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Windsurfing
schools at Port Marina Park, Hood River (I-84 east, exit
64): Rhonda Smith Windsurfing Center, (541) 386-9463, www.gorge.net/
windsurf/rhondas. Beginner lessons $125 for two sessions,
others $75-$85.
Brian's
Windsurfing School,
(541) 386-5413. Lessons
$60-$75.
Big
Winds,
(541) 386-6086, www.bigwinds.com. Lessons $49-$59.
To watch
the experts catching serious air, cross the Columbia River
at the Hood River marina and head 3.7 miles west to the
federal Spring Creek Fish Hatchery, known as "the Hatch."
After
a hard afternoon on the water, treat yourself to a milkshake
made with fresh marionberry ice cream at Mike's Ice Cream,
504 Oak St., Hood River,
(541) 386-6260.
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By its nature, windsurfing encourages a kind of dogged individualism.
Ever since a sailing mast was first grafted to a surfboard
in the mid-1960s, windsurfing has attracted people who want
to go one-on-one with the wind. Like religious belief or an
IRS return, surfing entails an accommodation with a greater
power. Whether you're screaming through a monster curl or
planing crosswind, the guiding principle is not far from what
you might find in a self-help book: You can't control external
forces; you can only control how you respond to them.
Last month, as I took to the Columbia River Gorge with
my sailboard and rig for the first time this year, I wondered
how much of the technique I'd remember. Launching from the
shallow waters, I felt the exhilarating rush of the ride
as I sliced through the water, heading toward the middle
of the river. Then I tried to turn around, arcing into the
wind, and found that even the rudimentary tacking maneuver
I'd learned last summer had abandoned me. Splashing down,
clambering back up, I tried again and again, to no avail.
It was time for a refresher course.
Last summer, at the Hook, a sheltered cove in the Columbia
at Hood River, I took a couple of lessons, learning the
basics of the beach-start (sailing from shallow water),
tack (turning around toward the wind) and jibe (turning
around away from the wind). Still, I've always assumed that
I'd learn most just messing around on the water, figuring
it out as I went.
The Rhonda Smith Windsurfing Center knows my type. "There
are two common ways to learn to windsurf: trial-and-error
or lessons," its brochure reads. "It can mean the difference
between wet and wild, or fun and relaxing." I signed up
for "Beginning Shortboard I: Fast Tack," which gathers
at Port Marina Park in Hood River.
As you enter Port Marina Park, the road curves though a
broad lawn, on which three small shacks are clustered. Each
of these shacks is home to a different windsurfing school--and
each embodies a different aspect of windsurfing culture.
In the first hut, next to the parking lot, are the gearheads.
Big Winds has a retail shop in Hood River and attracts people
who are looking for equipment with the latest whiz-bang
technology. The school distinguishes itself by offering
high-performance equipment from such makers as Mistral,
F2, North and several custom boardcrafters.
Next door to Big Winds, Brian's Windsurfing School offers
what might be called the "charismatic master" approach.
Brian Schurton, the school's director, has been sailing
for 22 years. Among the windheads out on the marina's launching
beach--and even among the other schools' intructors--he
is admired for his skill and hands-on style. Kathy Hanley
of Santa Barbara, Calif., a wind-chaser hitting her third
mecca this year, says, "Brian has a passion for the sport,
and it really shows."
Her husband, Ed Csapo, adds, "Some instructors will be
yelling to you from the beach; Brian's out there in the
water with you, hanging from the rig, showing you how it's
done."
In the last hut are the methodists. Rhonda Smith's windsurfing
school, founded by the five-time world champion in 1990,
prides itself on bringing a consistent, methodical approach
to windsurfing instruction. Cliff Ryder, a teacher at Rhonda's,
says there is no standardized certification available beyond
the beginner-level stamp of approval offered by the U.S.
Sailing Association, so Rhonda's training program for intermediate
and advanced students is respected. "Our instructors can
call up Aruba and get a job," Ryder says.
Identifying my own preference was simple: I didn't need
another guru or the latest gear. I needed the technique,
and Rhonda's was ready to teach me.
One recent Wednesday, I scrutinized the surface of the
Columbia as I drove eastward, looking for any sign of the
famous westerlies of the Columbia River Gorge. Too many
times, I'd planned a windsurfing day only to find the river
with a skin of glass. Just the Saturday before, too-light
winds had forced me to settle for the dry-land simulator
next to Rhonda's shack. Jenny Naftulin, a 20-year-old University
of Vermont student, launched into the method of the fast
tack, an upwind turning maneuver for high winds. She demonstrated
the steps with fluidity, grabbing the mast with one hand,
angling it back, crouching on the board, arranging her feet
in a V-stance and, finally, stepping back on the board and
throwing the mast forward. It had been a simple procedure
to imitate, as was the pivot jibe, the maneuver for turning
the board away from the wind--at least when I was on dry
land. In the water, though, it was another story.
At the Hook, where the schools do much of their instruction,
the wind was gusty, blowing up to 23 knots and then dying
to almost nothing. With Jenny watching, I launched myself
from the shallow waters and headed out. Smoothly, as if
on autopilot, I grabbed the mast, angled it back and crouched
on the board--then the wind died, I lost my balance and
I splashed into the river.
Learning to windsurf was turning out to be like evolution
in reverse: I'd start out standing erect, stoop to pull
up the sail--and end up in the water. But I kept scrambling
back onto the board, and over the next hour and a half--with
Jenny on a board nearby, calling out, "Crouch lower!" "Get
into your V faster!" and "Try not to fall in so much!"--I
battled the gusts and began to nail the upwind turn. When
I finally completed a fast tack and headed for shore, even
the winds seemed to think I'd learned my lesson: Riding
a brawny breeze, I hooked my harness into the rig, bent
my legs and leaned back toward the water's surface, balancing
my solidity against the power of air. For a few moments,
I just enjoyed the breeze on my neck and the sun on the
water, letting the wind carry me along. Then I unhooked,
adjusted my stance and went to work on the pivot jibe.
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Willamette Week | originally
published August 25,
1999
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