CREW: Rick, Michaelson
FLAKES OF THE DAY: None
RAN INTO: No one
TIME: 0900 - 1100, 2 hrs.
CONDITIONS: Howling off shore winds, some fast corners, close outs on bigger sets, hollow walls, colder than Porto.
Thursday night, Rick called and said he wanted to take me to a secret spot. As a natural tendency, I wanted to follow the path of least resistance. It would have been easier to say, “No, Rick, I’d rather sleep in a little and just stay local.” But how could I? There’s so much of California coast line that I haven’t seen yet, so I opted for the unfamiliar.
The plan was to meet him at a local donut shop at 0500 so we would drive separately from there. I woke up and had my car loaded by 0455. At the last minute he called and said I needed to pick up his friend Michaelson. The change of plans sat uneasy with me. It’s just a thing of principle: it’s not right to make someone else’s plans, especially five minutes before everything’s supposed to kick off. I told Rick that I needed more time to grab more things to prepare for the extra body.
I went back upstairs, grabbed my back pack, and my wetsuit case for me and Michaelson. As I loaded up my car Rick called again. He said we were burning time, so he’d give me directions to Michaelson’s house. I was only minutes behind him when I got to Venice. When I got there I told him that it wasn’t right to obligate me the way he did. He apologized and said he’d make it up to me by fixing my JS board this weekend.
The sky was changing to a dark blue, cars were parked in front of homes in their cold slumber, and Washington Blvd. was deserted under the hazy orange street lamps. Michaelson was still wiping the sleep from his eyes when I grabbed all his gear and threw it in the back of my car. Something was missing; I couldn’t find my backpack. I searched every crevice of my wagon, then the feeling of emptiness sunk within me when I realized that I probably left it right where my car was parked.
There was an urgent change of plans, we cross loaded Michaelson’s stuff into Rick’s truck, and I started the mad dash back to the Gundo. My car smelled like burning brakes when I got there. And there my bag was: next to the tree, out in the open, full with my personal belongings, and unmolested. I got back on the 405 N, then the 10 E, and then the 1 N. I was a little behind those guys, but not by much. It was a tranquil drive after that, and the thought of surfing somewhere new filled me with anticipation. It was a long time since I seen Santa Monica in the early morning. The different colored lights in the darkness looked like Christmas never left. If there are any images that screams out, California, then the Santa Monica coastline is definitely one of them.
Things didn’t go that smooth once we reached our destination. There was a long line of cars to get to the spot, and some paperwork had to be filled out. By the time we got through security it was almost 0700. The surf spot was only occupied by two fishermen. The wind was side shore, the shape was clean, but it was a south facing break. There wasn’t much south swell, so the waves were about thigh high. We stopped at the local store, grabbed some snacks, filled up gas, and made a shit stop for Michaelson. Rick said our best bet was to check out Oxnard to get some of the NW swell.
We arrived at Silver Strand, home surf break to Tim Curren. I’ve seen the place on surf porn, but never in person. The vibe seemed a little localized. Their parking lot was tiny, but there were no meters. Off the south side of the pier was the best looking peak that I’ve ever seen in Cali thus far. There was size, about head high, and the peak was so clean that symmetrical shoulders built on each side. Of course, that’s where all the locals were, so it was crowded. There were some smaller peaks more south, but they were totally eclipsed by the main one off of the pier.
Rick drew us into a huddle as he started to whisper. He knew off another spot where we would get the same swell direction with less people. It was 0845 when we got there. It was considerably smaller, fairly consistent, the off shores were still blowing, and there were only two surfers out. Finally, we slipped our cocks into our wetsuits to start our surf session.
Being further up north, the water was a bit colder. Rick and I timed it right and paddled out pretty fast. The current was pulling north, but I maintained and stuck to our spot. We were in between two peaks. Within the first fifteen minutes Rick already caught at least four waves. I caught two that didn’t hold shape. The waves were a little racy, and the plus sets were walled. Michaelson paddled out as a set came in, got worked on the inside, and got sucked north by the current. When he caught up to us I got my wave of the day. It was a chest high left. I was surprised that it opened up. The shoulder almost cascaded away, but I trimmed and stayed away from the foam to meet the open section. I was going top to bottom until I stalled out on my attempted cut back and fell. I resurfaced and gained eye contact with Mike. I held up my index finger to signal that I got “one” good one.
The wind picked up fast, and next thing we knew, it was howling on our backs. Every time we paddled, water sprayed into our faces. Every wave shot out so much mist from the wind that it stung when it hit our skin. Popping up on waves became more difficult with the salt water jizzing all over our faces. I got caught on the inside after I got a dumpster. When I resurfaced I saw Rick go kamikaze on a hollow wall and get semi barreled before the whole thing chomped down on him. What balls, I thought. I used to go for anything, but now … I am trying to get more out of my rides, so I’m picky as hell.
There was this one guy to our south that was getting some clean barrels and long rides. I couldn’t understand why no waves like that came to me. If they did, I sure as hell couldn’t tell. Michaelson got a lot more waves than I did, and the wait for a clean ride seemed to take longer and longer. I missed out on a perfect right. A peak came towards me and that other guy next to us. I wasn’t sure if he was going to go left so I could take the right. I stalled too long to see where he was going. He did go the opposite way, but it was too late, and my wave had left me.
Cold, wind chilled, and weakened from paddling, we called our session after two hours. On the drive home Michaelson pointed out all the different breaks to me along PCH. I was glad that he was there. Until then I barely had the time to talk to him, and now I could see that he’d be a good surf buddy. I promised him to take him to Del Mar next time.
The conditions weren’t phenomenal, but I’m still glad I went. If I didn’t, I would’ve been stuck looking at Rick’s pictures of the places he goes to. After that weekend, my backyard is now a little bigger.
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