Haven't done a bliss sess report in a while; haven't had a bliss sess in while either! Be forewarned, if you don't enjoy accounts from others who gloat about the great time they had surfing while you weren't there, then read no further. Bliss is about to spew all over the place.

BTW, the pix in this column are not from the actual session of February 11, 2005, but they are from the same break. They were snapped two days later, on Sunday February 13, 2005. The conditions were much the same as Friday, except the weekend warriors were out in force. It was tough to get enough light through the lens in the heavy overcast, but at least you can see the long rights that are featured in the prose.

Friday dawn, February 11, 2005 at Dave's place. Dead calm winds, overcast skies, relatively warm air temperature. Deserted parking lot, deserted beach, deserted lineup. Occasional overhead sets sprinkled among consistent shoulder high waves going right from the tip of the reef back toward the town of Santa Cruz.

Pulled rubber over skin as the clouds to the east lightened slightly. Rubbed wax in circular motion over the fiberglass deck, thereby broadcasting an incongruent silence-piercing chatter. Ran down the pavement to its end; then slogged the sand to the point. Tiptoed through the exposed sharp-lipped muscles of low tide to the rocky edge of the vast Pacific Ocean. Hopped over a waist-high roller as it collided with shore. Stroking in the twilight, huffing with each roll of the shoulders, blinking in vain to see approaching humps on the horizon.

Rounded the top of the reef over the shallow boil, took two or three waves on the head, then was lined perfectly for the final and biggest wave of the set. Paddling felt unaccustomed but was still sufficient to catch the wave. Or rather it caught me. Pitched forward in the darkness, pulled body back to the tail to keep from digging nose beneath water. It worked. Although ungainly, still managed to struggle upright. Then I was surfing, and nothing else mattered for those few seconds that stopped time. Gentle roar of white water behind, sharp sound of slicing water beneath, and nothing but silent darkness in front. So it was. Through sections, cutbacks, reentries, lip bashes and a final kickout, the wave blossomed with bliss for the wave rider.

Long prone paddling path from the Death Cove back to the tip of the reef. Didn't matter, stoke infused and suffused in abundance. Lulls were for afterglow from the most recent ride. Outside sets were for effervescent duck diving in the cooling waters. And the waves... Never more perfect, never more gentle, never more lined with the reef through the kelp. Tumbling sections tracked wave faces at constant speed. Heaving lips left margins for the making. On and on, over and over, huffing and puffing, oh my aching shoulders! Should have stayed in shape a bit during the long layoff.

And no one came to share the wave feast. Several cars drove into and out of Dave's, but none came to play. 75 minutes, 12 waves, two tons o' stoke, and no hold downs, no ragdolls, no closeouts, no problems! You've had sessions like this, but not many. They don't happen every day in this part of the world. When they do, you have to cling to the memory, replay the highlights, and log the results. Someday when old and feeble the tangible evidence of the intangible stoke will still be a joy to relive. No one can take it from you, but you could loose it all by yourself.

Morning has broken, clouds are fully backlit, time is no longer frozen, and Friday is yet another workday. Thus is the spell broken, and the play of "real" life resumes after an all-too-brief intermission. Time to ride the shore boat, time to slog back through the sand, time to pull rubber from skin and metamorphasize into an employed engineer in the vast Silicon Valley of Northern California.

Was it worth it? Don't even ask! As surfers we all know that waking at 4AM, driving 20 miles, jumping solo into a cold dark deserted ocean, paddling until arms are sore, then fighting commute traffic is a minimal investment for the opportunity to ride even just one decent wave. Riding 12 waves, some of which are beauty, some of which are fast, some of which are lengthy, some of which are head and a half, is priceless. I know you know the feeling; I'm feeling it still. And there's always tomorrow.

CU Out There,

DogMan