PORTO REVISITED, MON 7.11.2011 MOR

A conversation weeks ago at Dunkin' Donuts, Bali:

I asked, “So when you came back, did you feel like your surfing improved?”

“No,” said Randy. “I had to get used to wearing a wetsuit again and riding small waves. . . . I sucked.”

Crew: Jon M.

Time: 0645-0800, 1 hr. & 15 min.

Conditions: Gloomy, slight north current, 3 ft., random peaks.

Since landing in LAX on Thursday, I had to get ready for work on the weekend. Facing brutal jetlag and a cold upon landing, I muster up the energy to surf as soon as possible. I told myself in Bali that I'd “kill the ego,” but I am human. I've waited for this moment, the moment I'd paddle out at my local break to see and feel my improvement first hand. At the same time, I don't want to be an asshole or get too cocky. I know I didn't “conquer” Bali. In fact, I know that it's just the first of many trips in the making. Nonetheless, aren't we all human? Can I blame myself for wanting to see how I'd do at Porto after my month long experience?

A mantra of old, and I'm now doing it again. I pull up to the Porto lot with my friend Jon trailing behind me. He's from my original surf group, back when I was on the gayest, epoxy 7'10 NSP with bright red flames on it. I let him sample my 6'6 Merrick MB, and I have no choice but to use my backup 6'1 DMS because China Air dinged my JS. It's weird looking out at the ocean and little peaks here and there. It's crowded, and it's not the same kind of crowded that I dealt with in Bali. In Bali everyone masses at the peaks. Here, it's just one continuous line as far as the eye can see, with thicker concentrations in front of 45^th, the shitters, and the sandwich shack.

We walk to the tanks (or now it's just one tank) like the good old days and time our paddle out. Jon tells me that regardless of his recent weight gain that he's one of the standout students at his martial arts school. Unintentionally, I cut him off as the last wave of the set dissipates. I grab my board, run out, and say, “I'll see you out there!” Porto's gray waters welcome me. My timing is off for the paddle out, but I still get to the line up with ease. I turn around, and I have no idea what the fuck happened to Jon.

I look back to check my position. Right here, in front of the small, white tank, this is where I'm holding. My first couples waves have no shape, but at least the little three footers are standing up a little for a fast ride. The waves are closing, but I still tuck in and practice staying close to the face. I get pinched, but why not get pinched? There's no reef, nothing pokey below, it's not five feet Randy/Bali scale, and the paddle to the lineup is ridiculously short from the shore; from now on there is no reason not to go for it. When I recheck my position, I see that I've drifted north. I look for Jon; there's still no sign of him. Where the fuck is this guy?

My wetsuit is loud. A gift from Manny A., a free “hand-me-down.” It's a brand new Hurley wetsuit, dark blue, it has light blue lines on it, there is white trim on the back, and it's short sleeved. It attracts attention that I don't want, but ninety-nine percent of surfers are unsponsored, so what right do I have to complain about a free wetsuit. Thanks, Manny, I'm grateful.

Carrying the same attitude from Bali, I say hi to the locals that I paddle past. There's the heavy set guy with a beard on his longboard. “Good morning,” I say.

“Good morning!”

There's the local guy on his short board, Caucasian dude. “Mornin',” I say.

“How are you?”

“Good, good.”

I look north and see Jon sitting on his ass on the sand. He's by the smoke stacks. Fuckin' A. He walks in front of me and starts pointing towards his van. I wave at him, motioning my arm as if to tell him, “Get your fucking ass back in the water!” He sits and watches, and I go for more waves.

My DMS feels so tiny compared to the JS, but to my surprise I'm actually catching waves. I should be scratching out, but I'm popping up before the lip curls. No, no fancy turns this morning, but it's still an awesome feeling being back in the water. I'm paddling hard, kicking my feet, no one's getting in my way, and everyone seems pretty mellow. On a left the section tries to close out on me, but I pump ahead to keep momentum, walk the nose, and take it to the inside. My rights are rusty, as I lose speed on my top turn. In Bali I barely caught any rights.

I look back to see Jon giving me his final wave as he walks back to his van. After my next ride I am faced with an oncoming set as I paddle back out. Testing my duckdive, I see if I can make it under the waves effortlessly. I fail. My board's still snatched away on a couple waves. It's a reminder that I need to work on it. A guy paddles next to me. He's short, stocky, dark like me; has short, even length, black hair with a little salt and pepper look to it. He looks Polynesian, but I can't tell for sure.

I say, ”Good morning.”

“Weren't you over there?” He's pointing towards 45^th. 

 

“Yeah, I was, but I got washed around a little, so now I'm over here.”

“Oh . . . because I was watching you.”

I can't read this guy's mind, but the whole energy of the conversation feels positive. I guess I was doing something right for someone to be watching. Two of the local rippers--this young guy with long, curly hair, and this other guy with short hair wearing a grey wetsuit with what looks like a Swiss emblem on it--show up on the scene. I become self conscious of my loud attire then feel the pressure to do good. It throws me off a little. I tell myself to be humble and that just because I went to Bali doesn't mean that I'm the John Holmes of El Porto now. It's almost eight, it's time to pay for parking, so I cut my session short to start the day's errands.

I'm ashamed to say that I expected to hit the water and just shred. Again, I'm not perfect. But it was still a good welcome home session for me. I'm thinking positive and looking forward to my progression back home.