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Chasing Tales: Part VI
Nov. 03, 2009
By Justin
Chasing Tales: Part VI
The Tale of the Slam
By Robby Myer
 (Above: Your author (left) and the devious bastard who conned him
into doing this race, John Dady.)
I declined for a while, creating a whole new excuse each
time Johnny would ask: I'm too fat; I'm too old; I don't have a boat. Each
time, though, he countered with what fun it'd be, that he's fat too, that he
has a boat for me.
Finally, one Saturday night he caught me off guard boozing.
"Hell yeah, I'm coming!" I drunkenly hissed, "And I'm gonna
kick everyone's ass on my old 550!"
Shortly thereafter, a "News Flash" appeared on Blowsion's
website confirming my commitment to race a fire breathing Kommander-built ski
while wrapped in Slippery gear.
Now I've done it...$%&#ing whiskey.
Johnny got me in touch with everyone he thought I'd need to
get a ski together, sent me stuff on the cheap, and most importantly, made me
feel like a long lost brother returning home.
I got a ski running for the first time in years. It didn't
take long to rediscover the adolescent joy I found jet skiing. That handful of
throttle and sense of "zero destination" freedom on the water got the old flame
burning so hot that I bought a used SX-R 800. I fell completely in love with
the new hull. It didn't take long for the obsession to take hold; I'd been
missing out.
I started training again and liked having a goal to prepare
for. I expected rough water so every chance I got I took it to the roughest
waters on my lake, the Narrows. I starting finagling parts for the new SX-R and
built it into a surf racer. I rode surf with Victor "Slasher" Sheldon, decade-old
memories coming back like scenes from of a favorite flick. I even decided to do
a local race and won it hands down. "Hey," I thought. "At least I can still
hang locally."
I knew I had a better chance of getting hurt than winning,
but I told Johnny I'd do it, plus I invested a considerable amount of time and
money into it so I was determined to line up in those waves and pin the
throttle no matter what. I was confident that I'd put in the time and was in
good enough shape, I felt good about the boat I'd built and knew that I had as
much surf racing experience as most anyone else so I was sure I could compete.
The pre-race preparations were unexpectedly enjoyable.
Packing totes with parts and tools brought me back to the days of the tour. I
even got old pics out and hung them up in the shop. The racer in me was coming
back and I liked having him around; Robby Racer was a pretty fun guy.
(Above: Myer getting his SX-R ready for a pounding.)
It was like a homecoming walking into the Blowsion HQ taking
in the pre-race buzz. Ross Champion was busily tweaking on an old boat of his
to loan to a buddy for the event while foreign freeriders and racers arrived by
the rental car load.
The next morning, I drove out to the race site and got the
first indication of how the weekend was going to shape up. First, the truck got
stuck in the sand high up on the beach, so I backed about halfway down onto the
harder packed sand, unhooked, unloaded, and set up the pop-up.
John Dady had gone to the airport and borrowed one of those
staircases on wheels so the freeride judges would get a sweet elevated vantage
point of the competition. Wiser yet was the tractors to pull all the idiots -
myself included - out of the sand.
The rising tide quickly forced everyone to move all of what
we had just set up. I recruited a gang of able bodies and pushed the trailer up
the beach by hand. Little did all of us know that this exercise would be
repeated all weekend.
My SX-R ran good in the surf and I felt comfortable in the
five- to six-foot waves, so I pulled in and gave it the once over. The weather
was perfect, and since I was making this a family vacation, I splurged on a
beach house; my daughter and wife were obviously stoked. We spent the rest of
the day taking in the beautiful Oregon coast from the beach in front of the
house. Good thing, too, because we wouldn't see sunshine again until Monday.
That evening we enjoyed a nice dinner and rested up for the day ahead.
The next morning I met up with Randy Laine - he'd be judging
and had just checked the surf report. "Looks like the surf got bigger. Man, it
must be double overhead out there." I said as we scoped the sets.
"It's supposed to hit 20 feet by tomorrow." He says with a
wiry grin, adding, "I hope you're ready..."
By mid afternoon the unusually large surf had gotten larger
with the rising tide. Vendor row bore the brunt of Mother Nature's power as the
surging surf swept the beach free of any and all not fully secure. I was busy
helping a sunken Mark Gomez try to resuscitate his drowned SuperJet when one
such rogue wave took us for a ride. We both had our heads into his boat when a
surge lifted it up and literally took it from us, turning the EZ-Up tent we
were under into a bent mess of a wrecktangle.
(Above: Mother Nature strikes back.)
The series of waves that followed wreaked havoc on the
beach. Event staff scrambled to keep the order of the herd as vendor tents
washed away, display skis got lifted from their stands and tossed mercilessly
about. Even runabouts were flung across the beach as if they weren't runabouts.
Chaos ensued as everyone scrambled to protect their
valuables. Some people just didn't know what to do. I remember seeing this one
guy chasing an ice chest headed out to sea. One lady was screaming about her
lost dog. While we were fighting to keep Gomez' boat from being ripped out of
our hands while also trying to keep a Blowsion display ski from banging into
the trailer, the same lady started asking me hysterically if I knew where her
dog was. I don't know why she chose me, so I told her I wasn't the dog
whisperer and fought to help Gomez get his hood on before the next surge came.
Once the surge subsided, I took in the carnage. Jet Skis and
debris were strewn about; cars, trucks, and trailers were scattered across the
beach; and all the while, a very busy Blowsion team - Johnny included - hustled
to contain the chaos.
Race practice was canceled and we called it a day, which was
fine by me. Tomorrow, the forecast threatened, would bring even bigger surf.
And it was. The next morning we had monsters rolling in and
I began to second guess my commitment. It was one of those days you look out at
the break and say, "Nah, let's go get some tacos." But there was no saying that
out loud, I put on my race face and lied to anyone who asked.
Usually, everyone's stoked on big surf, but when it's the
size of a two story house, it starts getting scary. Freeriders were getting
banged up, boats were coming in on the hook, and plenty of injuries added to
the drama. Motz twisted up his ankle on a BIG barrel roll. Even the safety team
required rescuing with help from the competitors, an interesting if not noble
twist of circumstance.
(Above: Quickly rising tides and brutal surf made this year's Surf
Slam more true to its name than ever before.)
The surf was leaving zero doubt as to who was truly in charge.
Again, the races were postponed until the next and final day.
Sunday morning started with the event team trying to get the
location venue changed to another beach to avoid the inevitable fury of the
rising tide. No dice; we would be racing here: both in the surf and the surf
itself. High tide was scheduled to be late afternoon and to reach its highest
point of the weekend. We absolutely had to have the beach clear by
mid-afternoon or the ocean would do it for us.
Blake Corning was fighting a losing battle. Despite the
heavy duty yacht anchors he had brought to secure the buoys, they simply were
no match for the angry Northwest surf. The best he could manage was a
three-buoy triangle inside the break that still kept getting washed in.
With the buoys changing positions freely, we lined up to
race. I got a good start and was in it to win it for a minute with the Motz
brothers and Jordan Fielder in sight. I knew I was racing but somehow forgot
about the "in the surf" part. I rounded a buoy and wasn't looking far enough
ahead when I pounded face-first into a whitewater wall that removed me from the
boat. I managed to hang on to the bars and get back on, but I had lost a few
positions (as well as my goggles).
I regained my composure and struggled around the
shape-shifting track trying to stay hooked up in the froth of the crashing
waves. At least four skis sank that first moto, and with the track being so
small and two identical boats on the track adding to the confusion, nobody even
knew who won or who placed where. Controversy rippled across the beach as Jeff
Troegner, who was originally announced as the winner, was bumped to fourth.
(Above: Chris Rosner, Ross Champion, Mark Gomez and others look on at the epic battle of Man vs. Nature taking place in the waves.)
Troegner's ski was scored twice because Aaron Sanchez was
riding one of Jeff's old skis with only an X marking it from Troegner. I let
everyone else fight about it, I was happy to just not be one of the guys with
their skis upside down trying to drain their crankcase.
I got another great start in the second moto, but rounding
the first buoy my goggles fogged. I got them off and chucked them (that's two
sets) while a couple guys blasted past me. Suddenly, I was in a chase for a lap
or two and was riding pretty good; I actually got by one of the guys and was
setting up another coming into the beach.
As a wave was washing toward a buoy, he lifted and I knew I
had him. I went over the falls and turned, only to be grabbed by the wave. It
was a small one, just a little taller than the boat itself, so I just held on
and sort of sat atop the wave and rode it for the whole front straight. It must
have looked pretty funny from the beach. It also must have sucked a bunch of
water into the engine compartment because as soon as I hit the first wave
heading back out, I lost power, going down to one cylinder. All of a sudden, I
became a sitting duck in the wrong place at the wrong time: I got pounded.
The first rule of surf riding is to stay with the boat no
matter what.
I questioned this logic as I bounced around underwater for
what seemed an awful long time. It's interesting how time slows down in
perilous situations. I thought about the weight of the ski, the depth of the
water and whether or not I was near the bottom. I thought about letting go, but
didn't. Then I saw sky and gasped for air.
I got the bilge on and kicked and scrambled to get the boat
pointed out to sea when the next wave stood up like a playground bully. I was
still lying in the tray trying to get her started when I climbed past vertical.
I went over backwards with the boat on top of me. I got the washing machine
again and was really glad I got that one big gasp before going back under.
I hit the sandy bottom before the ski landed on top of me,
squeezing the air out of my lungs. Then, somehow, I found my way back to the
surface but was upside down. I rolled her over and immediately fumbled for the
start button. I was still gasping for air when I saw the next roller coming in
for the kill.
"C'mon baby, START!" I pleaded.
She kicked to life, and like me, was full of water. I pointed
back out but still didn't have the power to climb the rising face; I was stuck
in the surfers' sweet spot of the break. The next wave was big and glassy and -
I swear - was laughing as it picked me up and tossed. This time, there was a
weightless pause before the hammer fell, a momentary calm before the storm as I
traveled from top of wave to bottom. I knew that I was in for one hell of a
pummeling.
I was right. Tumbling more ruthlessly than before, I lost
track of which way was up, the wave holding me down in the darkness until I
actually started sucking water; for the first time I was scared. Choking down
seawater, I thought, "This is it: retired racer dies at first annual Surf Slam
event, film at 11."
Miraculously, I started to see light, finally surfacing 50
yards away from the nearest buoy. I concluded that there was no way I could get
the motor back so I pointed my nose toward shore and rode the next wave in. I
got to the beach and just sat there in the tray while the bilge emptied out the
hull, catching my breath.
I hadn't had a near death experience in a while; I could
feel the adrenaline still pumping. I looked back at the waves crashing behind
me and felt like old Santiago in Hemmingway's classic "The Old Man and the Sea,"
thinking to myself, "You win today, old
friend, but I'll be back."
(Above: The survivors)
That night, while talking over beers (supplied by the Worx
guys), I got a chance to sit down and talk with Jordan Fielder and his family.
It seems they had a similar Jet Ski career experience as I. They asked if I
thought Jet Ski racing could ever get back to where racers could make a good
living racing.
I told them my opinion, that if races take on this kind of
format, then I think maybe, yes. What the sport needs is excitement, stunts,
and carnage, in order to keep the interest of the short human attention span.
When I got back to my folks' place the next night, my dad
asked how I did. I told him I did alright, but DNF-ed the second moto, ending
up sixth. "How many guys were racing?" he asked.
"Seven."
He scoffed, "You spent two months training, bought a new
ski, and beat one guy? Was it worth it?" I thought about it for a second and
realized the answer to the question encompassed more than just the outcome of
the race. While Surf Slam was the reason I got back on a ski, it's my love of
competition and the preparation for it that I really enjoyed. Surf Slam was
just the catalyst that fired off the resin of my passion long lost. I felt like
I had gotten something back that was taken from me long ago: my identity. I'm a
Jet Ski racer.
Looking him directly in the eyes, I smiled and answered,
"Yep, it was."
-Robby
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