Nonstop swell continues through October, kind of playful to kind of frightening and kind of troubled by those pesky south winds (and for your blog correspondent, a tricky back that decided to throw a prolonged fit).
The fishing boat on the reef got absolutely clobbered on the massive day, with one side staved in. On the subsequent full moon, salvagers finally managed to patch up the hull, remove the engine, and float the boat off the outer reef and into the inner lagoon.
The big day was pretty historic, as it was the largest swell in years, perhaps more powerful then the one of memory. Mid-morning that day, an acquaintance said he was standing on the east side boardwalk looking at massive sets when a surfer rocked up, pulled out his phone, and said, “Yeah, bra, it’s a solid six foot, bra.”
He was, of course, from Hawaii, but six foot? Your blog correspondent was watching at about the same time (and somewhat grateful to have a bad back). A handful of surfers were out there tackling triple overhead stuff, and even larger sets were breaking way way outside, but crumbling from the south wind. At that size, said Buzzy Trent, heights are measured in increments of fear, not feet. Size of balls, too – and here I will alas succumb to the temptation to make a joke: The North Shore is where twelve feet is really six, and six inches is really twelve.
As an aside, if you love the waves but find that you jump to your feet on take offs with the grace of a tranquilized rhino staggering upright, then why not take off already standing up?