The Smell of a Dead Fish

Something felt off as I took off on that left. It wasn't the swell, a fun though unspectacular southwest that had been spitting out two and three-foot lefties for me all morning. It wasn't the weather, high 60s without a cloud daring to blemish the huge expanse of blue sky above. It wasn't the water, clear as can be and finally starting to warm after a long, chilly winter season. But something was certainly off, and as I finished my bottom turn and tried to drive up toward the lip I knew. I knew it was over. I surfed the wave, managing a pair of meager turns that lacked any of my typical exuberance.

As I kicked out, I felt the urge to just paddle back out into the lineup; I didn't want to look. Knowing I had to, I slunk into the water, allowing my head to slowly submerge as if my beloved Pacific would cleanse me of the dread that had seeped into my bones as it had washed away countless troubles before. This time the feeling remained. As my head broke the surface, water ran into my eyes and I did nothing to wipe it away. I did not want to see what I was about to see. With a deep breath I flipped my cherished 6'0” twin fin fish over and surveyed the situation. It was then that the nightmare became a reality, as my eyes set on the massive indent in that gorgeous blue epoxy, crude fissures outlining the section of the stick that must have taken the reef in a seemingly innocuous wipeout one wave prior. This was no ding, not something that a little resin could take care of, nor a trip to the surf shop could remedy. This was a kill shot.

My heart sank; the session was over, but it was more than that. It was the end of an era, a four-year love affair that saw me ride that fish whether it was two feet and mushy or six feet and hollow; I didn't care. I gave away my thrusters, content to live aboard my smooth machine for what would be an eternity as far as I was concerned. I needed no quiver; I needed no fancy fin setups or hybrids. My fish took to the ocean like a shortfin mako, sleek and swift, racing down the line just in time to get to that closeout section for one last thrash.

The wave that took my fish away I can barely recall; it's the next one that's burned into my brain, the one where I felt the powerlessness of my vessel; it's etched in my memory as clear as some of my most treasured rides. I'll miss that fish forever. It was more than just a surfboard; it was a part of my life, a part of me. Whether it's weaving in and out of crowds of summer waders or duck-diving that first wave of a frigid February dawn patrol session, I'll have the fondest of memories of my friend. But it's absence will haunt me for a while; the void is palpable and the what-ifs unbearable. What could have I done differently? What if I hadn't paddled for that wave? How did it happen on such a small day? I'll never know, but there is one thing I am sure of; this time there are no other fish in the sea.