I was smart after my last session. I dried both sides of my wetsuit and even hung it by my heater to ensure I wouldn’t have a moist suit in the morn. I woke up at 5:30 A.M., suited up in my apartment, and was at the Porto lot right after it opened. On the way over there I could tell that the surf was minimal. Dockweiler and Hammers had small and dribbling waves breaking on shore. The tide was low, and the parking lot was deserted, except for a small handful of longboarders. I parked next to another guy who was just like me: sitting in his car, scratching his chin, phone I hand, and looking at the surf. It was small. There were some really clean waves, but they were barely two feet high. I looked, and looked, and looked. I text the whole DRC and reported my findings. Rick kept telling me to grab a longboard and to meet him and his brother, Manny, a little later. I cruised to 26th St.; it was worse. I drove to Manhattan Pier in desperation. No Dice. Literally, my friend Dais wasn’t there, there were no actual dice, and on top of that there were no fucking waves. It was just as small as Porto. I hoped for there to be some kind of shoulders off of the pier, but they were tiny. I saw the locals, too, just standing there debating. Everyone was a little sketch to paddle out that morning.
My problem was that I was already in my wetsuit, and I’ve never returned home in a dry wetsuit before, so I was obligated to paddle out. I text Rick and told him I’d be by 45th. When I returned, there were a couple more cars there and more heads in the line up, but I scored free parking anyway. I paddled out at about 7:30 A.M. I took the same peak by 45th, just like the day before. It was bright and sunny, and the sand wasn’t cold like yesterday, but the water was another story. Even though it was flat; the waves were clean, and at first the waves seemed pretty consistent. A lot of longboarders waited on the outside for waves, and right when I got to the line, I caught three waves in a row towards the inside. I got a nice left that let me pump all the way down the line for a long ride. I had my own peak and didn’t have to share it with anyone. The first half hour of surf was great, and the paddle out seemed worth it. Once eight o’clock hit, there was a long wait between sets. That long wait killed me. There was no need to move around; I just sat there and gazed at the horizon, searching, praying for a bump in the surface. I got cold. The cold was magnified by my stagnation. Another guy paddled close by and commented on the temp. I was able to get a couple more waves, but I had to call the session at eight-thirty. I got to the parking lot and was welcomed by Rick and his daughter, Jane. Manny flaked, and I guess Rick decided it wasn’t worth it. I was so cold that I didn’t bother to shower off or use my hot water bottles I brought, despite taking two hot pisses in my wetsuit. I got back to my car and was too cold to take off my wetsuit. I put a towel on my seat and drove off still suited up. I’ve never done that before; I was that fucking cold. I could barely even turn the fucking key because I couldn’t feel my thumbs. When I took a piss when I got home, I swear I saw steam coming from my dickhole.
I later found out that Cheryl, Christina, and Dais paddled out a while after I left. They said it was still fun. I thought that the wind was picking up when I left, but I guess it didn’t. It was an ice session with tiny surf. I guess, this winter, I’ll just have to get used to life without thumbs, and a life with steamy piss.
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