The Buzzer Beater: Finding My Feet in Morocco

As I look down the line at a peeling right-hander I'm well aware that I'm at the most critical part of the wave. I've dropped in, my feet are set, and I'm just starting to come up out of a shallow bottom turn.

On this wave - more than most others I've been surfing lately - the first few moments are vital to realizing the wave's full potential. If I don't get enough speed off the takeoff I won't make it around the first do-or-die section. This short yet critical piece of the wave just off the takeoff is all or nothing. It either slingshots me down the line and out of the danger zone or eats me alive. I know from experience that missing the slingshot is more than just missing the wave; it results in a long hold down and usually means taking a few waves on the head before being able to scramble back out to the channel. If I'm unlucky, the following waves could push me up into the jagged, mussel-covered rocks that line the point.

I try not to think about the negative consequences because I know that surfing relaxed is key to my success... but there's only so much I can do to override my body's self-preservation system.

In my periphery I see the wave pushing into the shallows faster and with more determination than my last few waves. The upper lip is throwing toward the shore rather than crumbling from top to bottom. This must be one of the set waves from the West. Its shoulder is wrapping far into the channel and standing tall, unlike some of the sets with more North swell whose shoulders gently taper off making for shorter, softer rides.

I selected the right one. In a stroke of luck I could mistake for skill or intuition, I paddled up the point and a bit outside of the pack just as the set was arriving. With a quick flip around, jam of the board, and only two and a half paddles, I cruised in easily. Now I'm on one of the best waves of the day at the best break in town.

It's early. The sun has yet to rise over the mountains that line the shore and I'm surfing in a sort of morning twilight. There's enough daylight to see sets coming in clearly and thankfully no blinding glare as I look down the line, but there is already a mass of faces dotting the shoulder. Like sprinkles on the ring of a donut, there are people everywhere except in the curl.

Breaks of this calibre always draw an early crowd and even the early birds range widely in skill level. Some are taking off deep and shredding the wave all the way through the inside. These surfers have either developed a personal relationship with the wave over hundreds of sessions here or are the lucky few with skills of a professional that make every perfectly-timed turn look effortless no matter what wave they surf. This group is the minority.

The majority are less experienced. They're hoping to get one good wave early before reluctantly sitting on the shoulder waiting for a set that swings wide or someone at the point to blow the takeoff. For many, even getting in on the shoulder can result in a life-changing ride. For a few, it seems their goal is just to make it back to shore alive to tell the story. I know this because I've passed through these phases (painfully slowly), in my own surf journey.

But I've been paying my dues for over twenty years and have surfed this particular wave several times before. So today I'm going for set waves from the deepest part of the point and now I'm getting my shot at a real banger of a wave earlier than I expected.

In no more than three seconds I experience a rollercoaster of emotions. Initially seeing the set wave and knowing I'm in position to actually catch it, I'm nervous. I better not blow it! Then recognizing the familiar feeling of the wave lifting me up and drawing me in, I know I've caught it and there's no one deeper than me; I'm ecstatic. As I set my feet and travel down the face, confident I've made the drop, I'm relaxed yet poised for any last second adjustments. The whole sequence would be extremely short in any other context, but given the consequences for me the takeoff feels inexplicably long.

As I reach the bottom of the wave I'm well aware that this is the most critical point. Making the stakes even higher, I can see a crowd of onlookers down the line. The other surfers are peering, waiting, hoping I eat it or don't make the section. Then a little bit of anger flows through me, "I'm gonna make it you mother f'ers! Don't doubt me!"

And I do. I cut a shallow bottom turn, as rehearsed, and pull my board up to the top of the wave harnessing all of it's power. Slingshot engaged! I'm triumphant as I fly into the next section. Not only do I make it out of the danger zone, but with my renewed confidence from knowing the hardest part is behind me, I cut a deep drawn-out bottom turn, pivot up the face of the wave right in the pocket, and spray a cluster of onlookers with my top turn. I'm vindicated. I've silenced the doubters. They'll have to wait for someone else to blow a wave... Not me.

The wave continues its predictable course along the coast offering up six or seven turns before closing down on the inside. Paddling back out with a pep in my stroke I acknowledge my luck. It's a rare occassion that I reach this level of stoke this early in a session. It's going to be a great day!

Although I know I'm a nobody, I feel like a star. I imagine this is what it's like to hit the winning shot of the game just as the clock runs out: the buzzer beater. The suspense building, time slowing down, an array of emotions flooding the body all at once... and then extreme satisfaction in having made it and knowing it can't be taken away.

I've spent countless sessions on the shoulders of waves and caught many a stoke picking up the scraps from others who have blown it. I've been the one who falls - more times than I'd like to admit and in ways I care not to remember. Holding on to these memories feeds the internal suspense of a takeoff and magnifies my redemption when I make it. I'm proud to have proven to myself, more than anyone else, that I'm worthy of such an awesome wave.

I didn't really need to travel all the way to Africa to attain this feeling, but the cost, travel, and navigation of the unknown helped magnify it. I had other reasons to go into the unknown on my own too, but that's a topic for another time.

I paddle back out to the main pack at the top of the point without hesitation. For the first time in a long time I don't doubt whether or not I belong there (giving preference to the locals... of course).

I was surfing the best I ever had. My confidence was as high as my stoke, which helped my surfing even more. It was early into my trip and I was just as optimistic about the future as I was relieved about the past. I could now report home with confidence that I hadn't made a huge mistake. My gamble to venture out had already paid off and I still had multiple months of exploration ahead of me. If I could catch such a stoke at one of the most well-known and crowded breaks in the region, then what level of stoke was waiting for me up the empty coastline that stretched for hundreds of miles outside of town? I'd soon find out...

Up next: The Discovery of Witch's Finger