We motored out at first light into Galveston Bay, two longboards strapped to specially-crafted racks as the hum of the Mercury powered us into the Houston Ship Channel.
One massive tanker passed, then another and finally a third. It was the fourth that lit the bay up, sending a chest-high wave rippling in its wake as it continued on its journey to Houston. The wave was absolutely perfect, a rolling whitewater peak that curved down to the left and to the right with an open face just made for carving back and forth and gliding forever.
And forever turned out to be a hell of a long time. Two of the waves I caught on my Tanker Surf Charters excursion on this late August morning were the longest of my life. I’ve been surfing for 25 years – in exotic and not-so-exotic locales throughout the world – and these two beauties eclipsed everything I’ve ever found in all of my journeys.
The first was so smooth and juicy that James and I glided for over seven minutes while actually carrying on a conversation, even occasionally glancing behind us as a pod of dolphins splashed in and out of the swell following us.
Steve Hill – one of James’ longtime friends – piloted the Surf Bored which let us milk the gem until its energy dissipated as the wave hit deeper water. A minute later, he motored alongside and plucked us from the water so we could chase the loaded-down tanker and catch up the with its wake once more.
I found my next fantasy wave breaking along a shore of one of the long-discarded dredge spoils that dot Galveston Bay. Out of nowhere we spotted the swell darkening the horizon, lifting and growing as it lunged against shallower waters. When the wave began breaking, James and I jumped from the boat and paddled toward the foam ball. A moment later, we flipped around and paddled furiously to catch the advancing white.
And then the glide began again. Once upright, I slid in and out of the advancing wave, which was breaking so cleanly along the shallow, sandy shore. A turn to the right pushed me closer to the spoils, a wraparound to the left led me to open face and the clean, chest-high peeling wave that continued on longer than I could have ever imagined.
On and on for more than a half-dozen minutes the wave peeled into Galveston Bay, finally chunking me – my exhausted leg muscles and unbelieving mind – into waist-deep, green water swirling with the muddy remains of the bay’s former depths. I couldn’t stop smiling.
That night, reflecting on my new favorite surf destination, two things struck me.
First, there was no way in hell I would have found these waves myself. James has spent 14 years traversing the Houston Ship Channel learning its depths, its rhythms. He knows these waters, understands the variables of tanker speed, tide level and the effects of wind. In short, he’s the man when it comes to tanker surfing.
The second realization was just how fortunate I am for being a surfer and living in Texas. Those two facts usually seem so diametrically opposed that outsiders laugh when you say you’re a Texas surfer. But my new reality is that tanker surfing is in my backyard. And you can damn well be sure I’ll be back for another fix very soon.
– Written by longtime Texas surfer Stephen Hadley
