Surf update: Mavericks Big Wave Contest Called

Our big wave, we learned today, was a harbinger of more. This morning a neighbor ran out to greet us as we began our walk. The Mavericks big wave surf contest has been called for tomorrow, she alerted us. A booming crash from the beach echoed up the valley and her eyes widened.

Local surfing legend Jeff Clark calls the contest after checking charts and forecasts for gigantic waves and good weather. Then surfers from all over the world have 24 hours to get here and prepare to ride. What started out as a scrappy challenge among a crew of dedicated and crazy surfers has turned into a big event.

Saint and Human Get Soaked

When you live by the ocean, you come to think you understand it. Or maybe, you understand how much you don't understand, retaining a healthy respect for the unknown.

But sometimes we get a little too comfortable. Or distracted.

This morning we were reminded of this when Daisy and I went out for our walk. As we headed down toward state park, we noticed the sign about unpredictable surf. Glad they post that for tourists, we thought. We observed the water pouring high on the beach, normal for winter but not as intense as the past few days. Over the weekend, the waves rolled so high and forcefully that we chose not to venture down to the sand.

But this morning, the sea had settled a bit and the wet, sparkling sand looked very inviting. We got all the way to the north end and the gray-blue spikes and spires of crashing water amazed us with their beauty. It had started to rain, but I was dressed warmly and Daisy had her fur coat.

When we turned around at the end, Daisy began to act antsy and pull. The rain began to pour. I looked down toward the middle of the beach and could barely make out, as I peered between raindrops, three people. They accompanied what looked to be three to four rollicking dogs. Were they heading toward us? Or turning back because of the downpour? We kept walking and I squinted to see better. We reached a spot where we had to cross a little stream. Here freshwater pours down the hillside and meets the waves. Just as I discerned that the group had turned around, I noticed a wave coming. And a big wave at that.

It was too late to turn back and too wet to turn forward. All we could do was stand there, with one wave sloppily coming around front and one rapidly advancing behind.

My soaked legs and feet

They call these "sleepers," big waves that emerge out of what looks like a calm sea. I planted my feet as the water swirled around us and I could feel Daisy getting lighter. Stay, Daisy! Daisy, stay! (I should have called, "Swim!") I encouraged her and held on. The water washed up to my thighs but Daisy managed to stick with me. Finally the flow subsided and we plowed forward and out of that dangerous spot. She shook a couple of times, and I could see sand sprinkled all about her coat.

I'm not sure whether having to swim against a rising current was more frightening to Daisy than those dogs down the beach. As soon as she got free of the water, she began to press forward toward the other animals, lurching right and left and pulling hard. All I know is that when we got home, she wanted a hug and was very, very tired.

What winter looks like at the beach

Perhaps we've given you the wrong impression. The beach here isn't strewn with an endless array of old plastic bottle caps and scraps of rubber. Yes, there's too much of that stuff. But unless you're looking for washed-up junk, what you're likely to notice is the sand. Lots of it.

Not the satiny white sand you find in Hawaii. Here we have hard-ground sand, bits of rock tumbled and worn down by the waves until they have become a multicolored mat beneath your feet. Walk barefoot on this sand, and it's like getting a massage.

On a winter's day when the tide is high, lots of stories have washed up onto the sand. A little pink crab's leg ... what happened to the rest of it?

We see plenty of whole Pacific mole crabs spread-eagled on their tiny backs. Yum, some dogs just love these salty critters.

This morning the surf poured across the width of the beach and chased us up against the cliff walls. We spotted a sand dollar as we passed five young men practicing their kick-boxing. A scoter rode out on the waves.

Holiday at the beach

Judging by the leftovers on the beach this morning, Christmas Day must have been a grand holiday for the dogs. Daisy and I found two lime neon tennis balls and one small multicolored ball as we walked to the north end of the beach. One more green one washed away in the surf before I could grab it.

Down at the end we sat on a rock and I noticed a black face peering at us from the waves. In this regard I think the "dogs can't generalize" folks may be right. Point as I might, Daisy simply would not look out to sea. The sea lion bobbed up and down for a long while. But this sort of abstract thinking -- extending the line of a pointed finger to a distant object -- doesn't seem to be within Daisy's repertoire. She was more interested in the incoming surf and wanted to leave.

So we climbed back down the rock and headed south. The escaped green ball was perched up on a dune. Next we found a worrisome construction safety hat. The story behind it couldn't have been good.

There were the usual bottle caps and straws washed in by the tide. Then another rubber ball, this time bright orange. And at the beginning of the walkway at the edge of the parking lot, we found one more set of relics from a happy day. A pair of brown leather sandals sat abandoned, with a miniature Frisbee for dogs at their side.

(Sea lion photo courtesy Central Park Zoo)

Can dogs generalize?

We've been told time and again that dogs can't generalize. Don't just take Daisy to one parking lot to practice obedience and get dog exposure training, but take her to many. Don't just go to one shopping mall to get human contact and lots of pets, go to many. Don't "watch me" or "sit" in just one room, but try it inside and outside, in the kitchen and in the hall.

All this makes sense, and we do vary the venue. But I'm not so sure I believe this blanket claim about dogs' incapacity to generalize. Take Daisy's reaction to anything attached to a leash-like line: Must be a dog! This morning she was quite struck by a surfer carrying his surfboard with leg rope and cuff dragging behind. Must be a tiny black dog! One time a Chihuahua (one of those again) stood on the lap of a trucker and barked at us for 15 minutes while we waited in traffic to get on the Bay Bridge. Now, every time she peers into the cab of a truck, there must be a dog! If there's something with lots of hair moving around in the back of a car, it must be a dog!


Surfer leg cuffs: A pack of dogs?




Usually we try to convince Daisy otherwise. Everything at the end of a leash or that is small, fluffy and moving is not a dog. We point out the differences between dogs and humans, dogs and strollers, even dogs and kites, if need be. But this time we went with it. What an obedient little dog following right behind his surfer. What a calm, non-threatening dog. Daisy couldn't help getting a little upset but let us stand close in front to protect her. She watched the surfer, then we began to head another direction. She turned back for a look a couple of times, but was satisfied that the threat has passed.

A success story? Who knows?

Oil spill reaches Montara Beach

A week ago the Cosco Busan bashed into the San Francisco Bay Bridge and dumped 58,000 gallons of bunker fuel oil into the water. Since then, the foul black muck has drifted through the Bay and out to sea.

At first the oil headed north. But one morning we spotted the telltale gunk collected into a tar ball in the sand. Sure enough, just down the beach was a common murre, curled up and shivering. Altogether as many as 1,255 birds have died out of 2,278 found by rescue workers.

This is peak migration time. Crab season had been about to begin. The ocean was growing wild and full as winter approached.

This morning we found another another tar ball washed up onto the beach.

The balls look benign. But touch them, and the sticky goo lets you know they're toxic. One swallow can kill an animal.

At first the ship's pilot vastly underreported the damage as only 400 gallons split. Fragile areas of the Bay weren't protected, volunteers were shooed away, and the oil spread. As Peter Fimrite reported in the San Francisco Chronicle,

Among the myriad questions that have yet to be answered is why there was a nine-hour lag between initial reports of only 400 gallons of oil spilled and later reports that 58,000 gallons had poured into the bay. There are also questions about delays while large numbers of cleanup workers were brought in from out of state. Environmentalists have accused cleanup organizers of not placing booms around sensitive wetlands and wildlife habitats until it was too late.

In his excellent story, Fimrite exposes the tenuous state of the massive cleanup process. Shockingly, response to this disaster is in the hands of a private company. The effort

hinges on a little-known Louisiana company that works for big oil shipping lines and is largely self-regulated.

The oil will surely be with us for at least a decade to come.