Ocean Magic
Ocean Magic was the name of a surf shop in Galveston I patronized several years ago. It is long gone by now. The shop was located on 61st Street, right next to the salt-water lagoon (actually the head of Offat's Bayou) where one could rent a jet ski and haul ass at ridiculous speeds around a relatively small body of water along with about 100 other fools doing the same thing. Did I mention that practically all of us were in some state of intoxication while doing this? Well, practically all of us were in some state of intoxication while doing this; and getting disintegrated in a collision on a careening jet ski is just one of those youthful "near misses" I experienced which didn't seem to have any real impact on me back then, at least as far as changing my behavior patterns went. When I think about those several almost-tragedies now, I tend to shudder a bit.
Along with Sunrise, a shop located in a small strip center on Seawall Blvd., Ocean Magic was the focal point in Galveston for myself and a few friends who fancied ourselves as surfers back then. We were a small band, my surfing friends and I, and an optimistic one, too - being a surfing enthusiast on this section of the upper Texas Gulf Coast is something akin to being a golfing devotee in northern Alaska, or Iceland. Those guys chop a semblance of a golf course out of the glacial ice and then go out and play a "round" in sub-zero temperatures. In a region where a wide and shallow continental shelf prevents waves of any real size from forming along the Bolivar Peninsula and on the beaches of Galveston Island, one has to buy a short board and be optimistic, or maybe just really suggestible (or gullible) to style oneself as a surfer in these parts.
By the way, don't quote me on that continental shelf thing; because as I think back, I realize the person who related that bit of information to me was a guy named Stoney, and he mentioned it in the haze of a fragrant smoke of some sort, one night while we were all gathered at another friend's house to party and watch the movie Big Wednesday. I accepted this little tidbit of knowledge and have believed it unequivocally true ever since, as much as if it had been told to me by one of my geology professors. It occurs to me now that perhaps I should check the veracity of it a bit further; but I don't have the time, and anyway, who cares? The point is, we mostly get very small waves here, three to four feet at best. If any at all.
This is where Sunrise and Ocean Magic came in. Nowadays if you want to check the surf, you just go online and pull up any one of several web cams set up along the beach, and check for yourself. Back then, you had to call the surf shops to find out. Most people called Sunrise, since it was right on the beach. Whoever was working in the store that day would literally put you on hold, step out the front door of the shop and check the surf, then come back on the line and give you a report. I'll bet that guy got 50 calls a day, at least. When you live in an area that rarely gets surfable(sic) waves, you have to check daily. If the surf is good for some reason, then you call in sick to work, ditch your classes, whatever. Can't miss the good waves, man.
Ocean Magic was about 1/2 mile off the beach, and got the wave reports second-hand; oddly though, I often found their reports more accurate than those from Sunrise. Maybe because they got less calls daily due to their location, and were less harried.
It is true that some of the best waves occurred when there was a tropical storm or even a hurricane somewhere out in the Gulf of Mexico. And the best waves happened when the storm was bearing down on an area somewhere nearby. Unfortunately, if the storm was threatening enough, the Bolivar Peninsula would be ordered to evacuate, and the DPS would barricade Highway 146 between Winnie and High Island, and wouldn't let anyone heading for the beaches through. And that was the only way to get through, as everyone knew.
Ocean Magic was the name of a surf shop in Galveston I patronized several years ago. It is long gone by now. The shop was located on 61st Street, right next to the salt-water lagoon (actually the head of Offat's Bayou) where one could rent a jet ski and haul ass at ridiculous speeds around a relatively small body of water along with about 100 other fools doing the same thing. Did I mention that practically all of us were in some state of intoxication while doing this? Well, practically all of us were in some state of intoxication while doing this; and getting disintegrated in a collision on a careening jet ski is just one of those youthful "near misses" I experienced which didn't seem to have any real impact on me back then, at least as far as changing my behavior patterns went. When I think about those several almost-tragedies now, I tend to shudder a bit.
Along with Sunrise, a shop located in a small strip center on Seawall Blvd., Ocean Magic was the focal point in Galveston for myself and a few friends who fancied ourselves as surfers back then. We were a small band, my surfing friends and I, and an optimistic one, too - being a surfing enthusiast on this section of the upper Texas Gulf Coast is something akin to being a golfing devotee in northern Alaska, or Iceland. Those guys chop a semblance of a golf course out of the glacial ice and then go out and play a "round" in sub-zero temperatures. In a region where a wide and shallow continental shelf prevents waves of any real size from forming along the Bolivar Peninsula and on the beaches of Galveston Island, one has to buy a short board and be optimistic, or maybe just really suggestible (or gullible) to style oneself as a surfer in these parts.
By the way, don't quote me on that continental shelf thing; because as I think back, I realize the person who related that bit of information to me was a guy named Stoney, and he mentioned it in the haze of a fragrant smoke of some sort, one night while we were all gathered at another friend's house to party and watch the movie Big Wednesday. I accepted this little tidbit of knowledge and have believed it unequivocally true ever since, as much as if it had been told to me by one of my geology professors. It occurs to me now that perhaps I should check the veracity of it a bit further; but I don't have the time, and anyway, who cares? The point is, we mostly get very small waves here, three to four feet at best. If any at all.
This is where Sunrise and Ocean Magic came in. Nowadays if you want to check the surf, you just go online and pull up any one of several web cams set up along the beach, and check for yourself. Back then, you had to call the surf shops to find out. Most people called Sunrise, since it was right on the beach. Whoever was working in the store that day would literally put you on hold, step out the front door of the shop and check the surf, then come back on the line and give you a report. I'll bet that guy got 50 calls a day, at least. When you live in an area that rarely gets surfable(sic) waves, you have to check daily. If the surf is good for some reason, then you call in sick to work, ditch your classes, whatever. Can't miss the good waves, man.
Ocean Magic was about 1/2 mile off the beach, and got the wave reports second-hand; oddly though, I often found their reports more accurate than those from Sunrise. Maybe because they got less calls daily due to their location, and were less harried.
It is true that some of the best waves occurred when there was a tropical storm or even a hurricane somewhere out in the Gulf of Mexico. And the best waves happened when the storm was bearing down on an area somewhere nearby. Unfortunately, if the storm was threatening enough, the Bolivar Peninsula would be ordered to evacuate, and the DPS would barricade Highway 146 between Winnie and High Island, and wouldn't let anyone heading for the beaches through. And that was the only way to get through, as everyone knew.
One time a friend of mine and I were really determined. We turned east off of 146 in Stowell, about a mile before the blockade, and went down an unnamed but paved road for a bit. Then we turned south on a caliche road, and then after awhile kind of southwest on a shell road. By then I had no idea where we were, really; it was open marshland all around, and we passed small groups of pump jacks periodically. My friend was driving his Torino over these bumpy-ass roads like we were in a Land Rover, but at least he seemed to know where we were going. I found out later that he didn't - he was just following some inner instinct, an internal homing device aimed at the beach and the big waves, as accurate as any carrier pigeon's orientation to true north.
Anyway, I did sense we were tacking in a southward direction generally, and after several more wild turns down increasingly less-developed tracks and paths, we ended up on a sand road heading due south. The sand was pretty thick and I feared we might get stuck and for all I knew we might die out there in the middle of nowhere. Years later, a biologist or some oilfield workers would come across this severely rusted-out Ford Torino with two skeletons in the front seat, and a couple of bleached-out surfboards attached to the racks on the roof. And they would probably wonder, "What the hell were these guys thinking?"
That is what I was wondering. Then all of the sudden we plowed over a small rise and saw the ocean spread out wide before us, rows of 5-6 foot waves crashing on the empty sandy beach in succession. We had somehow ended up on a desolate stretch of Highway 87 between High Island and Sabine Pass, about 5 miles east of the intersection with Highway 146.
Anyway, I did sense we were tacking in a southward direction generally, and after several more wild turns down increasingly less-developed tracks and paths, we ended up on a sand road heading due south. The sand was pretty thick and I feared we might get stuck and for all I knew we might die out there in the middle of nowhere. Years later, a biologist or some oilfield workers would come across this severely rusted-out Ford Torino with two skeletons in the front seat, and a couple of bleached-out surfboards attached to the racks on the roof. And they would probably wonder, "What the hell were these guys thinking?"
That is what I was wondering. Then all of the sudden we plowed over a small rise and saw the ocean spread out wide before us, rows of 5-6 foot waves crashing on the empty sandy beach in succession. We had somehow ended up on a desolate stretch of Highway 87 between High Island and Sabine Pass, about 5 miles east of the intersection with Highway 146.
We surfed those waves for several hours that day, exhilarated. There is nothing, nothing else like being on top of a wave. I get my rocks off on 4-footers; I cannot imagine what those big wave surfers - the guys who ride waves as tall as a four-story building - must feel.
Well, I can imagine. But I will never know.
Well, I can imagine. But I will never know.
