There’s an unwritten rule with surf writing: don’t expose local spots. Especially not the secret ones. Go ahead, say whatever you want about Pipeline, or Mavericks, or Teahupo’o, because everyone in the world knows about them already, and the crowds will be insane any time those waves break. But that little rivermouth in a third-world country, not listed on any maps, that’s never been photographed and requires a mile-long hike through jungle to access? Or the novelty wave that only breaks under very specific and unusual circumstances? The first rule of Fight Club is: you don’t talk about Fight Club.
I don’t mind writing about Rehoboth Beach, mainly because the waves there are usually not very good. In fact, most of the time it’s flat or unrideable. Anyone who plans a surf trip with Delaware as a destination probably hasn’t done their homework. Because even when Delaware does have waves, you’ll almost always find something much better just one or two states to the north or the south, like in New Jersey, New York, or North Carolina. Sandbars in Delaware are practically nonexistent — the waves in Rehoboth break very close to shore, often right on the sand. Only a series of rather short groins set throughout the town provides anything remotely resembling any kind of bathymetric interest. Meanwhile, a shallow continental shelf extends for miles out to sea, sapping wave height and power. Swell sources tend to be on the shorter-period end of the spectrum. And local conditions are often marred by onshore or sideshore winds. To top things off, summertime features frequent invasions of small stinging jellyfish, like the annoyingly prolific Lion’s Mane, and sometimes smelly horseshoe crabs.
Sounds awful, right? But Rehoboth does have its days, as the cliche goes. Or at least it did: I grew up learning how to surf in Rehoboth during the summers, and have many fond memories — and some grainy photos — of the boys and I enjoying chest-high peelers at our local spot, the North Shores jetty. (We called them “jetties,” although technically they’re probably all groins.) Back in those days, the Shores jetty was built of wood, and was taller and longer than most of the other jetties. Its relatively prominent size created a sort of mini-point break setup on the north side during south swells. A short left on the south side of the jetty was considered a novelty wave and was only occasionally ridden.
Everything’s different now. That old Shores jetty no longer exists. Decades ago, a large section of it broke off, and eventually the whole thing, along with a few others, were completely replaced by much smaller rock groins. Looking at the area in Google Maps now, the spots that used to be the best seem nonexistent now, while the places that used to be absolute garbage appear to have the best potential. Since I haven’t been back to Rehoboth in years, my mental picture of the coastline stays comfortably freeze-framed on the conditions of 40 years ago. One memory in particular remains one of my most cherished: the time I went jetty-hopping.
One summer evening, during a nice little chest-high swell, I was out at the Shores with a few other people, and after getting just one wave, had the thought of running down to the next jetty and trying it, because the swell was pretty straight and lined up, and that jetty was rarely surfed. So I jogged 1/3 mile south to what we all called the L Jetty.
L Jetty was once the tallest and longest jetty in Rehoboth — though wave quality was never as good as the Shores. This was probably in large part because there were a whole bunch of sunken or broken pilings in the water left over from when I assume it was a larger pier, perhaps for fishing. Every once in a blue moon I’d paddle out here for variety’s sake, never with any memorable results. But on this day, I got a nice long right and recall wondering how often it got this good. Suddenly a hare-brained idea popped into my head: why not keep going.
Past the L Jetty were three smaller rock groins spaced closer together, only about 1/8 mile apart. The first and third ones didn’t really have a name that I knew of, but the middle one was called Deauville. I guess the whole area was sort of known as Deauville — it was the area where the dads used to go to drink beer and play volleyball away from their wives. So us kids weren’t too incentivized to hang out there. But I had heard from some longtime area surfers that Deauville used to be the best spot in town.
Anyway, with these groins all being rather short, it was easy to pop right out, grab a little peeling wave, then quickly jog on down to the next one. Oddly enough, there were no surfers out at any of these beaches, despite the warm weather and clean conditions. I’m not religious, and have little feeling for mystical concepts like karma or fate, but there was something, well, fateful-seeming about it all. With each new jetty added to the session, I felt like I had gained a little bit, grown a little bit, lifting myself a little, perhaps towards something higher. And it seemed like I could do this forever.
Finally I ran down to the Henlopen jetty, which I thought of as more of a winter spot. Henlopen was also one of the larger jetties and I remember getting a good one here too. At this point the sun was setting, so it was time to call an end to this impromptu mission. I had surfed six spots all within an hour! And I’d never done anything like that before (or since). The waves on that day weren’t particularly large or challenging. Yet this is probably the Delaware surf session that I remember most vividly, and of which I think I am the proudest.
I still have occasional dreams of walking over the dunes to check the surf at the Shores jetty. In my dreams it’s never good. The tide is too high, or the swell is breaking right into the jetty, or it’s totally flat, closed out, or breaking right on the beach. But in my waking hours, when I think back to my teenage years, I always picture a lined-up little right peeling through that little mini-point setup, lit by golden sunshine, bathed in 77 degree water, with pretty girls sitting on the jetty, guys standing around with boards chatting, everyone tanned and smiling.
This is another reversal: my waking memories of an adult surfing life in Northern California, Mexico, and Hawaii are often swathed in clouds of danger and panic, while my dreams of those same waves are always perfect.