Hey, yoo, I’ve been out of the water for a few weeks. Recording these notes doesn’t help my froth, but it does remind me how nice it is to be able to travel and surf new breaks with low crowds. So I’m thankful for that.
After last week’s note about surfing with the bros, I was reminded about a strange character that once frequented my home break. So I dug out my notes about The Predator, added a bit of context for you, and here we are…
This week’s note: Beat it Predator!
A few times per year the pier in Oceanside, California is host to a variety of competitions ranging from junior, collegiate, adaptive, and pro, such as:
- The Super Girl Surf Pro – a QS event
- The U.S. Open Adaptive Surfing Championships – the pro circuit for surfers with disabilities
- The US Pro Surfing Tour – a national circuit
It’s far from a world class wave, but is a good bet for generating a stoke and often works when the stretches of beach on either side are closed out.
I’m not a regular at the pier, but I’ve surfed there enough to recognize several surfers who are. I prefer the stretch of beach between the pier and harbor to the north, even if the wave quality is a little lower because it’s rarely crowded. Sometimes this stretch will be just as good as the pier and have 1/10th of the people out. More often however, it isn’t working very well and the pier is a much better option.
On the best days at North-side Pier super fun lefts with a barrel off the takeoff and 3-5 turn nuggets roll all the way into the beach. If the forecast looks descent, everyone wants a piece of the action.
It’s not rare for Southern California surfers to drive upwards of an hour for a session and Oceanside is a common destination. Some come from inland because they can’t afford to rent or buy near the beach. Some come from the north or south because the swell direction isn’t quite right for their home break, or they’re looking to escape the crowds that are even worse in places like Trestles – about 30 minutes drive north, or Blacks beach about 30 minutes south.
My friends and I are lucky enough to live in town and we try to take advantage of the very short commute to beat the crowd, even if it means getting just a few waves before the masses arrive.
Given the forecast on the day we met The Predator we weren’t expecting barrels or 5 turn waves, but we thought there might be a few decent sets, and as per usual, we hyped each other up the previous night, and made plans to hit the pier early.
At first light we were at the base of the pier ready to paddle out. The lights on the pier were still on.
Most of the city was still asleep.
A pair of hard-core workout enthusiasts – presumably a power couple – ran the stairs next to the pier. A trash collection truck beeped as it backed up and clanged loudly emptying a bin of trash from yesterday’s beachgoers down it’s hatch. A broken beach chair. A cheap foam boogie board. Several empty beer bottles.
Some fisherman were atop the pier, rigging their lines and staking out their position along the railing.
Our strategy was to paddle out just as it was starting to get light, figuring that by the time we got out to the lineup, it would be light enough to see and we could have a few waves to ourselves.
We started our paddle right next to the pillars of the pier where the water forms a current that sweeps out to sea and away from the pilings. We call this the ‘conveyor belt’ as it pulls you right out into the lineup. To stay in it, you have to paddle at a diagonal angle pointing partially towards the pier and partially out to sea which goes against my natural instinct. The pilings are lined with sharp muscles and snagged fishing gear, and dangerous creatures lurk under the shadows. Every now and then, a video surfaces of a Great White shark prowling around the base of the pier. I try not to think about it as I cruise down the conveyor belt over murky waters.
Sticking close to the pier is the quickest and safest route out to the lineup.
If you are too far from the pilings, you not only lose the current, but you have to battle breaking waves, and also risk entering the live fishing line zone.
Rather than dropping their line straight down, some fisherman atop the pier cast into the surf. When the sun is out you can see the glimmer off multiple lines reaching at an angle from the top of the pier down into the whitewater on the other side of the conveyor belt.
Straying too far from the pier while paddling out puts you at risk hitting these lines. Although I’ve been lucky to avoid them, I’ve seen a few surfers get tangled and one even get hooked.
With almost no light to identify the lines of any early-bird fishermen, I kept close to the pier and paddled quickly to limit my time in the danger zone.
About halfway out, I could see there was already another surfer in the water. It was unbelievable. This guy must’ve paddled out in complete darkness. I guess this is the price you have to pay if you want to get a few waves to yourself in Southern California these days.
I made it out a few strokes ahead of my buddies and as is my habit, I started looking for any wave to takeoff on immediately as a bit of a warm-up. I wanted to get one under my belt and get my hair wet.
A small peek came through. It was barely a wave but I went for it. I paddled hard with an early morning enthusiasm, excited to be out with the bros. I was about to roll in when I looked down the line to my left to assess my first move and found myself face-to-face with a big, ugly, stranger. He had paddled over onto the shoulder, right up next to me, and was staring directly at me.
The shock of his presence through me off. Instead of trying to take off I pulled back but it was too late to pull out, so I ended up going down the small wave on my belly. He did the same, never even attempting to ride the wave even though he could have cut me off and sped down the line. Instead he rode next to me, also on his stomach, and once at the bottom of the wave, now surely ruined for the both of us, just looked me straight in the face and yelled, “Beat it predator!”
Then he peeled off to the left and paddled back out, away from the pier.
Frozen in pure shock, I continued straight, riding a bit further before waking up and abandoning my board to let the wave pass.
I was stunned out of pure surprise and unsure how to react. I had never before experienced any aggression at the pier. Not directed toward me anyways. In this part of town and this day in age, if you respected the other surfers and played by the rules, there was no trouble. The only time I saw people getting upset in the water was when someone was blatantly cut off, or there was some sort of misunderstanding between who had the right of way.
This did happen occasionally and it wasn’t rare to see a spat between two surfers on a crowded mid morning session – usually just an exchange of foul language before one or both paddled away to another peak. Much less often, things could get physical. In person, I’ve only seen splashing and a few rogue punches. I’ve seen some video of minor fights and boards being smashed, and I’ve heard stories of worse – the credibility of which is questionable.
More often, a cut off is accidental and apologies are accepted. When a beginner finds themselves disrupting the lineup on a good day, someone will typically tell them to paddle down the beach, and they almost always oblige.
I’m a passive surfer and astute observer. When there’s drama in the water I steer clear, but carefully note who the offender and offended are. I generally want to stay away from both.
For the offender, it’s good to know who might be a kook and therefore is liable to cut me off. Then I can adjust my approach – avoid them if another peak is available, or if they are near, start calling them off loud and clear early.
I avoid the easily offended for other reasons. Some like to complain about an accidental cutoff, brooding over being disrespected and drawing in other surfers as if confirmation that the other guy is a kook will bring them more waves. Getting drawn into these conversations never helps me catch more waves and the topic of conversation doesn’t interest me enough to stick around even during lulls.
I’ve learned how to escape these situations from watching other surfers. Don’t give the other surfer an opening – no eye contact, the briefest acknowledgement if directly addressed, and catch a wave to get out of reach as soon as possible.
Today, we were confined to the two working peaks near the pier and were in close proximity of a curiously offended surfer. But I hadn’t cut him off. Rather, he had cut me off, clearly going out of his way to make a point.
What was his deal? And what is a predator anyways?
My first wave ruined, I paddled towards the pier and caught the current back out to the top. Once there, my friends were looking at me dubiously. They were smiling and trying not to laugh because they didn’t want to instigate something more with this stranger who was still within earshot. There were three of us and one of him so we weren’t in much danger, but this guy was a big boy, a bit older, and probably could’ve done a bit of damage to at least one of us if we had taken it to the beach.
Quietly, we exchanged glances and compared notes. They asked, “What’s going on? Did you just cut that guy off?”
“No I just went for a small one and the dude paddled up next to me and called me a predator.”
“Yeah I saw him paddle for your wave and then heard him yell something. He called you a predator?”
We were trying to hold back our laughs, but were also a little tense given the level of aggression. We knew full well this was still Oceanside and you had to be careful who you dealt with and how you dealt with them.
O Side
Oceanside has a reputation for being dirty, rough, ghetto, gritty… whatever you want to call it.
Meeting another surfer on the road, invariably one of the first 3 questions I get is, “Where are you from?”.
I usually start with California. Every surfer – and even most non-surfers – know where California is. Anything less specific than this is too broad. If I start with “America” they also ask me where in America; usually even if I start with California, they want to know what part. I get more and more specific only upon request: San Diego, then if prompted, Oceanside – the northernmost city in San Diego county.
For people who don’t know where it is, I tell them it’s near Trestles. But I’ve been surprised at how many people do know it. Aussies, Europeans, South Africans… most of the surfers I’ve met not only know it, but have surfed it. And they all give me a similar reaction, “Ohhh, I know Oceanside. Yea, I surfed the harbor. It’s a little rough over there, huh?”
In fact, just the other day, I met an older Australian surfer who told me, “oh yeah, I know Oceanside, mate. I went there in ’98. I surfed the harbor. It was super fun. That’s kind of a weird town. People were selling drugs and stuff. I would get out of the water after a surf session and a prostitute would offer me a blow job.”
I said, “Yep! That’s O Side baby!”
Truthfully, since ’98 it’s really gentrified and cleaned up. A few nice hotels are now at the base of the pier in place of the vacant dirt lots. Liquor stores are being replaced by craft breweries, and there’s even a ‘listening bar’ where DJs play their favorite hits off vinyl and kids with straight cut jeans drink PBR. Super hip. But there are still some sketchy pockets and the gritty vibe isn’t hard to find.
Last year, while home for a visit, my dad and I saw someone shooting up on the street as we were walking to get a poke bowl downtown. My dad looked at me wide eyed, “That guy’s just shooting up in public!”. Without skipping a beat, I replied, “Hey man, we’re in O Side.”
For most O Side residents, including myself, living somewhere ‘real’ is a matter of pride and offers an odd sense of comfort. We specifically like that it isn’t a rich suburban So Cal beach bubble like Laguna Beach or La Jolla. O Side is more reflective of the real of America – with it’s diversity displayed in skin color, economic status, and levels of mental stability.
Despite its rough edges, Oceanside is not that sketchy.
In my opinion, even 20 years ago, it was only dangerous if you weren’t careful. We ran around the streets as teenagers without any problems. Just play safe:
- Stay away from the bums
- Don’t engage with the crackheads or crazies
- Don’t stare at anyone
- Stay out of the alleys after dark
- And for God’s sake, don’t cut anyone off!
For surfers, the water was safe – strung out people, the most desperate and unpredictable demographic, generally don’t surf.
It had been a while since I had any incidents in the water and I figured the solo surfer was a crazy – possible strung out and trying to surf off a meth binge. But it didn’t quite add up…
The sun, now starting to breach the hotels at the base of the pier, we could see the stranger with a bit more clarity. I’d never seen him out. My friends had never seen the guy. Who was this psycho?
The agro-bro kept looking over at us and we kept ignoring him, not giving him any reason to engage us.
Then, apparently further triggered by the next round of surfers paddling out, the guy started yelling in our general direction. He was clearly upset but also deeply sad? His tone sounded like he might break down in tears. He growled, “I pour my heart and soul into this place for years and you mother fuckers just paddle out here like you own it?”
Soon there were a few more guys in the lineup, a couple of them very skilled surfers who frequented the pier almost daily.
The aggressor caught a wave and paddled back out, closer to the rest of us this time. He was talking under his breath, spurting out random blurbs about “respect”, “predators”, and “my whole life”.
Seeing him in the daylight, this guy actually looked like a somewhat normal middle-aged, dude. He didn’t have a wild haircut, any face tattoos, or missing teeth to indicate he was a druggy. He was clean cut but looked a little rugged – that aged look surfers of the older generation have from either too much sun or too much fun earlier in life.
Based on his looks, one might assume he had a regular blue-collar job and surfed in the mornings and on weekends like most everyone else. Furthermore, he was a good surfer.
He was a big dude, easily over 6ft tall and thick. He wasn’t ripped, a little round actually, but looked like he had that old man strength you don’t want to mess with. Despite his size he moved quite well in the water, generated good speed down the line, and threw buckets of water off his top turns.
I never saw him fall. He seemed to know the wave well. Maybe he had been surfing here for years.
He continued to grumble to himself. The other surfers also ignored him, giving us a few glances like “do you know what’s going on with this guy?”
With a quizzical look we assured them he wasn’t with us.
Not too long after the sun broke the horizon, the old mad dog went in. (We came up with many nick names for him, but the one that ended up sticking was ‘The Predator’)
I watched to see where he went once he got out. I wanted to know if he was walking home or driving. And, more importantly, what he was driving so I could know next time if he was in the water. Was he a local? A regular? Or a one off visitor?
A set came and I lost track of him. Another guy asked us what the deal was. We told him what had happened and had a little laugh over it. For the rest of the session, my friends kept threatening to cut me off, calling me a predator and mad dogging me in jest.
It so happened that the waves were walling up on the beaches over the next few weeks and the only reliable place to get some decent shape was somewhere with structure. I ended up at the pier regularly and I kept seeing The Predator.
Some days he had a buddy with him too. The mystery expanded. His friend was quite a bit overweight and always sat on a longboard out the back. Usually only wearing boardshorts and sometimes a white t-shirt, he was easy to identify amongst the other surfers in wetsuits.
I never saw him catch a single wave, but often heard him talking to The Predator. They would chat back-and-forth to each other like old buds who have been running Pier since their youth. “Hey Tommy, what’s up with all these guys out man they don’t pay any of their dues and they just come out here and surf whenever they want?”
“Yeah I don’t know, man I’ve never seen this kid out here before he shows up and thinks he can just surf the pier?”
They always talked in the general direction of crowds and very rarely directly at anyone. Sometimes I’d look in The Predator’s direction and see him looking at me with a sour face. I wondered if he remembered me or was just mad dogging everyone.
The lineup at the pier continued to function as normal, but with a little bit more of a tense vibe when The Predator was out.
Weeks passed and we still couldn’t figure out who this guy was or why he seemed to suddenly want to hold down the pier, which had been open surfing grounds for as long as we could remember.
One day I made an accidental discovery. I walked right by The Predator in the parking lot by the pier when I was heading out and he was just coming in. Turning the corner around the car next to his, I almost walked straight into him as he was placing his board into the back of his old black Toyota Tacoma. He instinctively looked over sensing my presence and looked down at me.
Out of the water and close up, I could see he was in fact a big dude. I guessed his wetsuit size was XLT – Extra Large Tall. I felt like a skinny grom in my MT. I suddenly wished I had the knowledge of some form of martial arts. Why hadn’t I ever even done a single class of Jiu Jitsu or even Karate? Anything would have been helpful in an O Side street brawl.
“Well, I thought, whatever grudge this guy has against me is about to get settled.”
I tensed up, ready for confrontation, waiting to see how he would react. He looked me straight in the face with the same sour look he always had, then, seemingly unbothered, stepped to the side and walked around the other side of the bed of his truck.
He hadn’t recognized me? Or he was in a good mood today? Or maybe had to get to work and didn’t have time for a confrontation?
I walked off toward the conveyer belt, further mystified by The Predator.
I wondered where he lived and what his home life looked like. Was he a loving father back home?
My close encounter gave us a few more pieces of evidence to speculate on… and we adjusted, or, reaffirmed our theories accordingly.
One of my friends, who had surfed Oceanside more than any of us, couldn’t remember ever seeing this guy before our fateful morning session. He was certain The Predator was from out of town. His theory was that The Predator had been ostracized from another surf break and was looking to establish a new home. Maybe he was a crazy from LA, kicked out of his own local break, and was either dumb enough or crazy enough to think he could localize the pier in a new city.
It was a potential working theory. Crowds in LA were known to drive surfers crazy and there were a few spots we knew about that were still heavily localized – threats, car vandalism, fights, the whole deal. That culture was real and alive in some very small pockets. Maybe he came down from up north… that commute alone might be enough to drive him crazy.
But questions still lingered…
- What was up with his friend who seemed like he couldn’t really surf?
- Was The Predator willing to fight or just acting tough?
- Was this lunatic going to bring a gun and shoot up the pier one day?
Whenever we got together, inevitably, at some point the topic of The Predator would come up. We’d report any new evidence and refine our theories.
I tried to be a bit more practical.
“Maybe he had been surfing around Oceanside for a long time and really felt like he owned the place. Despite us having surfed there for over twenty years, I guess it could be possible we hadn’t seen him… or more likely didn’t remember him. If he wasn’t making a scene in the water, he wouldn’t have made much of an impression. Perhaps he’s going through a bad divorce and surfing is all he has… and he’s just kind of starting to lose it.”
I would say something like this, but the boys would correct me,
“We recognize all the old school guys who have been surfing here for ages. It’s not that big of a town. There’s no way this guy has been surfing here for the last 20 years and we haven’t seen him once.”
“Yeah. No this guy is a total kook. He’s out of his mind. He’s probably been smoking meth for the last 10 years and doesn’t even know what city he’s in.”
Drugs may have been at play, but probably not meth – he was too heavy set to be on amphetamines and he didn’t display signs of being tweaked-out. He could be smoking something wild like PCP (aka Angel Dust) or Bath Salts though.
I wonder if there is a scenario where a surfer can lose their mind without it being induced by drugs. I think it’s possible.
I can imagine the level of frustration that older surfers have had as surfing has become more popular.
Imagine surfing Malibu or Trestles with just a few of your buddies, day in and day out. General society ignores you. Then someone in Hollywood decides to make a movie about it. They portray surfing to be cool, and the lifestyle to be hip. Almost overnight, surfing transforms from a fringe hobby for bums and dropouts to the latest cool kid trend. The only thing preventing a swarm of eager teenagers from hitting the closest beach is a lack of surfboards.
But in a post-war American economy, supply quickly meets the high demand.
Next thing you know cars are filling the parking lot and groups of people are paddling out, eager to get their stoke. On the optimistic side – people are getting outside, enjoying nature, and surf shapers are finally able to make a steady living. On the other hand, there is a serious vibe shift in the water.
What if you had a nice local break near your house where you surfed with your local crew every day? Then strangers start paddling out more frequently. They’re sitting right in the middle of the lineup clueless about the how the system works.
They’re all smiles, but you’re getting fewer and fewer waves. You’re getting cut off. Someone ditches their board on a set and you almost get your head taken off.
One day you’re loving life, surfing empty waves, the next your local break is a zoo.
Is it your responsibility to teach each of these newcomers the laws of surfing and make explicit the unwritten rules of your particular break?
Even the most mellow surfers would find it difficult to suppress the rising frustration.
Could this make a surfer go crazy?
Possibly. But I guess it’s more likely to foster territorial tendencies.
To protect what you “need” or “love” and keep it only for your inner tribe – this is human nature. We can’t deny this as part of our DNA, baked in for survival. When we were hunting and gathering… you find a good watering hole, prime fishing spot, or a flourishing fruit tree? Better lock that shit down. Fight for those resources with your life.
But the territorial battles in surfing are most often much more subtle.
In most cases all you need to do is create a little friction to make people think twice about paddling out. Mad dogging, talking shit, making threats, cutting them off on a few waves… sometimes that’s enough to prevent them from returning. Waxing windows, letting the air out of their tires, or getting physical – how many surfers are willing to put up with this to catch a few waves? Most would settle for lower quality and less of a hassle down the beach.
In the surf community word would spread quick, “That break has a rough crew. I wouldn’t paddle out over there if I were you.” There are still spots like this in Southern California. I’d heard about them, paddled out at a few, been yelled at and mad dogged, and… thought twice about going there the next time.
I understand the level of absurdity here an outsider will feel. Unless you surf, how could you possibly understand putting so much time and effort into something so pointless like riding a wave on a piece of fiberglass and foam… let alone going to battle to protect the stretch of beach where you enact this odd ritual?
I’ve been surfing most of my life and am still trying to wrap my head around it. Conjecturing about how and why these types of things evolve seems to help. My motivation? I can’t hate something or someone I truly understand. I’ve never been part of a local crew that defended a break, so I can’t speak from their point of view. But I think I can understand the motivation behind the efforts – as unskillful as they may be – to not let your local playground turn into a madhouse.
In a perfect world, a newbie surfer is respectfully addressed before they get into the water by a local representative who will explain to them, “good morning sir, this here surf break is frequented and managed by a local crew of surfers. We call them regulars. If you wanna surf here first you need to know the basic rules of surfing. Second, you need to start over on the shoulder, prove that you have the skills and the know-how to join the lineup without disrupting the flow. In addition, once you are able to join the main lineup, you will need to take your appropriate place in the current hierarchy, at the back of the line. The best surfers and guys who have been here the longest have the priority. They get the choice sets. You need to honor it and earn your own.”
Actually, the onus should be on the surf shop selling beginners boards. They’re profiting at the expense of the surfers in the water. But who will include that in their sales pitch to an excited aspiring surfer with cash in their pocket?
Had the The Predator thought all this out? Had he carefully developed a scheme to decrease crowds at the pier or had he just gone mad?
Maybe there is something to be learned here…
We Are All Losers
Even my generation, the children of the 60’s surfers, has experienced another big wave of newcomers entering the waters. Since its big-bang moment in popular culture with Gidget and The Beach Boys (who didn’t even surf by the way), surfing’s popularity has been on a steady rise.
But most surfers will tell you there’s been another inflection point, with a clear delineation before and after COVID. It felt like everyone realized life was short and fragile after the global pandemic, and many of them decided to finally seize life by the balls and commit to surfing. No doubt, other factors have compounded to keep upping the interest:
- Surfing made it’s debut in the olympics in 2020
- The 100ft wave documentary went viral in 2021
- Social media has provided endless reels of dreamy waves ridden by cool surfers
Are these catalysts, or merely symptoms of surfing’s popularity?
I’ve felt both sides of this explosion. Escaping to Nicaragua for the tailend of COVID, I renewed my own commitment to the surfing life. Upon my return it seemed that everyone in California had also renewed their vows. Even more, a new hoard of enthusiasts with their Costco-purchased Jerry Lopez softops lined the beaches. Gritty old Oceanside would never be the same.
Perhaps The Predator was a fringe case – an old school surfer who had been driven mad by the intrusion of masses into his lifelong hobby. He felt like the one thing he had, had been taken away. Maybe it was even me, paddling out before the sun came up, that finally made him snap. His last hope, a few meager waves eked out under the pier lights, had been taken away.
If this was the case, it still didn’t justify his actions. Isn’t this the way of life? Things change… can you?
Despite his efforts to turn back time, The Predator wasn’t making any progress in reducing crowds at the pier. He did harshen the vibe in the lineup, though, and to be honest I was always a bit disappointed to see him out. One of the things I like about the Oceanside beach break is that it’s fun and playful and not too serious. If I wanted to compete for waves in a more serious lineup, there were much better breaks within a short drive for me to do that. I mostly just wanted to get my daily stoke and The Predator wasn’t helping.
On a crowded weekend morning, the Predator and his chubby buddy were at it again. They’d now been there consistently for a few weeks, mad dogging everyone and yelling at a few.
Today they must’ve taken it too far, or someone just decided they’d heard enough of the nonsense. One of the other surfers I recognized as a regular at the pier started yelling back at The Predator. I couldn’t make out the words exactly but he was splashing water and telling him to fuck off. I heard bits and pieces of the same lines The Predator kept repeating “something something, surfing here for years… blood, sweat, tears!” but did nothing else. Apparently he was all talk.
I was happy to see someone finally helping realign The Predator with reality. Crowds weren’t going to go down, no matter how angry he got. And he was simply ruining the vibe. Without him there, there was a good respectable flow to things. People were competing fairly for waves, following priority, and even trading off on the more mellow days.
A few weeks later I left the states as I had previously planned. I wanted to find world class waves with low crowds before it was too late. I feared everything might already be overrun. This could be my last chance at experiencing the feeling of empty breaks with great waves, like my dad had when he was kid over 50 years ago.
I would find that, for those privileged to have enough free time and the money to travel, dream sessions could come true. Stressing over crowded mediocre beach breaks suddenly seemed even more ridiculous than I already knew it was.
Whenever I called home to check in with one of the bros, I’d ask if they had seen The Predator.
The answer was always the same, “No I don’t know what happened to this guy. I haven’t seen him one time. I look for his car every time I drive by the pier and he’s gone. He’s disappeared.”
As suddenly as he had come, he was gone…
The mystery of The Predator continues today.