Schmucker 1
Matt Schmucker
Ms. McGee
AP English 12
October 9, 2007
From Pavement to Glass
The road stretched on forever. It wound and twisted through forests, across fields, over water, under bridges. It was dry, cracked, worn, a cold black, yet it carried a simmering heat. It was lined with trees, with grass, soaked in tar and gas, littered with rubber, trash, and remains. It was peaceful, it was loud, calling for all to continue and never to end. It was a strip of trucks, cars, buses, vans all crawling along in two directions. It was called North, South, 168, 12. The road stretched on forever, from beginning to end.
It was nearly daybreak, one of those cool summer mornings where the dew coats the grass and the cars. There were ten of us, thirteen boards, and three cars, three people to two cars, and four to another. I drove my Jetta with Josh and SeaBass, carrying three boards on the roof, two in the trunk/backseat; two backpacks of fins, wax, towels, leashes, repair resin; a cooler of drinks and snacks; and an iPod with over 1900 tracks. We piled into the cars, boards towering over the roofs, we crammed down our chicken sandwiches for breakfast and chugged our coffee. After gassing up and grabbing a couple of green teas for the road our little convoy began to roll out.
I’d been working at 17th Street Surf Shop for over a year, and had recently been promoted to assistant surf manager for the knowledge and skill I’d shown in handling surfboard sales and maintenance. My boss was one of my close friends and the rest of our coworkers were like brothers to us, ranging in age from seventeen to twenty-two. All summer we had been planning a surf trip which would include all of our senior employees, a tight knit group often referred to as the ‘Dream Team’ and some times as a joke, “Man-Love.’ Josh was the boss, the store manager; I was his underling, the second youngest of the group, Billy was Josh’s friend since middle school, the oldest, and a recent hire at the shop; Taj met Josh and Billy in college and was a blues guitarist; Blake had been a manager at our Richmond store while attending VCU and was home for the summer; SeaBass was one of our pro surfers for the shop, home for the summer from Florida Tech. Along for the ride were Billy’s brothers Sean and Little Chris, their friend Jesse, and Blake’s friend Ryan. Sean picked up a small low heading towards the Outer Banks from the south-east on the Surfline radar early in the week, which was calling for clean chest-high conditions. Instantly it was a scramble to gather the guys, pick the right day, and then take off work, call in favors, or put in some overtime. Saturday was deemed the best day, being forecasted to be warm, sunny, with a light west wind.
Trees flew by at seventy-five miles per hour, dotted lines blurred into solids, gas burned and the engine roared. I was at the wheel, Josh rode shotgun, SeaBass was dozing in the back seat, his head against the cooler. Rise Against was coming out of the sound system as I held my coffee with a steady hand. Billy’s car lead, Jesse was second, and I held the tail. As we crossed the border the highway was now four lanes, people began to really wake up from the drowsiness, and the fun began. Driving neck and neck faces we made, minor obscenities shouted, and laughs had. Blake “made it rain” as he and Ryan dumped water on my windshield; Josh countered with a bar of wax car-to-car right at Blake’s face. As we came to a stoplight Jesse’s car induced the ultimate prank. Little Chris had relieved himself in a Gatorade bottle and in a grotesque mock of a Chinese fire drill he jumped out of Jesse’s car at the red light and tossed the bottle into Billy’s jeep. Landing in Taj’s lap the cheap trick caused quite a commotion upon his realization of what it contained and the bottle was promptly disposed of. The remainder of the trip down was relatively peaceful, though we laughed the whole way.
Crossing the Wright Brothers’ bridge into Kitty Hawk we made a short stop to get a wave and wind check. Flat. Light West Wind. We trudged on, further south, making for Rodanthe. As we crossed Oregon Inlet we could make out small sets crashing along the beaches of Hatteras Island; a good sign. We stopped by Rodanthe pier to find deep water and weak surf. SeaBass and I made a joking boast to our earlier prediction of the Lighthouse being the best location and after a couple smacks to the back of the head by the rest of the group we began the trip there.
Shortly after we arrived at Hatteras Lighthouse in Buxton and we found what we came for: glassy, long, waist to chest high peaks rolling off of the remains of the jetty in front of the old lighthouse. The wind was light and the morning sun glittered off the faces of the waves, a picture-perfect day. Quickly unpacking our favorite boards we made a mad dash for the water. What was previously an open beach was instantaneously a crowded lineup; the 17th Street crew had arrived. We surfed for three hours, trading waves, boards, laughs, jeers, cheers, and stoke. After a time the wind shifted to the NE, destroying the cleanliness of the sets and pushing the peaks down. We agreed on grabbing lunch at the nearby Angelo’s Pizza and moving further south to the Frisco Pier, a south-east facing beach where the northerly winds would be offshore making the waves there glassy and fun-sized. After a quick lunch and recapping the already incredible trip we made our way south.
In Frisco we discovered larger waves, cleaner faces, barrels and the best surf of the summer. We blitzed the water, eager to get pitted in the cavernous tubes only to be spat back out into the daylight. Already tired we ran off of pizza and pure adrenaline, unable to stop, even when it began to hurt. It was raw energy; huddled together we gave our verbal support to one another as we tackled the heaving peaks, achieving our own, personal bliss. SeaBass aired and sprayed foam all about; Blake rode with style on his longboard; Billy snagged a deep tube every time; Josh power charged down the line along with Sean and Taj; I myself kept what SeaBass called my “classic, fluid style” and flowed up and down the waves, arcing spray from beneath the tail of my board in a pure form of hydraulic art. After another four hours later and completely drained we exited the water, caught our breath in the shade of the pier and journeyed back to the cars. We chugged green teas and inhaled cold pizza for sustenance. A toast was made to the most gnarface Hatteras day trip any of us had experienced in our lives. Packing everything up again, we began the trip home.
It had been a long journey, exhausted we three drivers drank red bull to keep our wits about us. The passengers slept, most likely dreaming of more barrels and glassy, flawless mountains of water. Our adventure was complete and had been more than we could’ve hoped for. Great friends, good times, and incredible waves; we had accomplished a lot and were proud. Jack Johnson slowly bled from the speakers in a sleep inducing melody as trees, fields, lakes, and rivers once again flew past the windows. The sun set and we returned home; the tired travelers, oceanic trailblazers. As I turned off the highway I looked in the rearview mirror at what we were leaving. The waves were behind us; the memories with us; and the road stretched on forever, from beginning to end.