DRC SURF TRIP: TRESTLES, SAT 7.30.2011 MOR

The few, the proud, the DRC.

Crew: Christina, Klaude, Dais, Khang, Cheryl, Lauren

Time: ??

Conditions: Overcast, cold, onshore wind, inconsistent, long lulls, slightly choppy, no bueno.

Poor Mr. Seal didn't stand a chance. His head is chewed off. Bad omen?

Preblog:

      Despite going to Trestles the last two days, Saturday morning was already planned ahead. On Wednesday Christina suggested that we all go somewhere to surf, so it was a unanimous decision for Saturday to be dedicated to Trestles. After all, the swell forecast had a fair rating. A lot of us work during the week, so it would be perfect timing to score some good waves down south, but would we?

Start Point (SP) El Segundo:

      The plan is to leave as early as possible. I told Klaude the night before that we're going to be real assholes and leave by 0515, no later. I wake up Lauren a lot earlier than she is used to. Most of our stuff is ready to go and prepacked. Klaude shows up in the bang bus at 0500. It's my first time strapping three boards to my roof rack. I pray we don't lose them.

      It's a dark morning with barely a hint of light. Khang's on the road just minutes behind us. We pass Lowers to see its peak working, but we don't see anything breaking at Middles. One good sign is that the wind is calm. As we pull up to the Churches' parking lot we see clean, uncrowded peaks rolling through. There are some longboarders selling the morning surf. It looks good.

Can we score . . . please?:

    Lauren's here for moral support. Actually, she's here to get out of LA and do some work on the sand while we surf. The rest of us are all changed, and we wait for the rest of the gang that park at San Onofre. We exchange the morning greetings in anticipation of catching classic Trestles' conditions. I get everyone together and struggle for a group pic. Just as I set the self timer, my camera falls. A fellow surf patron approaches and offers to take the pic. He does, and we make it official: DRC Trestles trip, it's a picture for the archives.

As we are walking out, the winds begin to pick up. Churches still looks clean, but we're taking a page out of yesterday's book: go straight to the BP or the cliff. Lauren says she wants to look at all the little pools of water from the low tide while the rest of us head out. I stage my gear right on the BP. “The lulls are long,” Klaude says. I look out as a set approaches. It's a little walled, but there's still a fun right-hander in the mix. I'm optimistic. I can only hope for the best, and a long lull is okay as long as the wait is repaid with a rippable wave. We spread out on the sand and paddle out following our own instincts for the best place to sit. There's a small crowd at the cliff, so I stay just outside of it. Christina, Cheryl, and Dais are further south. Khang and Klaude mix right in with the pack to feed the beast. 

      Here we are. We traveled from LA goddammit. Not just me, but seven of us sacrificed our Saturday to get some good fucking waves. Well, I wish I could write about some because as soon as we enter the water, the session starts with a long ass lull. When a set approaches, it's walled and closing. The wind gets even stronger, the overcast is still thick, the water is cold, and instead of surfing, we're just bobbing. Sure, we get waves, but they aren't clean. Christina paddles up to see if my spot is any better. I'm frustrated, so I keep working my way north. The tides still coming up, it can get better. The wind can die, the sun can shine, and conditions may clean up. I'm still hoping for the best. I have to.

      Rewind to the morning. In the car, Klaude told me that he didn't bring his wetsuit. “I had to ditch the wetsuit,” he said. Fuck, I didn't want to piss on his parade, but I knew for a fact that the past couple mornings were cold. It's a bold move. I wouldn't do it, but I let nature takes its course. He could've been the one laughing at us if the weather favored him. We're just about into our first hour of surfing when Klaude paddles up to me. “It's cold,” he says. “I need to keep busy and paddle around.” Damn, I know he's suffering. I'm cold in my 2/2, I can imagine what a wetsuit jacket and boardshorts feel like.

      I keep paddling north, but the rides are the same, the peaks are scattered, and the lulls are long. I'm just south of Lowers hoping that the surf gods will sling something my way. Klaude paddles by me and says, “Fuck this, I'm going.”

      “You're going to Lowers?”

      “I have to. I need some waves,” he says. I commend him. Lowers is the only peak that's working consistently, but it's packed as usual. I can't sit my ass at Middles; nothing is coming. Klaude's going to the lion's den while I'm sitting in a choppy lake. I follow his lead and sit south of the crowd. Klaude goes right into the middle. I get lucky. A wave swings double wide. I paddle and kick as hard as I can. The guy on my inside has priority, but he lets me have it. It's wave number one at Lowers. A little later, a small inside wave forms. I don't know why no one's on it, but I consider it a gift from Mother Ocean. Thank you.

      I'm not sure how much time elapses through these two waves, but Klaude's on the shore, so I make my way in. I thought he was there, but now he's paddling past me making his way back out again. I think he had a cramp that he had to stretch out. We make our way back to the peak. There's a little bit of current dragging everyone north, but everyone is fighting it to stay in position. I hang next to the pack in hopes for a wave. I paddle, I feel the slide, but someone's on my inside pumping down the line. This time I'm in the front row next to the guys who own it. I paddle, I can get it, but one of the stand-out surfers has the inside again. This goes on for a couple more waves. It's really not a hard wave to catch at all, it's just a competitive paddle battle. I'm over it. Klaude remains while I make my way back to the BP. The morning is still filled with lulls and a few shitty rides. Khang and Dais have drifted towards the center of Middles. I see Lauren at the BP, so I catch one in and call it a morning.

      On the walk back I wave to Khang and Dais. I assume that they're letting the drift control their surfing destinies. Lauren and I can't spot Cheryl or Christina, but when we get back to the car, they are there. “You guys could've gotten the keys from Lauren,” I tell them.

      “We couldn't find her,” they reply. We get into some dry clothes and start digging into our lunches. It wasn't a morning of epic surf, but I'm still hungry. PB&J never tasted so good. I savor each bite, chew it slow, and let out a moan of ecstasy with each swallow. I love post surf meals. You're so hungry that even a Saltine cracker will drive you nuts. 

 

      Klaude shows up and tells us the frustrations of surfing with the Lowers' pack. Khang and Dais have drifted in the thick of the Churches' crowd. We all relax on the sand and rest. Lauren's napping next to me while I watch the fellas to see if they catch anything. It's a failure of a trip so far. I contemplate paddling out again.