He pulls himself forward on his board, attempting to avoid the drag of the current turmoil that creates massive undertows in the shallow waters near the shore. He navigates quickly into the available channel which is created by the transfer of water that recedes after each surge. Pulses, pounding almost sensuously, over and over, into the beach heads that line the edge of this raging beast.

His arms begin to come alive as he strokes the water powerfully, lifting his chin and chest upward with every lunging grasp of undulating real estate, searching the rising expanse for rogue waves, as it passes beneath his board.

He hastens the pace of propelling thrusts with each carving sweep of his arms, knowing that in this area forms the most dangerous of waves that can catch him in a closing set from which there is no escape, carrying him perilously close to the shore and its shallow rocks and reef. His pulse quickens as an outside colossus begins to develop, peeling from east to west, building a transfer grade at its center like the upper lip of a giant snarling jaw. He hears the hoots and cat-calls as the local line-up, caught off guard, scrambles desperately to traverse the distance, hoping to close the gap before they are pounded, chewed and swallowed, by its merciless bite.

It is obvious, from the howls he hears, that some were victimized by its unrelenting force. He turns and peers intently to the shore and the lone watchtower, straining to see if one of the wave runners is being powered up, signaling a treacherous accident and impending rescue. The tower is sober, expert swimmers with their large field glasses trained on the site, stark against the emerald background with their brick-red shorts. All seems well as he turns back to the task at hand.

The colossus has now begun to infringe upon his own tranquility as it reaches the inner shelf just ahead of him, about 100 yards. The bottom-kicked wave quickly begins to stack up, and the wall of water seems to gain 40 or 50 feet within mere seconds. It is all he can do to keep from turning his position, and attempting to paddle into its clean, curving face. He admires it breathlessly as it towers toward him, sun fish and sea turtles dancing in its placid, yet undulating wall. He takes a last look at the folding lip nearly 60 feet above him, now turning white as it signals one final death throw before relinquishing its right to this free and graceful existence.

Quickly, he reaches forward to the upper deck of his board, grasping the rails on each side and forcefully shoving the nose under the waters surface. With his right foot firmly placed on the rear deck, clutching the waxy surface with his toes, he lunges forward into the base of the rolling giant before him and smoothly, almost effortlessly, surges beneath it, eyes open, marveling at the huge barrel of water evidenced by the sand that is drawn up from the bottom and the glisten of sun upon the bubbles that form. He swims forward and then up and through, quickly surfacing at the rear where it ejects him.

He begins to paddle furiously now as the massive power of the wave’s base sucks him with it, threatening to impede his forward motion, which could leave him out of position in this valley of giants as the next wave breaks.

This second aquatic monster, now careening toward him, is of immense proportions, and he openly chides himself for being so nonchalant with the last one. “Shit!” he barks, as adrenaline explodes through his body. The lip of this one is already beginning to whiten and collide upon itself. He strokes the water double time as the peak, now forming a plateau like it has been severed by some giant sword, lurches forward. He realizes this is also an extremely dangerous development. Huge rogue waves typically can form in sets that transfer massive volumes of water in reverse and build the waves at the rear to thick proportions which crumble upon themselves with incredible force. These waves can catch surfers in huge expanses of roiling white water that make it nearly impossible to maintain a balanced position, and as well, are ridiculously difficult to “duck-dive” beneath, since the tumultuous power of the surge is forced completely to the sea bottom when the wave breaks.

He digs the water with all his might on the right side, making a quick sharp course change to the left, and drives his board forward, almost desperately, as the lip of the set begins to bounce and flail, charging like a giant stampede of abominable snowmen, jumping and tumbling ten and fifteen feet above the surface.

Fortunately, the angle of movement impeded by the shear size of the wave is assisting his new direction, and the wall of rapids is averting slightly. He decides it will be best to take it broad side and try to lift himself up on top of the cacophony. He grabs the board tightly and braces himself for the impact, taking a deep breath as the speeding wall pounds into him with a force he is never quite ready for, especially on these massive days.

He realizes this was probably not the best of strategies as the water begins to toss him left and right, up and down, tumbling him like clothes in a dryer, driving water into his nose and ears with incredible force. He struggles to gain some semblance of control, and eventually decides to let go of the board, lunging for the bottom, swimming sleekly along the lower edge of the turmoil. It works like a charm, as he feels the powerful tug on his leash, now swimming against the current.

Unfortunately, this type of break creates over 5 feet of foam which covers the water, and he soon realizes that he will need to retrieve his board and attempt to breech the surface quickly, since it is impossible to swim or even breath in it this soon after it forms.

He reels in the board and brings it around in front of him. Pulling himself up and on top of it, now balancing above the water’s surface, he waves his arm to clear the foam and is happy to be able to take a few quick breaths. However, the next set is coming, and the pounding water once again sends him for another ride. Luckily this is a much smaller wave, and he is near the shoulder where he was headed with the initial course change. He pulls his board under him and paddles into clean water, turning right again toward the pristinely forming sets of Sunset. He now begins the usual process of regaining lost progress so many big wave riders must endure at times.

He takes the next few waves in stride as he slowly makes his way to the lineup. One of these waves was so intense he found himself flying in the air as he paddled over the top of its cascading lip, and down the quickly falling rear slope.

He soon realizes why it has taken him a bit longer to get to the peppering of surfers bobbing nonchalantly at the point. The crowd appears to have resigned itself to a little more boredom, but a little less risk, where they now gather much further out to avoid being punished by the frequent rogue sets forming. This generally made Marc very happy. He is used to taking the inside position where few will sit. It is much more dangerous, and the drops are insane, but he also typically surfs a much smaller board than the rest of the local pecking order, and needs the extreme tipping-point to paddle into the pitching break. This has had the added affect of gaining him plenty of respect, which allows him a bit more latitude with the locals when reaching.

He duck-dives under the surface and emerges, water flowing off of his sleek, powerful, bronzed body; long blonde hair washing back cleanly against his head. The sun glistens off of the dancing water as a magnificently marching set begins to form on the horizon. “This is going to be a perfect day” he thinks to himself, as he slowly begins to paddle into position.

To be continued…