THE TITANICS: WED 12.08.2010 EVE

    After the morning session I went home to recharge.  I spent the rest of the day watching the Pipeline Masters webcast, waiting for Bruce Irons to do his thing.  After his heat was over, I grabbed my shit and headed back to the beach.  There was another mission at hand.  My friends and I were going to meet up for all you can eat sushi.  All I had in my stomach was oatmeal, a banana, and a protein shake.  My objective was to wear my self out with a second surf session so I could show up ravenous with hunger.  Little did I know that I would get my anus tapped. 

    When I drove by Hammerland I saw some surfers getting waves on both sides of the jetty.  I didn’t bother to stop by El Porto.  It was 2:45 P.M., and I didn’t feel like paying for parking.  I got free parking on 29th St. and Highland Ave.  I text Rick and told him that it looked fun out, and that I was paddling out at 26th St.   As I made my way down the beach path, I saw mammoth walls of ocean, and there wasn’t one surfer in sight.  As I approached I anticipated seeing some heads out by 26th.  There was one guy near the pier, and a couple practicing on a longboard on the inside; that was it.  I got a little scared at first, and I wondered why the hell wasn’t anyone in the water yet?  I took it as a bad sign.

    I surveyed the scene and tried to trick my mind into making a peak out of the walls.  The tide was low and drained out, but the waves were still breaking far out.  The smaller waves seemed to have shape, but they were breaking too close to the inside.  The set waves were just huge with a little shoulder to work with.  That shoulder looked dangerous because it was still fast and the inside looked shallow. 

    I figured that I came there to blow a load and not to edge on the shore through my wetsuit.  I squeezed my cross-hatched mushroom head and walked out as far as I could.  By the time I was chest high I was bracing the white wash.  This has been the headline of my life lately:  Matthew Gets Worked on the Inside.  Those walls left me with a hard paddle out.  I kept losing my board and got knocked around.  I saw the lifeguard truck parked and watching me.  Yeah, I looked like a giant turd out there getting tossed around in L..A.’s shit water; it seemed fitting.  I turned around, so as to not look like a faggot, and tried to make it out again.  I got lucky and took advantage of a long lull.  When I reached the green zone I took another look around; there were still no other surfers in the water.  All I saw was a boogie boarder by 30th St., and  some guys checking things out by the run path.

    Despite the low tide, every set made me feel like the water was one story higher than sea level, like the feeling of the wave picking you up as it passes.  I didn’t see any shoulders.  I’m ashamed to say that I was a little frightened.   I was out there by myself, I figured that no one else was stupid enough to paddle out, and I imagined myself getting pulverized in the shallows.  It was a good day to drown, I thought.  Titanics … that’s what they looked like to me.  They didn’t look natural.  The top of waves were straight as a ruler, and the glassiness of the water made the faces look vertical.  They looked manmade.  The sets were just giant unforgiving walls with just a smidgen of a shoulder, enticing you, and daring you to drop in.  Once they passed me, they closed on the inside.  For one of the few times in my surfing days, I actually paddled to be close to other people.   I passed the body boarder, and I paddled all the way to Rosecrans.  It was a monster paddle to go that distance.  I stopped in front of the Life Guard station at the end of the Porto parking lot.  I was at the edge of the first group of surfers that I came into contact with.  I was a little relieved. 

    I saw some guys catching rights all the way by 45th; there were more surfers at the main peaks.  I got paranoid, and I felt like the other guys were looking at me like I didn’t belong there, laughing.  I wondered if I’d even be able to catch anything.  Some guys tried to paddle into some waves but failed.  I guess the sandbars there held the shape a little bit better because every once in a while there was a shoulder to work with.  A head high left slowly built towards me.  I saw the pocket turning dark which let me know that it was a slidable slope.  I said, “Fuck it,” and paddled for it.  The drop was steep, and I was surprised that I was sliding down the face, unscathed.  Thanks to my surfing immaturity, I projected up the face to make myself visible over the lip.  I wanted to show those guys that I was able to catch some waves, too.  I almost paid for it, as my front side carves haven’t developed, I stalled at the top of the lip as it was about to pitch.  Luckily, my weight shifted forward, and I reentered the face again.  It was a steep reentry, too.  I saw the nose of my board, barely sticking out of the water (thank God who made the man that put a rocker on a surfboard).  I got one more turn and escaped before it closed out.  It turned out that I would be the recipient of four waves over an hour and forty-five minutes.  Of course, none of them were significant because I was more than satisfied that I didn’t die. 

    I was in the prime spot for a left that kept breaking.  I also passed on a lot of waves that seemed too big for my testicle size.  There were heroes out there.  The crowd began to arrive, and I saw guys going for waves, then getting catapulted over the lip as they kicked out.  They went for the waves that I didn’t want, and they made the drops.  There was a curly haired, brown eyed, Brazilian out there (I just assumed he was Brazilian).  When he paddled up next to me he looked at me like I was a piece of shit.  I watched him catch a set wave, then a bucket sprayed out the back, indicating that he was powering down the line.  I guess when you’re that good you can look down on others. 

    Clean up sets would randomly break past the outside.  One broke so far out that I didn’t know what to do.  Naturally, I wanted to cower in fear and head towards the shore, but that would only make my paddle back out further.  I was frozen.  I felt so helpless caught in the ocean’s wrath that it took me a while before I paddled to meet it.  I was sucked down, held, and tossed every which way.  I had enough.  I was happy with my four waves and only swallowing two gulps.

    I was dead tired after that.  I was nodding off during my drive to meet with my friends, but I had the hunger as planned.  There was a feeding frenzy after, two hours worth.  Once again, I survived another session.  And my anus?  It’s still in tact.