Drift Surfing published my account of the Mavericks big wave surf contest including 28 full screen images and words detailing my personal experience shooting from the media boat in 50-foot swells. Mavericks is a legendary surf break in Half Moon Bay, CA, that only gets big enough to surf 15 times a year. Each season 24 of the world’s best surfers are selected for the contest, but when the giant awakens it is only mother nature who is in charge.
The entire Mavericks experience was both awesome and horrible at the same time. On the 13th of February 2010, there was no place I would have rather been. Conditions were good. I heard thunder all day long and fans hooted even when waves went unridden. It was also the most physically demanding thing I have ever done with a camera. With all of that power tossing and turning the boat, my body wondered early on, “What did you get yourself into?”
The Day of the Contest: Ready for Takeoff
I wake at 5 a.m. with less than three hours of anxiety-filled sleep. I need to get there early and get my most important piece of equipment—Dramamine! On the road, I notice a steady stream of vehicles moving toward Half Moon Bay at 5:45 a.m. This is going to be a long day.
At 7:15 a.m., I get my spot on the media boat. Next to me are savvy photogs such as Carlos Avila Gonzalez of the SF Chronicle and the Oakland Tribune‘s Jane Tyska. There is a strong sense of camaraderie on board with everyone offering tips and sharing info.
The smile on my face is as big as the boat itself, but once the chartered Huli Cat pulls out of Pillar Point Harbor, the initial “I-wish-everyone-could-see-me-now” feeling wears off in twenty minutes. The ride out to the break indicates what is in store for the day. We turn the corner of the jetty and start bouncing to rougher waters. As I hold on, the only letters I can text to my wife are, "Got on boat."
In the distance, I can see small waves breaking and tiny ants moving about. The water looks deep, big and hairy. Waves are tumbling in from as far as I can see. The ocean is working perfectly, but seeing these rollers so far from shore at this hour is like a glimpse of no man's land. As we get closer, the ants become jet skis and the waves become 30- to 40-foot tall monoliths.
Diesel fumes spew from the back of the boat. The bow pitches down and the stern rises up with each wave. Camera bags start sliding around and people bump into each other as the boat rocks from left to right. The port side dips down, and then rises up—sending me starboard. I try to run it out and almost fall forward. The movement is so unpredictable that I immediately fall backwards. I see someone's $7000 lens attached to a $4000 camera body smack into the side of the boat. My stomach is already moving before the first surfer has even dropped in. Maybe I won't get used to this.
Heat 1: Ion Banner Immortalized for All the Wrong Reasons
It’s time for the real work to begin. The sun is out and light is raking across the face of the waves. Our boat is in perfect position, and the first few shots of the day already feel like a success. I can't believe I'm here.
Someone yells out the jersey colors of the riders in the heat. My bracket sheet was already printed, so I only have to write down a letter for each color. I double-check the camera settings, make a few adjustments and then triple-check to get a basic system figured out for exposure and focus. All set, but why can't I hold this thing still? For the life of me, I can't even compose the camera much less track the surfers as we bob for apples.
The captain tells us to hold on with one hand… for the entire day! I’ve already come close to being ejected. The only way I'll get through this is if I cheat with both hands. Either that or brace myself in the corner with my feet against a bench and the side of the boat.
There goes Yellow! Ion Banner goes for a big one, but he doesn't make it and I capture his wipeout in all of its misery. The exact same image is taken by three different photographers within mere milliseconds (and later run in three different publications). All of our images look nearly identical—what are the odds?
Ironically, what does not make the news is that Banner also rides one of the best waves of the first heat. The pubs might have those shots in hand, too, but they won’t run them on Sunday morning. I like "the make" much better than the spill and I’m glad to have it in the can.
Heat 2: Up Close and Personal
I keep hearing someone coughing on our boat. It doesn't sound like he has a cold and not like he is going to gag—more like he is holding something in. Our position in the drink is still perfect. I'm shooting my head off and glad I finally get to see Peter Mel, Zach Wormhoudt, Anthony Tashnick, and Fletcher. Nathan Fletcher, man! And I’m only 100-yards away.
Communication is sketchy from the judge's boat, so I ask someone to yell out the jersey colors. Fletcher is Blue. It seems some of the other photogs don't know these names and aren’t even slightly familiar with surfing. Guess this is a typical media day for them. Not for me. My stomach is now only inches from the top of my chest.
Heat 3: Broken Gear and Bruised Egos.
The poor fellow who was coughing shows us his colors over the side of the boat. We all feel bad for the first casualty of the Huli Cat. I'm feeling it too, so I try standing and gazing toward land. Looking down at my camera settings or taking notes makes it worse. Catching a glance at the floor of the boat creates a digestive nightmare. Sitting and looking at the ocean's horizon is the only thing that is tolerable.
The captain yells out the jersey colors this time. Yes! Thank you, Captain. Without this info, how would we know who is who? I'm betting surfer Alex Martins is the most stoked of the 24 invitees. He was an alternate and got his chance as a replacement for Brock Little. He currently lives in San Francisco, but is originally from Brazil. I’m happy for the local guy.
Former Mavs winner Greg Long is in the lineup. Long takes some of the biggest waves up to this point, but also takes a timeout to go pearl diving. He is okay, but I don't think he will make it out of this heat. Josh Iona snaps a board and Martins breaks a leash. I spot Banner’s broken stick from heat 1 attached to a jet ski.
The waves are nuts. These guys are the best in the business and some really big names have already gone down. Stomach check: all systems clear and back to normal land levels. Our position in the water is respectable. I’m getting some great shots.
Heat 4: Another Victim Goes Down.
Jane Taska pulls out her laptop and begins uploading pictures online in the now close to 50 foot conditions! What a pro!
Time to change lenses to switch this up. Don't look down – you'll regret it. Do it from memory and keep your eyes focused on the horizon. I can barely hold the camera still out here and get through the jersey color readouts. It is hard even to write down a single letter for each color so I miss a few. Concentrate on the shooting. Worry about names later. Think about the moment and forget about the motion.
Uh-oh. Here it comes. Now hold on to the side of the boat. This one goes out to the East Coast. Roar! This one is for my alma mater. Roar! Big ups to my homies who couldn't be here. Roar! Roar! Roar!
Heat 5: Are We Drifting?
I pick my head up from the puke-fest and wipe my face off with my handkerchief. With the Dramamine theory scientifically disproved, I immediately start shooting. "Way to fight through it," I hear a photographer say to me as he pats my back with congratulations. I didn't expect to get through this without any cuts—guess I earned my wings. "Hey, who wants some of my Dramamine?" I give out my remaining stash as if I have enough to last me a lifetime.
Tashnick is killing it in orange and Flea is in yellow, making the world look small with big efforts. Desmond and Wassel ride like they are suicidal.
We are drifting a bit, must be due to the current. My stomach is also drifting and I can only write down a few letters. Oh boy. Is this it again? How long are we out here? I find out – we’re gonna be here for the entire day.
Lucky me.
Heat 6: This Is Your Captain Speaking
"What are the jersey colors in this round?" someone asks. "Who cares? I'll figure it out later," I answer with my head over the rail. I hear the sound of banging metal from inside the boat. We seem to be drifting even more. What the hell is going on? Is the boat broken? Someone reports back as I focus on the horizon and try to ignore my profile view of flying elbows and crescent wrenches.
Collins is smoking the yellow jersey on some heavy monsters. Can't miss this! Oh, man we are now so far back that even this 300 mm lens isn’t long enough. Our position sucks! Something is wrong.
I look around and some photogs aren’t even shooting. Then we get the answer over the loudspeaker: "We lost an engine. There is no way we can maneuver in these conditions. Hold on."
The Finals: Total Chaos
We are so far back that nearly everyone else in the water has a better perspective than we do. Ahead is a maze of small fishing boats, kayaks, chartered vessels, and people on standup paddle boards so close to the action that perhaps they should enter the contest. Eventually, the second engine fires up and the captain attempts to get us back into position. He gets us a bit closer but nowhere near our previous position—it’s a zoo out there. He soon gives up altogether.
The sun is now at the back of the wave. The water is brownish green and I begin to realize the best photos of the day will come from Heats 1 through 3. Even though these are the finals, I am ready for land, sleep and some Advil for this world-class headache. I keep shooting, but it’s all bullocks at this point. Everyone on the media boat is impressed with Shane Desmond (in yellow, of course), who seemingly took advantage of every destructive opportunity the waves provided.
A final horn signals the end, and Chris Bertish is declared the overall winner.
After Party: Don’t Think I’ll Make It.
At the end of the contest, I briefly attended the awards ceremony, which was closed to the public. Dinner was being served, but I was ready to go home. I felt like I had been Tashnicked in the back by Dave Wassel after my seven-hour wrestling match with the boat. The surfers are the real athletes and deserve all the credit for their dedication, but this day took everything away from me physically.
Mavericks was amazing and memorable, yet I was absolutely miserable. I loved it! And I would most certainly do it all again.
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