It was just me and the Wolf...Scott couldn’t make it, Jeff couldn’t make it, Jon Ford couldn’t make it, John "he only sails when it's perfect" Natalie took a look and passed etc…nobody but the Wolf and I got to enjoy Friday’s easterly at Ponquogue. Sailing 5.2/5.3 in four foot waves, conditions were user friendly…nothing big, nothing dramatic…just a good time waiting to be had.
So we had it while Bill Barber and John Hulse watched...them and about eight surfcasters hurling treble-hooked lures into the beach break. We had managed to coexist with the fishermen for the bulk of the session, but then I had to go kook it. Primo kooking, if I may say so myself (Bill and Hulse saw the whole thing and confirmed that I looked like an idiot.)
Sailing in to the beach I outran the wave I should have come in behind. With maybe ten feet between me and the sand, I looked behind me and saw a two footer rise to humiliate me. I stayed optimistic for the remaining 1.5 seconds before I hit the sand, got pasted, and lost my grip on the rig, which was now underwater and being dragged by the current towards one of the fishermen. He’d been about to cast, but now paused as I floundered towards his feet.
Every attempt I made to grab the mast failed…I kept ALMOST getting a hold of it, then it would be pulled away by the current, dropping me on my hands and knees. Every few seconds my face would point up for air and I’d notice the fisherman’s face…his disbelief at my apparently ridiculous antics was increasingly visible. I finally snagged the rig and stepped onto the beach, apologizing to the guy, who just stared at me with pity, barely suppressing the urge to laugh in my face. The other fishermen were staring too, wanting to commit to memory my train wreck of a beach landing. They weren’t catching any fish, but at least they’d come home with a story.