Driving down Pier Ave, still several blocks from Iron Pier Park I could see explosions of spray twenty feet in the air as the Long Island Sound came into view. Jeff had told me on the phone that he was rigging a 3.7. Which meant I'd be rigging my 3.4. Which meant it was nuking at Iron Pier.
The Pier always commands particular respect. I tend to take a beating here. So I was happy to see John "he only sails when it's perfect" Natalie, along with Chris, the Wolf, Fisherman, Scott, Jan and Bruce and the aforementioned P-Jeff on hand (though Fisherman and the Wolf soon left to check out Mattituck's Sound launch.)
With three foot waves breaking twenty feet off the beach, launching was a hit-or-miss affair of tossing your board over the whitewater, jumping on no matter what the direction of your board (because you're now in the impact zone) and hoping you could snake a path through the next waves. It was doable, but definately not happy time.
The winds were gustier than usual for the Pier, and I went from shlogging to lit every thirty seconds or so. The ramps were less than ideal, but in that much wind all you needed to do was lift up with your front hand and your board's nose went into the sky.
During one massive lull while shlogging back well outside the wave zone, I suddenly found myself surfing down a steep face extending four feet down in front of me. I looked behind and found myself face to face with more wave…an eight foot rogue had come up on me and was giving a hell of a shove. I managed to carve out of there before it broke, and fought my way through some chaotic lumps overpowered before I managed to get back to the beach and tell Scott about my surprise wave.
"You need to be aware of your surroundings," Scott said helpfully.
I was particularly aware of my surrounding a few minutes later, when I was thoroughly rejected by the beach break during an attempted launch. During a brief moment when my eyes came above the surf (me with a mouth full of churning beach) I spotted an onlooker pointing a camera at my rolling torso…perhaps he meant to submit it to the Darwin Awards. Alas it was not Bill Doutney (who was on hand to document the day) though he did capture Peconic Jeff in similar straights.
John Natalie's nickname is now amended to "he only sails when it's perfect (or nuking)".
(Photos by Bill Doutney. From the top: Good air on starboard, there is a pier at Iron Pier (though you'd have to tack like a lunatic for half an hour to sail to it) good air on port, the shore break says No to Jeff.)
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