The recent storms reminded me of a nor’easter that blew through back when I was in high school. My surfing buddy, Richard Harkin, and I knew the storm would bring waves, and we made plans for the next morning.
We drove east to Shinnecock Inlet, which, at the time, had a huge watchtower you could climb to check the waves on the other side. We could see that the waves were better along the east jetty—an option that meant paddling 800 feet across the inlet to get to the other side, not a simple task in the dead of winter.
The tide was just approaching high, and the water wasn’t moving very much, so we launched from the rocks, knowing we’d be carried into Shinnecock Bay with the current. We made it to the other side without incident and forged through huge drifts of snow to get to the surf.
Large winter waves were rolling in, and we rode perfect, overhead walls as long as we could before the cold drove us from the water. By this time, the tide had turned, and the bay water was racing out to sea. A terrifying Death Zone formed as the outgoing water met the incoming waves across a shallow sandbar at the mouth of the inlet.
Richard was a little bit ahead of me, and I watched him vanish and reappear between the swells. Large pieces of ice bobbed between us.
Getting closer, we could hear people on the jetty cheering us on. “Go, go, go,” was the call from land. Our arms were lead, and we felt like ants gushing through the rapids of a glacial river. We paddled as if our lives depended on it.
Richard made it to the other side with only a few rocks to spare, and two brave souls clambered down to help him. I could see another pair of would-be rescuers ambling carefully toward the tip of the jetty in hopes of intercepting me before I passed through to the breakers and the chunks of ice that were being ground up on the outside bar.
I saw Richard get dragged up the rocks like a harpooned seal and laser-beamed my focus on the last boulder. Facing the Death Zone, I windmilled my arms for just a few more feet. I didn’t make it. I heard people scream. In a final, split-second gamble, I shot my board toward the hands reaching for me, my leg rope stretching to its limit. They grabbed it and pulled me to safety.