TRESTLES--WHAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF: FRI 5.27.2011 MOR

Someone once asked me, "How can you tell if someone just started surfing?"

CREW: Solo
TIME: 0800 - 1130, 3 hrs. & 30 min.
CONDITIONS: Clean, glassy, sunny, barely any wind, unusually uncrowded, 3-4 feet, occasional 5.

    I leave to Bali on June 7th. This Memorial Day camping/surf weekend was planned a month in advance. Originally, it was strictly for Lauren and me. We were to have our quality time before I would be gone for a whole month, but due to her new job, she was barely there. This weekend’s adventure would start off solo.

    I barely slept Thursday night. In fact, by the time I pre-packed my whole car with camping and surf gear, it was almost 0200. I was awoken by Rick’s call, letting me know that the 405 was gridlocked near the Redondo Beach exit. I thanked him, brushed my teeth, threw on shorts and a shirt, made a cup of coffee, kissed Lauren goodbye, and fired up the wagon. I was on the road by 0600 driving on the 105W connecting to the 110S to the 405 and such. There were pockets of traffic and free flowing movement, hard to tell whether or not the holiday crowd was still at work or already on the road. I reached San Onofre a little after 0700. I expected to see scores of campers, tents, cars, surfers, and people already on the sand. What I found was the opposite. The place was pretty desolate, or it looked like any other off season morning. I even grabbed a parking spot at the northern most point next to Churches. There were only about four guys out in the line up. At the dawn of the holiday weekend, I couldn’t understand how there was no one out there. I could see the Bud Light Lime Surf Series tents already set up. I snapped a picture before I changed. Uncrowded, I watched perfect, glassy, three foot shoulders slowly roll in one by one.

    Opting not to take my camera with me (which I now regret), I did my routine as of late: paddling out north of Churches and working my way to the south end of Lowers. Due to the lapse of time since this very morning, I can’t recall anything spectacular happening where I paddled out, but I was fully submerged by 0800.

    By the time I got to south Lowers I was in the middle of two longboarders. With uncrowded and pristine conditions, I couldn’t help but strike a conversation with one of them. His name was Tim. The guy looked like an older version of Magnum P.I. with the full-on dickbroom mustache and everything. He was in town from Long Beach, NY to see his son graduate from Cal State Long Beach. He was on a 10 foot longboard, grimacing in pain. He explained to me that his whole right arm was a conglomeration of metal rods and pins, and his wrist could no longer bend. Poor guy, I thought. He said that he could only do three strokes before the pain set in, and that a fourth stroke would cause him to be out of the water for weeks. Tim . . . I watched this guy struggle and paddle. He waited for the peaks for late take offs, gave three labored strokes, tried popping-up using his fore-arm, then either scratched out or fell while the wave rolled away. I spent a good solid hour hanging with this guy and calling him into waves. It was a strange arrangement. Two perfect strangers unobligated to each other. Every time a peak came I said, “Here you go, Tim . . . go for it!” He got a couple, but he got up so late that the section ran off, and he kept bogging out. I would get the waves in between which were still worth while.

    Combined with the clear sky, ten o’clock blazing sun, and glassy water, the ocean looked like a tropical blue. I counted the heads out at Lowers, usually the most crowded peak at Trestles. A dozen . . . there were barely a dozen heads out. If you’ve seen perfect, soft, peaks, then you know what I’m talking about. They formed in the distance. The top halves were light blue with a darker tint in the curling pocket. The rights held better, but they still approached defined and broke in A-frame quality. The shoulders were smooth and round with barely a ripple. Instead of describing each wave on that magical morning, I’ll describe the one that stands out the most in my memory. The friendship with Tim was mutual and beneficial. I saw the first wave of the set approaching.

    I paddled for it until I heard Tim in the distance saying, “Wait, wait, don’t go for that one.”

    I turned around and saw the bigger wave of the set coming. “You want it?” I said.

    “No,” He panted, squinted at the sunlight, and clutched his shoulder. “You go for it.”

    There were only three other guys about 15 yards to our south and only the Lowers crowd to our north. With a peak all to myself, I picked the perfect place to paddle into right next to the peak. White shiny light reflected from my wetsuit and the spilling water from the breaking wave. The forming shoulder was blue as an indoor pool. The surfers in the distance paddled over the building shoulder, looking my way as I made the drop. It was five foot, max, but still fast. As I bottom turned up the wave I caught site of the perfect, round, virgin, untainted shoulder. I did my best to put as much power into the turn by forcing my tail through that beautiful mound of water. I heard the spray but could not see it, as I leaned forward for a reentry. Ever since Lauren told me that I’m hacking the middle of the lip and not the top, I’ve tried to stall just a little bit longer to get it right. I can’t see what I’m doing, I can only feel it, and the force of pushing my tail through the shoulder is the most gratifying feeling in my surfing so far. I pumped twice to set up for another top turn and did it again.    

    It was already 1100. I barely surf over two hours. Usually two and a half hours is my limit, but with a brand new wetsuit my body temperature felt warmer than ever. I tried my best to call Tim into his last wave since he had to go. He scratched out towards the inside and finally paddled in towards his son who was waiting. We said our goodbyes, and I paddled just to the outside of the Lowers pack. I paddled for an outside set, but a guy with blond yellow hair on a yellow longboard dropped in on the peak. I gave him a “hoot” in recognition of his good ride, as he smiled in acknowledgement.

     He paddled up to me afterwards and said, “It’s actually fun out here.”

    “Yeah,” I said. “Nice wave, you got it right on the peak.”

    “I saw you get a nice one earlier,” he said.

    He was talking about my wave of the day, as he was one of the guys paddling over the shoulder. We talked a little bit, and he told me he recently did a night session at Trestles with some buddies during the last full moon. He said that riding at night is more about feeling the wave.

    I was getting pretty tired. I caught another right to the inside, and checked my watch. 1130. I could either paddle back out or check-in to my camping site. I turned around and headed towards the shore when my heel slipped forward off of a rock. I felt a sharp pain, and I knew that the back of my heel got vertically sliced. I didn’t even bother to look until later, for I’ve been frustrated with cutting my feet on those cobblestones.

After three and a half hours of surfing, a meal as simple as tortillas, sausage, and eggs makes for a defining moment in one's life.

    That Friday morning was a rarity. I’ve scored perfect waves there before, but never that good, and never with so few people. Tim was the real highlight of the day. Here we are taking our health for granted, and this guy’s trying to surf with an arm made out of metal that only allows him three strokes. It humbled me. I had hoped that the whole weekend would be as good, but the future couldn’t have been any more uncertain, unpredictable, and unexpected. The worst and best was yet to come.