NOT SUMMER, MON 7.11.2011 EVE

Crew: Rick A.

Time: 1900-2000, 1 hr.

Conditions: Sunny, cold, windy, choppy, and crowded.

    I will always regard Rick as my first surf mentor. Sure, he's a bit longwinded at times, but there's a lot about surfing that the Venice alumni knows, so I listen and say “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” if it's the hundredth time that I've heard it. I do this with the utmost respect of course.

    Rick tex'd me to ask if I've been in the water. I told him about how China Airline's dinged the rail on my JS, so he said to head over for the repair. I show up with some offerings: a sushi platter from Trader Joe's that tastes like the $5.99 that it cost. Rick's doing a repair on his favorite fish, so he already has the materials ready to go. He makes me put on some gloves to help him out. He's giving me a seminar on what his mixture consists of, what to use, where to get them, and so forth. I try to absorb all of this, but . . . I don't remember any of it for the life of me.

     He says he wants to rush it for an evening sesh. The wind's been up all afternoon, but how can I tell the guy no? He's fixing my board, I haven't seen him since I left, and sometimes the paddle out is all about spending time with friends more so than the surf.

     

    
    I expect nothing, and El Porto has nothing. My God, it's so choppy. Everyone's sitting so close to the shore, as that's where the waves are breaking. There are little, random lumps that jack up for a short ride. We only have an hour, so I trunk it, thinking that I can endure an hour of cold. It only takes fifteen minutes before my teeth start chattering. Summer my ass. The DMS feels too tiny for this one to two foot surf. I catch a left and go as far as I can. Rick points out that I'm too far ahead of the wave, the same thing that Randy told me after a video of myself at Churches. Front side turns, I'm aware of my weaknesses more than ever now.

     There are guys finding some gold nuggets in the midst of it all, still getting some nice looking waves despite the evening chop. None of my rides are significant. My fever bothers me, I'm cold, and I feel like shit. The setting sun turns the sky orange, the dark blue water keeps every surfer bobbing in place, the waves seem to be rolling through in fast forward, and my eyes squint from the pain; I'm sick.

     I catch a close out as the meter maid shuts the 45^th St. entrance. I'm forced to park by the bathrooms, as the old man starts writing up tickets for the cars parked next to me. I feel like shit. I need rest.