STAYCATION SESSIONS—TRESTLES: THU 7.21.2011 MOR

Crew: Solo

Time: 0845-1145, 3 hrs.

Wave count: 24

Conditions: Overcast turned sunny, off shore to marginal wind, small, consistent, just under 3 ft.

The Turn Around:

     On the way home from Blacks, Khang had called and asked if I was going to Trestles the next day. I said yes, but that it might be a gamble because the surf could end up being really small. He said to just let him know how it looks when I get there.

     By the time Francis dropped me off, it was just after 2200. Lauren waited up for me and was nice enough to warm up my dinner. I was so tired, but I showered, ate, and spent a little quality time with her before racking out. There was no time to prep for the next day's adventure. My alarm was set for 0545. I'd have to get up, shovel down some breakfast, load the car, and just go. I'd be traveling on minimum rest, but South OC has the best surf forecast for Thursday, so I have to do what I must if I want good surf.

Another day, another adventure:

     If you can imagine, I hit that snooze button quite a bit before finally rolling out of bed. Butt naked, I brush my teeth using the faint morning sunlight. It's 0615, and I plan on hitting the road before 0700. No cooler and PB&J sandwiches today, I pack light again, but this time I bring my sleeping bag and an extra board. Traffic is light until I hit Long Beach. By the time that's over, I'm cruising through Westminister trying to make my way down south as fast as I can. It's another gloomy morning, and it tires my spirit.

     I pull into San O and cruise past all the campsites. There are vacancies. Would be nice to have a site. I park under the tree by Churches, the same place as the last time. The water is so glassy that it's like a mirror reflecting off of the sky, completely gray. There are only about six longboarders out catching two foot surf. I step outside to take a look next to another guy on the sand. I strike up a conversation. His name is Rick from Palos Verdes. He says he's a Marine St. regular and that he surfs Parks Beach sometimes too. Small world. After the morning chit chat, I sit in my car and text Khang. I tell him that it's small and that it may not be worth the drive. Makes sense, yes? I mean, it's only two feet. There's no need to burn that much gas over two feet. 

 

     I don't expect much, but I change into the short sleeve Hurley wetsuit that Manny donated to me. This suit and my shortboard is an opposite to today's longboard conditions. Instead of walking to Middles, I paddle out right where I'm parked and work my way down. The water feels cold. I doubt that I'll get another chance to bareback it this summer. I paddle out to the first peak by two other longboarders. A couple two-foot waves roll through, but I scratch out on both. On to the next peak. I sit at the next one, only longboarders are catching waves again, so I continue to Churches's main peak. I don't expect any greetings, but a surfer actually says “good morning” and asks what time it is. When I sit, it doesn't take long for some waves to appear. The longboarder I just talked to goes first, and I catch the next wave. It's probably only two feet, but it's so perfectly shaped that I'm stoked to be on it. No turns, just going down the line until it's shallow. Last time I surfed here it was blown out, but this morning has San Onofre's glassy and clean conditions that I've been waiting for. I feel confident and catch about four waves before I start to feel bad. I feel as if I can do this all day, but it's only one peak, and the other three guys here need to get their share too. Besides, a small Churches's morning like this shouldn't be a competitive one. I look north towards middles, and everything between Churches and Lowers looks flat, but I still make the paddle.

     I'm already thinking that this is a small, easy day. There's no rush. I paddle slowly without a purpose as I make my way towards the cliffs, just south of Lowers. I stop at the battle position and sit south of the small crowd. Most are longboarders, and they seem to be the only ones getting waves. I sit waiting for a pulse. Nothing. I paddle past a heavy set, red haired, guy with a beard. I'm silent, but he greets me with another unexpected “good morning.” I paddle north just outside of the pack. Lowers is in perfect view. I watch clean three to four foot waves peel through. I'm envious, but the crowd there is already thick. One day, I think to myself.

Hit the Switch:

     I'm already canceling out the double session in my mind. I drove all the way down, but I'm already thinking about home. Would be nice to get home early for a change. I can catch up on my blogs, relax, eat a good meal. . . . Just then, out of the gray flatness, a set comes through. It's double wide without a shoulder within my distance, but I paddle out to beat it. That was unexpected! The next wave breaks on the outside. It's bigger than two feet but not quite three. When I pop up I see it lining up nicely. I get two ugly turns on the warm up wave. There may be potential after all. For the first time, I click to the chrono feature on my stopwatch but soon realize that it's also a wave counter. I log in my first wave and see how much longer until the next one.

     I never would have thought this would happen, there's a good half hour where there seems to be a wave every three minutes. The spot turns on all of a sudden, and best of all, the crowd thins out even more. For two plus hours I only have four other guys to share the waves with, and everyone is so spread out that no one's in anybodies way. It's small, but God bless the shape. It's turning into the epic session that I've been waiting for. No, not epic in size, but epic in quality and abundance. It's a wave orgy with only a few riders on deck. The lefts aren't holding as well, but I'm catching right after right. Turns, turns, turns, finally, all morning, and all to myself. No one's there to validate them, but I'm getting at least two top turns on every wave, some three, and even four on one. Yes, I counted it, four. I didn't think a sub three foot wave would allow it, but it did. I talk to myself in the line up. In my mind, I'm thanking my brother for showing me how to use my feet when I paddle. It's working today, and I'm barely missing any waves.

     By now the sun is out. The gray water turns into more of a light turquoise color, while patches of dark blue can be seen out in the distance. I overhear an old timer talking to one of his buddies. He says, “It's sunny, there's waves, and there are only. . . .” He pauses and looks at the line up. “One, two, three, four other guys out.” It's a no-brainer. We all are feeling it; we've scored big-time.

     One guy leaves as another new face take his spot. The old timer knows this guy too. He's wearing a hat and ends up right by me after a wave. “Nice one, “ I say.

     “No, yours was better. I was watching you. Didn't think you'd get that one.”

     “Yeah, I got lucky. I'm pretty surprised. It's small but so good out, and there's barely anyone out.”

     He motions towards Lowers and says, “Yeah, or you could be out there, catching one wave every twenty minutes.” The energy is good, but we're too close. I paddle further north to get my original spot.

     At the three hour mark the waves seem to taper down in size just a hair, and it goes a little inconsistent. It doesn't matter. Three hours is a good cut off time, and some form of lunch is in order. I look at my wave counter, and it's at 24. It's the first time I've kept accurate track of my waves. I assume that 24 waves in three hours isn't that bad. Of course, I'm counting the waves that I caught at Churches, and I hit the wave count button about four times on accident, so it's still 24.

     On the walk back to my car I think about the sense of loss that I've had since leaving Bali. But then I realize that here I am at Trestles scoring good, uncrowded waves practically all to myself. I don't have to travel half way across the globe to get that. On this morning's surf session, I may as well have been anywhere in the world. I'm stoked. Three hours of silence, catching the wave, thinking about the wave I just caught, breathing, meditating, and then doing it all over again. I'm drained, speechless, and exhausted from all the surf. It's what we live for.

The Splurge Addict:

     I stop at the snack shack on the campgrounds, but nothing appeals to my appetite. There's a Carl's Jr. on Cristianitos, but I wouldn't mind trying something different. It's either a sandwich at the grocery store or Sonics. I've never had Sonics before, so I figure that this may be my golden opportunity.

     As I gaze upon their menu nothing seems too healthy. I know I don't want soda, but if I buy the combo I'll be forced to drink a soda. My only other option is to order the burger separate and order the Oreo Sonic Blast. But then again, hydrating with twenty ounces of ice cream, whip cream, and crunched up Oreos sounds preposterous!

     Why did heavenly father bless me with such a gift and talent for devouring ridiculous amounts of food. When I try to fight his “plan” for me, I fail at every attempt. I approach the counter, order the Super Sonic Burger and large chili cheese tots. At least I avoid the Oreo Sonic Blast. Instead I order the Butterfinger Sonic Blast, should be a little more healthy. I get back to the car and eat as I watch the surf. Churches is still consistent with a thin crowd of longboarders raking in more than they can chew. After I eat my food, I set up my sleeping bag for a cozy power nap in the back of the wagon. There are mustard stains all over my shirt. Flies buzz about as I drift into sleep. I feel like a bum.