plucking surfer after surfer. Several stuck on the inside gasping for a breath and collecting their boards. Thankfully, nobody was tombstoned and several were able to quickly paddle into the channel, reaching safety before the next wave came.
While all of that happened I continued my paddle to the left and sat. There is nothing I can do. Sadly, that is part of this game some of us call work. The wind at my back, pushing me forward, into the monster. With each barrel, I would stare at its eye and imagine what would be like if I were to misjudge and be stuck inside, tossed around like a rag doll trying to hold onto my camera so it doesn't smash my head open. In total, the camera and housing weigh around 10 pounds and are attached to my arm with a one-foot leash. Not pretty. Physically shaking my head I refocus, I am determined to snag a shot of a local tucking into a barrel.
John Mel dragging his hand on a barelling left at Mavericks. Photo by Dalton Johnson
Snap, snap, snap, snap… the shutter fires at 10 frames a second as John Mel, son of Peter Mel from earlier, drops in, drags his hand, and stalls under the lip on a left. Gliding towards me, John makes this wave look casual and graceful. I’m holding my breath. This is the shot of the day, I say to myself. John pumps his board, gaining speed and drawing a higher line for the barrel forming overhead. The top of his head kisses the inside of the barrel. Spiting John out he whips his long hair around and kicks out into the shoulder as if it was a movie scene.
For him, it was just another day at Mavericks. No words, no shouts, just the desire for another wave just like it.
As the tide drops and rises again, it’s time to head back in. No food and no water has left me in need of refueling, just at the perfect time. The swell has started to fade as quickly as it arrived. Soon, this green monster will be more like a lake, hidden in the deep water canyon below, waiting to come out again when the time is right. While I’m still the new kid on the block, I look forward to more reps in the danger zone.
