The Next Cortes? A Stacked Deck
by Glenn Dubock

Photo Gallery - 21/12/2004 session

Tale from the eyes of a camera man on the Shark Park assult

Surfersvillage Global Surf News, 22 February, 2006 : - - I want to tell you a story about a group of incredible surfers who rode a wave off the California coast that few have even seen. I want you to look at the photos that were near impossible to take due to the hazardous conditions. I want you to marvel at one mans obsession and the relentless pursuit of a goal that, until now, had remained just out of reach for all of his adult life. And then, because I don't want your death on my conscience, I want you to put away any thoughts of going near the place.

Greg Huglin is a man possessed; a Californian who has traveled the world in search of surf, returning home only to continue the hunt in his own backyard. Filmmaker, avant guard photographer and ocean expert are just some of the cards in his deck. And he plays those cards very close to his chest. For the last 10 years, Greg has been playing a very private game of wave riding poker that was finally dealt out in a very high stakes location.

Huglin had done his research well. He had piloted his own boat to the reef, surveyed the bottom and even flown over in a helicopter to supplement his analysis with aerial reconnaissance. Even with all the data in his hands, he told everyone involved that it was one big crapshoot. Factors that don't affect near-shore waves would be major forces to deal with out there. Incessant wind, raging currents and gray suited locals would significantly reduce the hit rate. The name for this wave of chance is Shark Park - that alone should give you pause. If you are dealt an unlucky hand out here, you might not be able to walk away from the table with your life, much less the wetsuit on your back.

Huglin had shot towsurfing as early as the 1980s. He was on Maui in January of '98, 35mm motion picture camera grinding away, when Jaws lit up for Big Wednesday. Even then, he knew there was an unridden wave waiting back home in California. Six years ago, when Greg showed me the first photos of this place, I was very impressed. At the same time I was also skeptical about any boats ability to get there, much less someone being able to ride the wave. The pictures showed lines of mammoth waves marching from the horizon of the deep blue sea, only to be spilled over a treacherously shallow reef that caused the wave to first jack skyward then lurch forward until it looked like the entire contents of the ocean floor might be uprooted by the violent beauty of it all. Greg asked me if I would sign on with his select crew as still photographer. What could I say? I was all in.

Five more winters would go by before all the elements came together for our first attempt on this ocean-going mountain. Over the years there had been false starts, equipment hassles and even a few bad vibes. Some wished us well, others questioned our sanity, but most spoke volumes with their respectful silence: this was not an adventure to be taken lightly.

Qne of our luckiest breaks was the availability of the Condor Express, the vessel that would carry us to this dream wave or be our 75-foot life raft. Twin hulled, multi jet-engined and captained by the seasoned navigator Fred Benko, this screaming watercraft was crucial in getting us to the break through the heaving seas that stood in our way. Greg knew that Fred and his boat would be the only way for our crew to get out and back safely. Benko never left the wheel and never turned off the motors during the 15 hours we were in his hands. He confided in Greg that the stretch of reef we proposed to surf was officially the foulest piece of water on the entire California coast.

I got the call I had both waited for and dreaded. "The run is on for December 21", Huglin calmly announced. Greg is a straight up guy and told me what to expect and what was expected of me. "Bring every piece of camera gear you own - as long as it's insured", he said. I don't recall much of the conversation, I just remember feeling electricity running down my spine and the child-like glee hidden under the tones of seriousness from a man who could see a fulfilled dream forming a long way from shore. Thirty others got similar calls and showed up the night before to load all the gear.

Scott Gibson was the only other still photographer invited on this journey. After a sleepless night, I met him on the dock at 4:30 a.m., took one look at the expression on his face and snapped into consciousness. His eyes were aglow in the black of the night as he told me who was on board and how intense things had already gotten. There on the galley table, splayed out like a fresh deck of cards, were the badges of the honored guests on this ship of destiny. I sifted through legends like Flea Virostko, Carlos Burle and Mark Healey to find my own name at the bottom of the heap. I was very glad to find out that Shawn Alladio was on board to handle the safety chores, but I hoped for all present that her considerable skills wouldn't be put to the test.

About an hour out of the safe grip of the harbor, things started to get hairy. The engines groaned as we charged up endless ramps. A thin orange ribbon of sunrise traversed the horizon behind us while a looming fog ahead waited to swallow us. Suddenly, our once large boat was but a toothpick in a toilet bowl and many of us were ready to hurl into it. Like dominos we began to fall, the mere proximity of illness setting off the next wave of seasickness. My land legs were useless on this moving dance floor and I collapsed into an embarrassed heap on the hard deck. The time-tested cure for seasickness, looking at the horizon, was pointless. There was no horizon, only the uneven edge of huge seawater lumps passing under the boat as we struggled to avoid their massive power. The Captain brought the engines to a tentative idle as we waited for the fog to lift its cloak of mystery. Huge swells growled at us as we bobbed like driftwood at the mercy of an angry sea.

And then we saw it. A cry went up as though the crow's nest on a whaling ship had spotted a behemoth. Lifeless bodies sprang from the cabin onto the deck to get a first-hand look at the beast. She was a big one all right; not the biggest ever, but the day was still young and the tide still high.

The whole crew came alive with industrious activity. The snap of neoprene against cold flesh and the smell of raw adrenaline filled the morning air. Teams of riders and drivers headed out, dropping out of sight into the pits and reappearing on the peaks. Five videographers, including Larry Haines on the back of a Waverunner, staked out their vantage points. As I took my photo position on the bow, I looked up to see Greg sitting next to Fred in the wheelhouse. Just the look on his face was worth it all. He had taken the calculated risks and beat all the odds by just getting us to this place. Greg has always believed that the ultimate payoff in life is the fun of seeking grand adventure, whether near or far from home.

The rest of the day was like watching a surfing movie from the front row of a wide screen theater. The surround sound of the riders hooting at each other would suddenly be drowned out by the deafening roar of a wave exploding on the reef. A rider would plunge down a vertical face, disappear into a bottomless trough, come back into view as a streaking missile on a pale blue wall, snap a cutback under the pitching lip and loft out the back over a muscular shoulder.I strained to hold my lens steady as the boat would dip when each swell would disappear into the deep water under us. I kept both eyes open - right one looking through the camera, the other on the lookout for a rogue wave that might swing wide and swat us broadside. Suddenly,on the far left, I could just barely make out Chuck Patterson pumping his board for more speed, trying to get the necessary velocity to cross the peak and drop into the left. Mere mortals would have been content to just glide down the face, but Chuck was determined to tame this beast. Like a ride on a giant see-saw, our boat dropped down the back of a swell as Patterson arched up under a lip that looked like it would take his head off if it hit him. I closed my left eye, punched the shutter release and my right eye saw Chuck come flying out of the barrel like he was shot out of a cannon. Fred gunned the motors, and we slipped out of harms way as all hands on deck screamed either in fear for our lives or in appreciation of Patterson's success.

That's all it took to get everyone fired up. Next thing you know, 3 guys are over the watery ledge at once. Flea is skipping down the shelf on the righthander, Carlos Burle and Eric Akiskalian are running lines all over the vertical face of the wedging left that has more than enough room on it for the both of them. They move so fast and leave such deep white scars on the blue walls of the wave that it's like watching fighter-jet trails in the sky. I need a machine gun, not a camera, to get a fair shot at all the action going off at once.

Late in the day, Chuck Patterson jumps on a wave runner and heads off solo to check out the next reef over. He motors around some dangerous territory and looks like a VW bug lost in the big city, driving around in a neighborhood of falling skyscrapers. Chuck comes back to the mothership with the look of stunned delight. "That's 'Green Acres' over there, a wave field of temptation and natures' harshest punishment" he says as he drags his weary body back on board. "We may have to wait 10 more years for that one" Huglin fires back.

On the long ride back to the harbor, as we slid down waves in our 75-foot-aluminum sled, the somber hushed tones of the morning were replaced by the joyous banter of a group of people that were aware they had done something quite special. The best rides of the day were recounted, some with exacting detail and others with grand embellishments. The bar was open and toasts were made to Greg for his dedication and vision. "Hey, what about Fred and his crew - they kept us alive!", shouts Peter Trow. An appreciative howl goes up to the Captain and comes back down as a loud blast on the horns.

A week later, Huglin called to thank me for all my hard work. He also wanted to see how I felt about going to yet another spot that he thought was worth the gamble.

"The trip to Shark Park was just a first accent, a quick look at what is waiting for us when we've got the guts to try. There are plenty of other reefs to ride - if we can survive the search to find them. Are you ready to chance it again?" Greg offers. I told him to deal me in. 

Related articles:
Chasing the big one at Shark Park - Scott Hadley/Santa Barbara News

More Australasian Surfing News available here
Check the latest Australasian Surf Reports and Forecasts
Subscribe to Surfervillage News-Alerts

Glenn Dubock / Towsurfingadventrues.com

Big-Wave Surfing - Surfersvillage