Swirls of disturbed water rise to the surface like tire-sized eddies in a powerful river current. Bubbles. More swirls. Then a huge wake forms. Dozens of silvery mullet leap out of the water in a desperate attempt to escape death. Surely others aren't as lucky. The big mammal surfaces again. Mist fires into the air as the dolphin recharges its lungs. The top-chain predator seems oblivious to nearby paddleboarders and continues to hunt just outside of the sandbar.
These typically-tranquil waters along the coast of Southwest Florida have become a frontier of sorts, a place where a novel yet ancient sport has opened the eyes, hearts and minds of growing number of middle-aged groms.
Until the last year or so, this region was off limits to surfing of any style. Outside of the occassional passing hurricane or a Herculean cold front, we were forced to hang at the beach and joke about our "over-ankle" conditions -- crack open a beer, lay back in a pastel-colored beach chair and talk "what ifs."
What if those 10-inch wave faces were five feet. What if we were eight inches tall and had a few shapely Popsicle sticks. What if Tropical Storm Bonnie had actually brought us ridable waves.
But add a giant, thick, wide surfboard and a seven-foot canoe paddle to the equation and "over-ankle" becomes hella fun -- at least to us Southwest Florida surfing simpletons.
Two-foot curling rollers are a God-send. Anything above that qualifies as epic. Sloppy chop with an onshore wind? Bring it on. An outgoing tide that crashes into the wind swell and causes steep yet amazingly weak wedges? We'll be there all day.
Southwest Florida will never be Maui. We'll never get consistent overhead peelers. No offshore monster waves breaking on unnamed reefs. No need to tow-in or double leash.
But to us, stand-up paddling is surfing, the only viable way to go everyday.
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