The Pomponio Treatment for Bored Sailors
Copyright (C) 1993, Luigi Semenzato

A month ago I was sailing near the north shore of the Berkeley Marina.
I was perfectly powered on my five-five, faster than ever on a new G10
blade fin, the wind was steady, and the chop gentle.  And all of a
sudden, for no reason, in the middle of a starboard reach, I had this
awful thought: `What am I doing?  Why am I hanging from this sail,
steering with my feet, going splish-splash splish-splash at blinding
speed?  What's the point?'

The thought was completely unexpected, and I was shocked.  Later I
told Klaus.  He took it quite seriously.  `Were you fully powered?'
he asked.

`Oh yes, quite nicely powered.  No slogging at all.'

`What about jibes?'

`I was jibing fine.  I only blew ten, maybe fifteen.'

`Mmhhh.'  He played with his beard, a sign of deep concentration.
`Ugly symptom.  You need to undergo therapy.'

`What do you mean, what therapy?'

`The coast.  We are going to the coast.'

The Northern California coast had always seemed to me a clear case of
poor planning on Mother Nature's side.  Consider the Italian coasts.
She did a pretty good job there.  The water has a reasonable
temperature, there is sun, small waves, even some breeze.  In my first
visits to the Pacific coast I was never dressed enough (it's not just
me: it happens every year to thousands of tourists in San Francisco).
The cliffs were gorgeous, the beaches white, wide, and wild, and I
would regularly get a wind headache.  One time I put my feet in the
water: they had never hurt so much.  What a complete waste!  I didn't
know that the distance between that freezing hell and pure, undiluted
fun is just four millimiters of rubber with tiny air bubbles in it.

We went to Waddell.  There was no wind in the early afternoon, so we
drove to Ano Nuevo and watched the sea elephants shed their skin.
They engaged in mock fights and made noises like giant farts (the
smell matched).  We watched them with one eye: the other scanned the
sea for whitecaps.  They began appearing at three-thirty, and by four
we were rigged and ready.  The wind was just enough for my five-five;
the surf was small and close to the shore.  The largest breakers had
nearly four foot tall faces.  Klaus gave me last-minute instructions.
`Remember Luigi, the mast must always point outside.  If it points
inside, then it gets stuck in the bottom, the wave pushes on the
board, and that's how the mast breaks.'

No sweat.  Do I ever?  I beachstarted, stepped over a few small
breakers, and was out.  I sailed upwind a bit, jibed, and headed back,
ready for a glorious ride on a mighty roller.  But I didn't find one.
The water was flat all the way in.  I jibed on the inside (a stand-up
jibe, also called beach jibe), started out, and there they came, two
or three big ones in sequence.  Every time it was the same story: flat
going in, rough going out.  Either I was unlucky or I was missing
something.  But striving for a worthy goal is often even more fun than
reaching it.  Sailing among the waves was delightful frolicking and I
didn't want to leave.  We sailed until sunset.  I wanted more.  We
planned to return a week later---that is, three days ago.

Sunday morning we called the Waddell windtalker: four to eighteen,
average ten from south-east.  South-east, in the summer?  The
windtalker must have been broken.  We went anyway, but we took
boogie-boards with us as a back-up.  As we descended 92 towards Half
Moon Bay, we knew there was wind.  Fog hung above the cliffs north of
the bay; to the south it retreated to sea, but never went too far,
like a formidable army patiently waiting to attack.  We drove south on
1, past many windy but sail-free beaches that we ignored because of
our herd instinct.  Still ten miles away from Waddell, we saw sails in
the water at Pomponio State Beach.  The clouds were threateningly
close and moving fast, but the cloud line was not shifting, and the
beach was sunny.  Was this the right spot?  A small pick-up loaded
with sailboards came from the south and turned into the parking lot.
That settled it.  With no doubt, Pomponio was the center of the
universe.

The wind was really from the south, and strong.  We walked to the
beach, to gauge the situation.  The surf, as they say, was up.  Truly
up.  The breakers were easily three-quarter mast high.  Now that's
quite a bit higher than a person.  Never in my life I had considered
getting in the water under similar circumstances.

We rigged four-sixes.  We put the boards in the water, and the
incredible struggle begun.  The shore break was not high, but pounded
hard.  Water pushed and pulled from all directions.  Plain beachstarts
seemed impossible.  Then, unexpectedly, somehow I got on the board.
It took off with tremendous acceleration, reached the first wave at
full speed, and jumped over ignoring my attempt to absorb the lift.
Can you guess where my feet were?  Did you guess in the straps?
WRONG!  I crashed and was quickly washed back to the shore, in spite
of my protests.

And all of this, mind you, was happening well inside of the point
where the real waves were breaking.  These were just the smaller waves
near the shore, and they were winning.  I studied the situation.  The
compromise was clear.  If I sailed slow, surely one of the big fat
fellows further out would get me.  If I sailed fast, there was hope to
go through between sets, but I was going to catch air.  A smooth
landing was always possible: a close encounter with Mr. Big was
hopeless.  Fast, then.  I figured I had energy for a couple more
attempts.  I went for it.  There was no other choice.

One after the other, I climbed over three steps of whitewater.  Each
climb brought me to a stop; and after the third one, I found myself
slogging in the human sacrifice zone.  It was empty and flat.  A dark
shade lurked in the distance.  I felt a burning desire for speed.
GO, MOVE, GO!  Kindly, the wind put me on a plane.  The water became
darker.  Call it good timing, call it beginner's luck, I was outside.
I looked behind and saw the back side of a green foam-topped wall
crash onto itself.

Klaus joined me.  He had just made it out.  `Hey!  I got washed FOUR
times!' he told me happily.

`So what do we do now?' I asked.  He was the expert.

`We sail here for a while, then we go in.'  I didn't like that last
part.

The swells came in three sizes: medium, large, and extra-large.  The
extra-large ones were from the south; the others, from all directions.
Very confusing.  Some of the walls were steep enough to get good
jumps, and falling here was OK, plus I had my feet in the straps.

We prepared to return.  My fears were unfounded.  Sailboards are
faster than the waves.  Just like at Waddell, you won't catch a wave
unless you look hard for it.  I got to the beach with no trouble.  I
joined a bunch of friendly local sailors for some rest.  I had been in
the water forty minutes: one hour of rest would do.  The locals were
in a good mood and they teased our slalom boards only a little.  But
Klaus was impatient and after a while went out again.  We watched him
make it to the outside, and immediately come back, closely followed by
a blue giant.  `Jesus,' said one of the locals `that's the largest wave
of the day.'

The blue giant begun to break.  Klaus was riding it parallel to the
crest, away from the breaking point.  We observed with interest.
`Don't make a mistake now' someone said.  Foam begun to form along the
entire crest, and Klaus aimed directly down.  He managed to stay
ahead.  He got to the beach with a big smile on his face.

This feat duly inspired me and soon I was ready for another try.  I
fought my way through the shore break and reached the sacrificial
zone.  On the way I passed Klaus in the process of being washed.  A
large breaker came roaring.  I threw my weight back and lifted the
nose as high as I could.  Miraculously, I went through.  Then
something happened to the wind, or to my balance, I don't really know:
I just know I fell in, in the worst place, at the worst time.

Mr. Big was coming, and I did not have a contingency plan.  The board
was within reach.  I briefly considered trying to hold on to it, but
discarded the idea.  I value my limbs more.  I looked at it and
silently said good-bye.  In front of me, the wall was steepening,
about ten feet I figured.  The waves I played with in the Adriatic sea
were about three feet.  Now, if the energy scales with the square...
or is it the cube?  I begun to derive the equations, but time was up.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, the wave's white lip curled and began to
fall on its smooth face.

That `reluctantly' is just a figure of speech, of course.  On the
contrary, this wave was quite happy, because lunch (me) was served.
Instinctively, I dove headfirst.  The wave came rumbling over and RING
just a second, phone call.

That was Klaus.  Crissy is blowing eighteen to thirty average
twenty-five.  If you'll excuse me, I have to go now.  AH I forgot the
story---well, gosh, I am awfully sorry but I must leave the office
right now or I'll be late for my dentist appointment.  If you want
to know how it ends, you can always try it yourself.  Make sure it's
at least ten feet.  Best of luck.  Ciao.