The days you Doodle about

Anyone who surfs on the east coast knows damn well that you get let down more than you get rewarded. You stare at the surfline forecast a week out with desperate hope only to find a sloppy, weak mess when the "swell" arrives. You win some, you lose some - but you have to keep showing up with the same stoke-filled optimism.

The typical east coast weekly surf forecast

In high school, my Dad and I drove three hours the morning of my senior prom to chase waves and drive three hours back just in time to figure out how to tie a bowtie. In college, my buddies and I would concede pop-quizzes, attendance checks and homework assignments just to be let down after driving to the Lake Atlantic. The morning of my wedding, my buddies and I surfed 1-3 foot South Carolina mush and were over the moon thrilled just to have a bump to stand up on.

While on my cross-country drive two weeks back, my good friend Wilds lofted the optimistic idea of scoring waves in the Outer Banks from a long range surf forecast. As a surf-deprived, land-locked, has-been surfer, it does not take much to amp me up. As time got closer to the fluctuating yet forthcoming Hurricane Tammy that was well out to sea, our hopes ebbed and flowed daily. One day it was "ehh not looking doable" then the next it would look promising, even potentially glorious.

We finally set sail on our pilgrimage to the wave-rich, yet equally volatile stretch of sand that lives in my daydreams rent free. The Outer Banks of North Carolina is legitimately a spit of sand off the mainland of NC where the continental shelf is much less gradual than that of other Carolina beaches. This allows for the raw power of the Atlantic ocean to dump directly onto the shoreline of the Outer Banks. It also causes some serious erosion issues and hurricane concerns to those that call OBX home.

When we drove across the Virginia Dare bridge over the Croatan Sound, the water was glassed out with the lack of a prevailing wind. Wilds and Bre had already set up camp on the beach but had shared no surf information. I had not truly surfed since June and my anticipation was about to explode like a shaken up soda can. Emily and I aired down the truck tires and bought the ORV permit to drive along the Hatteras National Seashore sand. We wobbled our way a few miles down the sand to find the undeniable F550 Drake X rig parked right in front of what seemed like a mirage. Glassed-out, uncrowded 4-6 foot pitching wedges just a short paddle out from the truck.

I could not put my wetsuit on fast enough - a lousy, futile battle with neoprene in the back of an overpacked truck camper. I paddled out to Wilds in the lineup overflowing witih stoke. That stoke was soon brought down by the reality that my landlocked shoulders had forgotten how to efficiently paddle into waves. Wilds effortlessly two stroked into every wave he wanted while I fumbled around on my new 5'8" fish (shoutout Russ - RAD shapes). I finally relocated my groove and we traded waves back and forth with a few snack breaks in between until the Harvest moon rose over the horizon. After five hours of building perfection, I took a wave in and traded in the board for the camera to snag a few photos of the moonlit landscape. This truly was a scene and a day that you would doodle about in your textbook as a kid.

We capped off the night with seafood nachos, beers and key lime pie at a local restaurant. After filling our bellies, we posted up at camp in Hatteras and went to bed before 9PM. The perfect day.

The next morning we drove up and down the coast looking for a spot that could handle the swell that had doubled overnight. To no avail, we settled in to patiently watching the long period swell try to make sense of itself from the beach for the day. The dogs did not mind the down time as they scoured the beach for treasure and new friends. After a late lunch and some resounding restlessness, we went searching for a working sandbar again. Finally around 3:30 we settled for a spot a bit further North that was breaking better than anywhere else. The paddle out was much further than the easy shorebreak waves of the day before and the current was gradually trying to sweep you to Virginia. Nonetheless, we surfed until the sunset amongst a mellow crowd catching some good 4-7 foot waves with varying shape.

That night back at camp, Wilds cooked up scallops, tuna and veggies on the camp stove followed by some surprise ice cream sandwiches from the Surfin Spoon for dessert (thank you Bre). We stayed up later that night, settling in past our bedtime at about 10PM with the plan of a sunrise surf the following morning.

When we rumbled our way down the beach to the X that morning, the sky blindingly erupted orange hues over the Atlantic, still alive from Hurricane Tammy making her past. Wilds and I agreed that it looked small from the beach but were happy to see that the Day 1 spot had come back to life. The dogs attempted to paddle out with us only to be rejected by the breaking waves. Once we got out, we realized that it was not small at all. In fact, it was 3-5 feet , hollow and glassy. With no one out but us, we were in hog heaven. Wilds made the comment that summed it up well - "This is like a scene out of a magazine." You know - the magazine shots with the firey sunrise and the empty barreling waves that you never actually believed could exist. Wilds again, effortlessly late paddling into what looked like closeouts - only to sneak under the pitching lip with his driste fingers pointing toward the exit.

Wilds the barrel magnet - shot by Bre Drake

For four hours, seemingly every wave held the potential to get barreled. Sure, there were a lot of unmakable sections but it felt like a conveyor belt of perfection. We surfed until our arms were more like boiled noodles. Harvesting every little bit of perfection that we could muster.

That session overfilled the proverbial cup. A day that exceeded the hype and made you feel like you were living out a Surfer magazine cover. A trip will live on in my daydreams and notebook scribbles. I will surely attempt to chase that perfection for the rest of my life with more losses than wins as it typically goes. But just the chance to relive something like that, fuels the endless search for more.

Me, on a left I probably didn’t come out of - shot by Bre Drake