PATH OF THE URBAN SURF BUM, PT 1, TRESTLES: FRI 2.4.2011 MOR

CREW:  SOLO
FLAKES OF THE DAY:  None
RAN INTO:  GOD
TIME:  0950 - 1120, 1 hr. & 30 min.
CONDITIONS:  No wind, sunny, extreme high tide, glassy, chest to head high, perfect, soft, long, and ridable waves.

    I read an article in the 2011 JAN Surfer Magazine titled “In Defense of Going Nowhere“ by Brad Melekian.   I didn’t even get to finish the whole article, but he wrote about taking a “staycation,” and that, basically, you don’t have to travel far for a little getaway.  He suggested leaving your work behind, bringing some food, a beach umbrella, and only leaving of the water to eat or apply sun block.  He suggested many other things to make the staycation legit, but I fell short on at least half of them.  None-the-less, I had Friday designated to take a little staycation of my own.  My plan was to leave at o-dark-thirty and head to Del Mar to surf the entire day.  On Thursday night I bought a beach chair and umbrella.  Early Friday morning I loaded two surf boards, a cooler filled with goodies, all my surf gear, and some books to read for class. 

Subaru Outback, the perfect surf wagon. 

    I was on the road by 0615, a little late, unfortunately.  I still got to leave when it was dark.  It’s really important to head out before the sun rises; that’s another reason why I like to surf early:  the feeling that you’re up and out while others are sleeping, less traffic on the road, seeing the sky change from dark purple to a dull orange, and having the cool morning air numb your skin.  Many thoughts came to me that morning.  It was a special trip, and I didn’t even have much monologue for myself on the way, just music and the thought of surfing.  My expectations were high, but I tried to quell them to save for any disappointment.  My sights were on the concrete highway ahead of me, and my destination was Surf.

 
    0800, I pulled up at Del Mar.  I checked my car’s temperature gauge to see it was a ball shrinking forty-four degrees out.  The cold, offshore, wind made my bare feet wrinkly and ashy, dying for warmth and lotion.  I first had to take a mean ass piss.  While I was pissing I felt a fart coming on.  I pushed as I pissed, but I was so cold that I couldn’t feel myself.  I didn’t feel the all knowing “pop” from the fart that I had, but I knew I pushed pretty hard.  As I walked out to see the ocean, I felt something moist between my ass cheeks.  Of course, I was in denial.  The moistness then turned into a cold and wet feeling.  “Please don’t tell me,” I said to myself.  Sure as shit, literally, I discovered a wet spot in my boxers combined with the liquid around my ass cheeks getting cooler from the morning air; I sharted.  Motherfucker, I thought, what a way to start the fucking morning.  I believed it to be a bad omen.  It definitely was NOT the way I wanted to start my staycation.  I removed my boxers, wiped my ass, and took them with me.  After all, those underwear have seen Iraq, ain’t no way I was gonna abandon them now.  I walked to the sand, placed them by a volley ball court, and proceeded to the surf.

Sure, it looked okay, but I really wanted something cleaner.

    I saw an old guy watching the surf, too, his name was Brad.  We talked about the conditions, and then he left to change.  I watched the water … I watched it for at least twenty minutes trying to make it look good.  It wasn’t.  It was better than Porto but not what I packed up and drove for.  The sets were inconsistent, a little racy, and the shoulders weren’t defined.  It looked like Porto on an “okay” day.  I could’ve given it a shot, but I’ve waited too long for soft perfect shoulders, and I wasn’t settling for less without more exploration.  I turned around to get my shit stained drawers, but there were a bunch of Marines playing volleyball, and they put all of their belongings by my underwear.  I felt my eyes water, for I was too embarrassed to go fetch them, and I had to leave a faithful companion behind. …  Goodbye old friend.
    I wiped my tears, got in the wagon, and headed to San Onofre.  The beach access was closed on the base, so  I had to find my way onto the post via the state park entrance.  I saw droves of long boarders at Churches and Surfer Beach, but the waves looked so soft and perfect.  I couldn’t park and change fast enough.
    Armed with my board, glasses, sun block, digital camera, towel, and backpack, I headed out on foot.  It was my first time surfing there alone, and my first time doing the hike from San O. to Trestles.  I didn’t know what to expect, but I pushed forward on my pursuit for waves.  The point at Churches was crowded.  There was a nice long right, maybe only four feet high, but I didn’t want to compete with the bigger boards.  I glanced at my potato chip DMS.  Other people took notice of it, too.  I wondered if the first session would end up in a debacle from being under gunned. 

    I walked for what seemed like miles.  I saw a lot of good peaks, but they were crowded.  I got frustrated and worried that the trip might end in vain.  Thoughts of driving back to surf Porto crossed my mind; what a failed mission that would’ve been.  I was walking through Middles when I saw the main trailhead from Cristianitos.  I stopped because I knew there would be more people there, and to my south, behind me, were a pack of surfers hogging a peak.  I looked out at the ocean and saw a couple small rights come rolling through.  There was no one there.  It looked like a good wave to me, being from the South Bay, but I couldn’t understand why no one was on it?  It’s funny how the natural surfer instinct is to gather where other surfers are because “they know.”  However, I took a chance and paddled out, isolated and alone for a couple hundred yards.

I really tried to wait for a good set to come through, but time was wasting.  Without a surfer on this wave, it's hard to get any scale.

     I didn’t expect much.  I told myself that I had to be in a shitty spot.  There was a clattering sound from the friction of the rocks whenever the water rushed on the shore. The water was cold but bearable.  I paddled out with ease and duck dived a couple waves.  There was no bump in the surface, and I thought that I must’ve looked like a fool out there.  Randomly, a long peak with a right hand shoulder appeared.  It didn’t look big, and I knew if I caught it late enough that I would be able to drop in.  I turned, paddled, and I popped up on the shoulder as the wave broke.  Never underestimate a wave.  …  The face opened up, mid speed, and long.  I couldn’t even see the shoulder, but it wasn’t a walled up close out.  The wave moved, and the open faced canvas moved with it.  It was like the waves “warm welcome” to do whatever I wanted.  I couldn’t believe the turns I was pulling off; I was pumped:  eyebrows low and hard, cheeks puffed out with strong breaths of air, arms outstretched setting up the bottom turn to top, a crack off the lip, reentry, another puff of the cheeks, I’m going back up again, “SPLASH!” another hit, pump, going up again. …  The cleanest wave since I’ve been home?  It was right up there, I knew that.  I paddled back stoked, but I still couldn’t believe it.  There were so many endorphins rushing through my body that I was borderline nauseas.  I asked myself if that really happened.  My smile hadn’t even fading when a rare left came.  It wasn’t as good as the right, but it was at the perfect speed where I didn’t feel rushed (mid speed).  It was about shoulder high.  I got some power pumps, a solid turn off the top, a little spray, hard turn with the nose pointed down, a couple more pumps, and one more top turn.  That was the best left I’ve had in a while.  What was great about those two moments was that for the first time I felt really good on my short board.  I, and many others, doubted if I was truly ready for it.  I know I’m not like my brother, in that he can surf shitty ass waves on a short board and make them look good.  I, on the other hand, need really good waves to get my current potential out of my short board. 
    The other surfers at the crowded peaks had consistent waves all day.  I, I had to wait just a little bit longer, but I had the whole fucking break to myself!  I don’t think that type of thing is supposed to happen at a place like Trestles.  Long story short, I got about six solid waves, consecutively, for the first part of the session.  Every time I paddled back, there was another one on the way.  For that first forty-five minutes, the time it took me to paddle back to the line and the time it took for the sets to come, were like clockwork.  The next half hour kind of slowed down a bit, and one guy paddled close by, but that didn’t bother me at all.  For the past couple months I’ve been frothing for waves that I could practice my turns on, and that’s just what I got.  Going backside, I felt good on the top turns.  My back foot was firmly planted on the traction pad.  I felt in control and on the verge of doing more.  The waves were so easy to paddle into.  They looked mooshy, but they didn‘t bog out.  There was no dump, but just enough power to sling you in and send you with enough momentum.  I got close to a dozen waves, all good.  The last fifteen minutes were slow, and I paddled back in at 1120.

 
    I took my sweet ass time, took some pics, watched some other breaks, and then I ended the trek with an extremely lengthy hot shower (gotta love the military privileges).  I drove back on base to see if I could get my military decal for my wagon.  They gave me a temporary one that’s good for two months.  Now I can park right on the sand without trouble from the MPs.

    I found a table under a shaded area, ate my food, and read some short stories from Mark Twain.  There was no need for a nap, for I would be at it again very soon.