For the first time in roughly two and a half months, the waves were shit. This ended an extraordinary run of great surf in San Diego, where each day would qualify as at least “fun-sized” on the supremely accurate Surfline-o-meter. Some days, the wave height traipsed into a size that cannot be described by words, only guttural screams.
But there would be no parades, no fireworks, and no elaborate send-offs to commemorate what had been a historic occasion. After all, there is only one way any swell ends: with a gutless whimper.
When the Coronavirus related surfing ban was lifted on April 27th, it coincided with the start of a combo swell from the Southwest and West North West. That first week back in the water was filled with consistent, great surf – even though the red tide made it look like we were swimming in an aquatic murder scene. It was the perfect “welcome back” present.
And the waves kept coming. There was the occasional day where one needed to break out a bigger board, but solid surf usually prevailed. Add to this a June that was sans gloom, and there were summertime temperatures to be had long before the water or weather had any business being warm. It was exactly what you dream of when you think of San Diego: great waves, warm weather, and comfortable water.
But it’s over. I checked the surf throughout the weekend and watched as weak, forgettable surf collapsed on the beach. The ocean had finally decided to take its summer vacation.
“Get fucked!” you may be screaming at me right now in an accent that ranges from New Englander to Floridian. And with good reason – summer on the East Coast is a brutal slog. A right coaster’s summer consists of reading up on multiple religions, trying to decipher the correct combination of deities to pray to in hopes that waves will appear. And I know we Californians are a lucky bunch when it comes to surf. But it’s not just luck – it’s also south swell energy. This draws the jealousy and ire of an entire nation – perhaps more.
And that energy is gone. Now, all that’s left is a pathetic groundswell. It’s definitely something to surf, and I should feel happy and fortunate about that since there are wave starved children in New Jersey right now. But after roughly 75 days of being perched so high atop Wave Mountain, the return to summer’s reality is difficult to reckon with.
I’m sure there is something worth being optimistic about in the forecast, but nothing like that stretch of surf is likely to happen ever again. Or not for quite some time, at least. Nothing gold can stay. And, if my Ouija board is correct, a universal balancing act is impending. So, we probably won’t see any decent surf until 2022 – if the world even decides to stick around for that long.