LOOKING FOR WAVES IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES, SAT 24SEPT2011 MOR

LOC: County Line
Crew: Klaude
Time: 0800-1030, 2 hrs. & 30 min.
Conditions: Clean, glassy, no wind, overcast, inconsistent, long ass lulls, uncrowded, 1-3 feet.

    Yesterday Dais hit me up and said he, Khang, DK, and their homeboy Kataro were going to Trestles on Saturday. I initially told him that I’d go. Why not after all? I’m due up for Trestles. The last time I was there was during Al’s camping trip late last month. When I hit Klaude up, he said that he had to go to work, so he wouldn’t be able to go. Since he was staying back, I thought it would be a good call to gamble on a new secret spot south of Oxnard where I injured my shoulder. Klaude said he’d be happy to come along, so I told Dais that I catch them next time. However, this was a gamble. I made it clear; I couldn’t guarantee that it would be good.
   
    It’s 0515 when my alarm goes off. The plan is to pick up Klaude at 0545. I start the pot of coffee and pack my gear. As I pull up to Klaude’s, I notice that my tire pressure is low. My gas lamp is also on, and I doubt that we can make the sixty mile journey without sweating bullets the whole way. We load his gear, go to the gas station, fill up my tires, and Klaude tosses me some cash for gas.

    “Damn, looks like the swell is hitting the South Bay, “ says Klaude. 

    I’ve been so busy lately that I don’t really know what the swell is doing. We stick to the plan and head up north. It’s an empty Saturday morning. The cruise up PCH is too dark to see any surf. I’ve pacing our speed, as we keep passing CHP cars hiding in little cuts on the road; we see them. The morning is foreshadowed once the coast line becomes visible. Zumas to County Line looks flat as a pancake. We pull up to the secret spot which has a mountain of rocks blocking the water’s edge.

    “I don’t hear anything. That’s not good,” says Klaude. I step outside, and I’m in denial, trying not to let the silence in the air ruin my hopes. Once we climb over, we see that the high tide has brought the water all the way to the rocks. Waves are breaking, but they are really close to the jagged boulders. “Daaaaaaamn, skuuuuunked.”

    Fuck my life, I’m thinking. Klaude presents our second option of County Line. I’m usually stubborn in situations like these. Klaude takes a seat and as we wait for a miracle. I’m looking further north up the coast. Away from the rocks, some waves are breaking, but it’s mostly shore pound. In front of us, we see a set. There’s a fast peak working that looks rideable. “Break, break, breeeaaaaaak,” says Klaude. It breaks a little late, too close to the rocks. It’s too risky. This is a great spot. No one is here, and we can have this spot all to ourselves, but it’s not worth it. “County line?”

    “Yeah.” I’m still staring out at sea. “Let’s go.” Klaude heads back to the car and stands outside the door. I watch a little bit longer in futile hope. County Line it is.

    It’s about 0745 when we show up, and there aren’t many cars there yet. Another bad sign. Once we step up to the railing by the cliff, we see about four longboarders and two SUP boarders at the north point. The silence between us speaks volumes. We watch 1-2 foot, soft right-handers roll through. Towards the middle of the bay, there’s a fast peak that’s breaking close to the shore. Other than that, it’s pretty much a lake out there. We see some sets roll through that are just under three feet, but the lulls seem long. We are officially skunked.

    “What do you think?” asks Klaude.

    There’s another long pause. I’m still watching, looking, peering, and trying to transform this picture before us into something else. The waves are small, but the shape is clean. “I don’t know. There’s a little something out there.”

    “My concern is, are we going to be able to catch anything?” I see his point. The waves are small, and it’s definitely a longboard day. “26th, bro.”

    I still scan and watch for something. “You really don’t want to surf here, huh?”

    “I mean, c’mon. It has to be better than this. I mean, you’re driving, so . . . whatever you want to do.”

    The message is clear. It’s small here . . . tiny. But the thought of waking up around 0500 and driving all the way up here just to go back to the South Bay doesn’t sit well with me. It’s a selfish move, but I’m usually pretty stubborn and stick with my decisions for better or for worse. Sometimes, they work out, but sometimes I’m hating myself in the after math. Against my friend’s advice, I motion towards the call to stay.

    I take my time suiting up. Klaude’s faster than I. “I’ll meet you down there,” he says, and he takes off. I see another wave roll through. It’s barely three feet, but it’s so long and clean. It reminds me of Churches on a small day, not big but fun. Klaude and I paddle to the small pack of surfers by the point and wait for a wave. I stay south towards the outside, and a pretty, little three footer comes my way. I’m stoked; the wait isn’t long at all. The shoulder is so soft and clean, I’m looking down the line to set myself up. I bottom turn, top turn, but get stuck on the lip, and the wave passes me. Damn . . . I’m pretty rusty after a week of no surf and still rusty from my injury. I paddle up to Klaude with my post-wave grin.

    “Fuck, I had a good one, but I BLEW IT!” I say.

    “Yeah, there’s some nice ones out here.”

    I sit and wait for the next set. Two more waves come, and both of the longboarders I’m sitting with take them. After that, nothing comes for a long time. The lull is stagnant, silent, and frustrating. I look at Klaude, and he raises both of his arms to his sides with his arms out, the universal gesture for “where the fuck are the waves?” Some little waves come, but they’re too small for us to catch. A couple more people join our pack. Frustration mounts to anger and regret, not only for myself, but I’ve dragged Klaude down here too for some bad surf. I hate it when that happens. The tide drowns everything out in the first hour, and we don’t catch shit. Half way through the second hour, a couple more peaks start to sprout. Unfortunately, I’m working like a bad luck charm. Every time I paddle where the waves are breaking, they break where I just left. I’m lucky enough to catch a few, but the rides are short.

    Klaude gets a bad cramp and has to exit the water. Something happens after that where I get back-to-back waves. With the tide lowering, the conditions get a little better with more options. Klaude comes back to the lineup when I start getting some rides that go a little distance, but I struggle to crank out more than one turn.

    “You’re getting yours today,” Klaude says. At this point for me, I’m getting the day’s worth out of the session. I can comfortable walk away feeling satisfied that I’ve caught something. I think Klaude’s board may be a little too small for what’s on the menu, so I offer to swap. He grabs hold and mounts the JS. “It’s huge!” he says.

    “Yeah, but it worked in Bali.”

     I feel like as much criticism as I can get with that board, at least I’ll always be able to say that it worked for me during took my trip. Later I see Klaude returning from the inside saying that he finally caught one. I catch a couple on his advanced shortboard, but it feels like I’m sinking it when I’m on the wave, and my stance is too wide from the length change. We change back to our regular boards. Just as I’m returning to the lineup from the inside, I see Klaude all by himself as a set wave approaches him. I’m trying to get out of his way because I’ll be in his path in a couple seconds. He pops up on the shoulder, but for some reason he bogs out as the open, lonely section runs away from him. He’s not happy; I can relate. It’s one of those waves that you end up waiting for forever. And finally when it shows up it’s all yours. But for some reason or another, you blow it. For me, I’ve blown these kinds of waves because I’ve had too much time to think, and then my timing or positioning is off. I think most surfers are used to having that “other guy” to deal with, where you need to make an on-the-spot call on going for the wave. In this sense, time can be the enemy.

    I paddle up and try to find the right words. “We don’t really have the right boards for today,“ I say.
    “Nah, fuck that. . . . I should be catching them.”

  
It’s past 1000, and Klaude needs to get back to work. The tide approaches mid level, and the peak north of the point starts to get consistent, but we have to leave. On the inside, I catch an inside left that’s fast and racy. I actually get some decent frontside pumps before the wave closes out.

    “You’re pumping’s looking pretty good,” says Klaude.

    I smile at the thought, but then I realize that I missed an opportunity to do more. I could’ve attempted a couple floaters to make the section, but I still lack the talent to know what I should really be doing when the opportunity presents itself. It’s a reminder that I’ve still got a lot of work to do.

    It’s an easy ride back with minimum traffic. We actually reach a patch of sunlight near Malibu before it goes gray again. Malibu’s small, and Sunset isn’t breaking at all. Klaude gets a text from Christina. Apparently, she surfed 26th and it was really good. When I drop off Klaude, he grabs his things and throws them on the ground by his driveway. It’s out of character.     The day’s a gamble and a loss, and I’m the one that made the bad call not to come back to the South Bay to surf.