Kayak Surfing

Author © Scott D. Zachary

       It became apparent that my partner, Highlander Systems, was not going to help market my Thrust manufacturing and accounting software package as they had promised. After having spent years developing this magnificent system, I agreed to customize it further for any new clients. Highlander’s responsibility was to do the sales and marketing. I got tired of waiting for them to do something, so I prepared professional brochures. Still nothing on their end, so I developed the website. Still waiting, I created an automated demo recording capability in my software. Still nothing, I began writing a novel. They expected me to do all the work. I scuttled our agreement.

       While wielding my tomahawk, I also relieved my girlfriend, Amy, of her long list of complaints about me by giving her a few bucks and a bus ticket home to Kentucky. That was my expedient method for reconciling relationships in those days: Dump ‘em.

       It’s a pity I didn’t execute that expedient strategy from the beginning; I would’ve saved myself landslides of grief. A bit of advice: If you are a practicing alcoholic as I had been all of my adult life (and much of my childhood), then don’t entangle yourself in marriage and don’t have children. If you do, you’re apt to pick up the worst possible mates (the ones who can’t do any better than a drunk or those who thrive on calamity), and your children will likely become as dysfunctional as you are.

       I put my software package and the writing of my novel on hold in favor of a more exciting quest. During my novel-writing excursions to The Inn at Cocoa Beach, I watched a kayaker playfully paddling among the lazy waves caressing the sandy shore. This experience seeded my next ridiculous goal: to ride the big, walloping waves on Melbourne Beach in my kayak after a furious storm. I’d never heard of anyone doing it, but that was my plan.

       It was clear that I needed to be in a lot better shape to attempt this folly. The swimming pool in the travel-trailer park where I lived was barely long enough to swim laps, perhaps 30 to 40 feet long. It sufficed, though. I increased my stamina until I swam 300 lengths (150 laps) every day. I supplemented that two miles of daily swimming by paddling my kayak throughout the coves along the Rockledge coast.

       The local news one morning featured surfers on Melbourne Beach riding ten-foot waves generated by the previous night’s powerful thunderstorm. I had trained intensively for the last six weeks. It’s time.

       I quickly slipped into my swim trunks, iced down a cooler of Corona, and jumped in my truck. My kayak, atop the cab of my pickup, pointed the way toward Melbourne Beach. Half an hour later, I parked in one of the spots along Route A1A. I sat there drinking several Coronas and watched the surfers.

       No kayakers were riding those powerful waves. Not one. That should have clued me in, but it didn’t. I unloaded my kayak and retrieved my double-ended paddle from my camper shell. (Note to reader: Something you should know before we get out on the water—my kayak is not your typical kayak. It’s more like a kayak crossed with an inflated bathtub. You don’t slide down into it; you sit in it the way you would in a bulbous canoe without a seat.)

       Curiosity etched the onlookers’ faces as I hauled my cumbersome kayak to the water. I dragged it out into the shallows by the handle attached to the front, jumped into it, and paddled through the graduating waves. Suddenly, a towering wave confronted me. I paddled frantically to turn my kayak around. The massive wave broadsided me, tumbling me over and slam-dunking me upside-down into the water. I freed myself from that horrific wave, emptied my lungs of water, and searched for my kayak. Finally, I spotted it up on the beach where the waves had thrown it. I traipsed through the descending waves to the beach, grabbed my kayak, and repeated the procedure with renewed determination. I will turn my kayak around sooner this time.

       But I didn’t.

       I didn’t the next time, either. I got tired of retrieving my kayak from the beach each time. I fetched a rope from my camper shell and tied it to the handle on the front of my kayak, making a noose for my wrist the way surfers do with their surfboards. I only did that once because the wave grabbed my bulbous kayak and slung it to the beach, nearly ripping my arm out of its socket as it dragged my body in its wake. When I got up this time, I noticed a crowd gathering up on the road to watch the surfers.

       It took me seven or eight more attempts to master the timing of getting my kayak turned around before the wave struck. At last, I pivoted the kayak all the way around. Disaster! The wave flipped my kayak—and me, end-over-end! I was upside-down in a split-second. The wave thrust the kayak with me under it toward the beach, my face gashing the sand like a grounded rudder.

       It became clear that the crowd up on the road was gathering to watch me. Those people were clucking derisively and pointing at me. No one ever accused me of lacking determination, especially when I’m being ridiculed. After one more end-over-end whack against the water, I watched the surfers for a bit and realized that I needed to point my kayak along the curl and paddle like a madman fleeing a ten-foot wave. Another end-over-end catastrophe and I resolved to modify my technique to include leaning back while paddling madly along the curl.

       Exhausted, I paddled out one more time to meet my scourge. My evasive timing and angle of attack were perfect. I remembered to lean back, and I paddled as fast as I could.

       Eureka! I swooshed along the length of that enormous wave triumphantly. I felt as though I was skimming along at 100 mph, but in reality, it probably wasn’t more than 20 to 25. I rode that powerful wave all the way to the beach.

       My audience cheered!

       Pulling my kayak onto the beach, I took a bow and then proceeded to conquer two more ten-foot curls.

       Mid-May 1999: Time to jettison any junk, spread my snowbird wings, and whisk my Wanderer travel trailer northward to avoid Florida’s scorching summer.