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	Hurricane Linda (5-22-02) "On 12 September 1997 Hurricane Linda became the strongest hurricane on record in the East Pacific basin. The GOES-9 and GOES-8 infrared images above show the well-defined warm eye surrounded by very cold eyewall cloud top temperatures (colder than -80 C). The storm intensity was estimated to Category 5 on the Saffir-Simpson scale, with maximum sustained wind speeds of 160 knots/82 ms-1 (gusting to 190 knots/220mph). Minimum central pressure was estimated to be 26.58 inches of mercury." When I was younger, and just getting into the whole bodyboarding thing, I learned that those hurricanes off Baja were a good thing for our summer surf needs. We would jump to the Metro section of the LA Times, look for the satellite photo and pray for a cloudy swirl of death and destruction. I had been to the Hotel Cabo San Lucas and always marveled at the thickness of the wooden slats used to cover the windows. Something must want inside something fierce that would warrant such deterrent, I am sure I pondered, in those words. After many summers of entertaining south swells, it appeared, if only empirically, that the Hurricane activity dried up. I could swear 10 years went by without a really active season. Luckily El Niño came through for us, ending the reign of terror of no reign of terror. The seas began to boil, strange tropical aquatic monsters chomped at fisherman hooks far north and the conveyor belt of hurricanes began to roll. We were cooking with gas. Despite the fact that hurricane Guillermo was a bad ass, it tracked way out to sea after giving us some surf. On the other hand, Hurricane Linda's allure was that it might possibly hit southern California while still packing a brick in its purse. And so, to fulfill one of my lifetime goals of being in a hurricane, there was no way I was going to miss this. I packed up my rain gear, stopped by my dad's house and snagged his video camera and headed to my friend Dave Duffy's house in La Jolla. On the way down you could see the edge of the storm. Tension was building. Gas pedal was flooring. Seas were building. Once down there we were treated to a solid southern hemi swell to sweeten the pot. The reefs were going good but the real action was yet to come. Since the swell angle was so south from Linda and was missing La Jolla, we hustled north. Trestles was solid 10-15' and looking packed and angry. Naturally we proceed to the Wedge. By this time the blackball flag has been raised and we watch 8 bodysurfers ride some of the most perfect Wedge I have ever seen. It's BIG. I have never seen a bodysurfer go so fast. On a hunch, we go to Newport Point. Ominously, we get free parking right by the sand. From a quarter of a mile away the surf is awe-inspiring. Clean, perfect and terrifying. From Cylinders to 14th street is one giant close out. Then, just to the south of the pier are 2 peaks that are insane. The media circus is swarming on the beach, while the surfing circus is frothing in the line-up. Instead of paddling out in the easy area next to the pier, I get overruled and we try to thread the needle between the two peaks. We got real close. Essentially, seconds after I thought I was going to make it out, I was doing summersaults underwater with my board, demanding it to float. Dave's leash broke. I sat on the beach for a moment so the shakes could wear off and watched the stream of broken boards wash in. 20 minutes later, we paddle out by the pier like I originally proposed, and almost make it with dry hair. This fact does not go unannounced. We fight the drift and get into position, paranoid, shaking, 15 meters outside of everyone else. I watch sets well up miles out to sea, moving left to right to punish 56th street jetties. The best part is that you could see where the surf is coming from on the horizon- a spinning gray surf factory working on over time. Since we are so far out, we get first dibs on all the sets. I go on the first one, an intro-level 12 footer. Everyone is in my way but I make it and remember why I am out here. Unfortunately, I am having equipment failure. The sun cooked my wax into a new, slippery polish, and my board is 2.5 lbs and excels in surf under 6 feet. I get another left, hit a bump mid face and my right hand slips off my board right when I need to do a bottom turn. I survive and am empowered. Another comes and it is this beautiful A-frame peak. It is so good, a guy inside yells at me to go. Pardon? I go right and end up in the impact zone but avoid punishment. Up to now, my strategy has been to sit outside of everyone to the side of the peak and then waltz over at my leisure and pick one off. Very organized. A glance out beyond me, quickly crumbled my empire as the set of the day (?) rumbled in. Instead of a nice peak it is a massive wall with a shoulder out of reach. I am the furthest guy out and I am caught inside. Normally I would pause for irony but I had no time. I paddle up the face and grin as the lip pitches over me, knowing that a bunch of surfers are eating fiberglass on the inside. The glory is short lived because there are 2 more behind it. I am paddling diagonally trying to get out of the way. By the third, I am sick of running. I paddle up the face diagonally, turn and drop. I am in a bad position but I have to go. I air drop about 8 feet, skip down the rest and lose faith in the career bottom turn I would have to make with my creased and crappy board. I look back as the huge lip smashes right behind me. I go for a while and get completely erased. I finally pop up in 3 feet of water, cramps in both calves, laughing my ass off after a fine session at what they are calling the "best Newport EVER". more stories >>