TRESTLES--CELEBRATING THE END OF SCHOOL: SAT 5.21.2011 MOR

Countdown to Bali: 17 Days
CREW: Solo
FLAKES OF THE DAY: None
RAN INTO: No one
TIME: 0745 - 1015, 2 hr. & 30 min.
CONDITIONS: Shoulder to head high, inconsistent, a little lined up, overcast skies, minimum onshore wind and south current.

    Thank the Lord, last night I turned in my final assignment for school. The last time I surfed was May 1st, that’s how busy school has had me. Not only did I have to cut surf out of my schedule but exercising too, quality time with Lauren, and even my friends didn’t see me. Being out of the water was bad enough, but all the while I was supposed to be preparing for Bali. Today was planned for the longest time, in the sense that I knew I’d surf as soon as I had the chance. With the buzz about the south swell, it made me itch even more to get down to Trestles.

    I talked to Klaude last night, but he said that if he came to Trestles that he’d have to leave around noon. Unfortunately, I couldn’t do that. Nowadays, if my broke ass is driving to Trestles, then you can bet that I’m staying there for at least two paddle-outs. As Whiffleboy told me, “The gas is gonna kill ya eventually.” I asked Dais, but his knee was messed up, Shan said he had plans today, Jon had his graduation to tend to (not like he would’ve went anyway), and Reptile Rick chose to surf Malibu. As I packed for the morning, I looked forward to the solo, early morning drive on the road.

Unexpected early morning traffic. Sucks.

    I woke up a little late, but after two trips to the car I was on the highway by 0545. It must have been a while since I’ve done a staycation session because I don’t recall the sky being lit up so early. Everything was fine until the police stopped the traffic near the junction with the 605. After that little hiccup it was smooth sailing.    

An all too familiar sight.

    I was beaten to the punch, as I saw the little black dots scattered all across Old Man’s. Parking all the way up to Churches was scarce, but I scored when some guy left. It was about 0700. This morning was only the third time that I’ve seen San Onofre with any size. It was shoulder to head high, and the peaks didn’t seem as defined as usual. The surf wasn’t clean, and when I say “clean,” I’m referring to the image that most Trestle addicts think of from just hearing the word “Trestles.” By South Bay standards, the conditions were good, but not for that area. On top of that, the sky was extremely overcast which gave the water an ominous gray color.

    I stepped out, snapped a pic, and walked towards Middles. Churches looked all right. The tide was in the negatives, and it was affecting the surf a little. Middles didn’t have much. Lowers, of course, had the waves with the crowd that comes with it. North of Lowers wasn’t holding shape, and I expected the crowd factor at Uppers to be worse, so I paddled out south of Lowers at 0745.

    The twenty days out of the water was noticeable. Just from getting on my board I felt those inactive surf muscles tighten and cramp in protest. The sets broke farther out, so I had to take a couple on the head. My duckdive definitely suffered, but I kept telling myself that Bali will probably be less forgiving, so I did my best to punch through.

    Lulls . . . there were a lot of them. The surf was a bit inconsistent, and there was something about this swell that messed up the shape. From Surfline’s forecast, I expected so much more. I expected perfect, overhead, peaky, right handers, visible and rolling in as far as the eye could see. The waves were liny, and the sections stayed open jut a little before meeting the oncoming rights and lefts that closed the wave out. There were peaks, just not as many as usual, and you had to be in the right spot (with the exception of Lowers that has that consistent peak). Today was not the day for practicing the things that my mind tricks me into thinking that I can do--too much Modern Collective and Who is JOB in my life. I was nervous about my rusty surfing abilities, and I was happy that I didn’t eat shit as much as I expected.

    The waves I caught would stand up and just hold in that position. I struggled to turn and maneuver, but just being on the wave was fun enough. I only ate shit on one that I really shouldn’t have went for anyway.

    The wind was light, and the lulls so prevalent that I could only hear the waves breaking in the background, some birds chirping, and faint conversations between surfers. The line up was packed, but you could almost hear a pin drop; everyone seemed to be on the same sheet of music.

    Something rare happened. Two guys paddled for a wave, the guy about to drop-in ceased, and the longboarder rode his wave, turned to the other guy, and said, “Thank you.”

    After a set, I had just returned from catching a wave. This one guy said to his buddy, “How could we have missed all those waves?” As the next peak formed in the distance he talked out loud, “Come to me . . . come to me . . . come to me. . . .” It’s funny how as surfers, we all know exactly what that guys was going through.

    The lulls got longer with the tide rising, but the crowd didn’t thin. I paddled to north Churches where I called it a morning.

    I just took a shit in the porta-potty. I took a shit on top of another guy’s shit. Our shit combined looked soooo huge. I took a picture and sent it to my friends. A woman just walked in that same stall then fearfully backed out and used a different one. “Amateurs . . . they do their part.”

    Now the sun is shining bright, the overcast has burned through, and I’m in my car watching Churches’s consistent, four foot rights giving longboarders the stories that they’ll take home with them tonight. I think I’m gonna get some of that.