Crew: Francis & J
Time: 1745 - 1930, 1 hr. & 45 min.
Conditions: 2-3 feet, inconsistent, walled, low tide, overcast, warm, onshore wind.
I actually tried to surf on Monday. I woke up early with all my work clothes pre-packed, my surf gear in the car, and my hot water bottle in position to be filled. I got to the lot right after it opened, and the waves were one foot and crumbly. I watched in disbelief as we all do when it’s such a sight. Too small, not worth it.
The tide finally switched to being lower at dawn and dusk. With a low tide right after 1700, I plan to go there a little after 1800. My phone rings; it’s J. He says that he’s parking right now, but I stick to my guns and tell him I’ll see him later. Within minutes Francis calls, and he says he’s on the way there. Damn, that’s two buddies about to paddle out before me, and then that surfer anxiety hits me. Could this be it? Could it be really good right now, and I’ll be missing out while they’re out there getting first dibs?
The car’s packed again, and the 3.1 mile drive feels more like 31.1; I can’t get there fast enough! I’m overly anxious at the thought of the ideal. In the fall seasons of the past, I’ve been blessed with some perfect evening sessions. I don’t want to go as far as labeling them epic, but sometimes there are those days. I’ve seen the sun hanging low in the midst of a wind so dead it feels like time’s standing still. I’ve sat in an empty line up where the water’s as smooth as glass reflecting nothing put pure gold. I’ve sat in front of the tanks (back when there were two tanks) and watched little three foot waves line up all the way from 45th to the rocks. Dead air, heat, board shorts, warm water, a setting sun, and open faces begging to be ridden.
When I pull into the lot I see Francis heading towards the sand. I honk and wave before I pull in. He sees me. What a kind soul. He walks all the way back to wait for me, but I tell him just to head out. Some of the waves have a little shape, or do they? Any time I see something that looks like a shoulder, I’m satisfied. And then again, I think we force ourselves to see what we want to see sometimes, as sad as that may sound.
Paddling out, I look for J but can’t find him. Francis has just returned from visiting his friends and family on Oahu. He tells me how he surfed an overhead day at Diamond head, and how he saw a rescue where the surfer was unconscious and foaming at the mouth. “Lucky there was a lifeguard surfing too,” he says. He also relays a story about how he got snaked on a set wave. Oh well, I guess it’s the same everywhere.
We finally spot J, and I get to introduce them both for the first time. On J’s wave, I notice that he’s taken my advice to start using his legs when he paddles. We’re all catching waves, but a good shoulder’s hard to find. I almost get a turn going backside, but I have to eject over the lip before it closes out. Francis is getting closer to busting an air, as I see everything except the tail-third of his board get exposed. My wave of the day is a long left that has me pumping down the line to make the sections.
The current’s surprisingly strong, and everyone in the water participates in the mad scramble to regain position. One would expect for the wind to die and the rising tide to make things better. Instead, the water’s choppy, and there’s a rip that keeps Francis and I at Bay. J has to leave before us. It’s almost 1930, and finding that last wave is taking too long.
Back at the lot we part ways and plan to surf on Sunday, Francis’s day off. I don’t know if I’m more disappointed with the conditions or more disappointed about blowing up the “ideal” fall, evening session in my mind. When you first start surfing, every evening session seems to be good. But when you start becoming consistent, then you see over time how they are actually few and far between.
I can barely make out the ocean by the time I’m done changing. Yet still, a chick slams her car door and races to the sand with her longboard. I admire her stoke.
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