DEDICATION, FRI 28OCT2011 MOR

Location: South Huntington

Crew: Francis

Time: 0640-0940, 3 hrs

Conditions: Clean, windless, clear skies, 3-4 feet, crowded.

            There are two types of people in this world. Those who surf and those who don’t.

            I wish I could surf on Thursdays, but I have school, and there is a need for some kind of balance to do the other things in my life that are necessary. Everything can’t be about surfing; I’m learning that. Sometimes I obsess about surfing so much that I hate everything else that occupies my time as if I’m losing my sense of agency. I’ve been down that road. It leads to late nights doing assignments that are due in a couple hours. Also, I haven’t been exercising much. I don’t want to be buff, but my body has worn down to a scant set of twigs, steadily losing muscle since Bali. I couple pounds less, and I’ll be back at basic training weight, Fort Knox style. I haven’t been this light in years. I feel lost in class; I can’t relate to anyone. My neck tan is ridiculous.

            I don’t have class on Fridays, and I’ve been itching to immerse myself in this swell before it makes its way out. I hit up Khang on Thursday night, but he opts to hit the gym instead. Once again, balance. Francis asks me if I’m surfing, but I tell him that I’m heading to HB at O-dark-thirty. It’s imperative because of the high tide. I make the suggestion that he might be able to get a quick session there and still make it to work. He says he’ll meet me at my house to convoy south.

            It’s 0500 when I hit the snooze button. I’m tired. A couple more minutes. A couple seconds later I’m awakened by Francis’s phone call. “Hey, what time were you going to leave?” he asks.

            “Ummmmm.” I scratch my head in discombobulation. I look at the clock. “About five-forty-five, no later than.”

            “Oh, okay. I’m already packed.”

            “Okay, yeah, just come down.” 

            I thrust myself out of bed, rush to grab my gear, make some coffee, and head out the door. To my surprise, Francis is already parked and waiting. This catches me off guard. I hate waiting on people, so you can imagine how much I hate myself when others wait on me. “Hey, I’m gonna run to my car. Follow me!” I say. I run up the hill and lead the way. It’s just past 0530, and I’m still wiping away eye boogers as I try to drive straight. Once we reach HB, I get a call from Manny (Rick’s bro) asking if I’m surfing HB. “I’m already here,” I say.

            “What, you’re already there? Man, I’m just leaving. I won’t be there until seven.” 

            Manny gives me intel on where to find good parking, and we agree to meet north of the river jetties. As soon as I park, I move in my car, sloth-like, putting together my essentials. When I step out and open my rear hatch, Francis shows up already dressed in his wetsuit, board in hand. What the fuck!? This guy’s making me look really bad at this point. “Sorry, bro,” I say. “Fuck, you already have your wetsuit on, huh?”

            “Yeah. No worries. Just take your time.”

            He warms up while I fumble with my sunblock, board, keys, and then we finally begin our trek. I’ve never parked here before, and there are already surfers leaving and returning to their cars to see the surf. It’s a cold morning, somewhere in the mid to high fifties, and the sun is still way below the horizon. The sand’s so cold it hurts our feet. “My feet are numb,” says Francis. He’s right. Our feet are beyond pain at this point. At the first river mouth we wade through it, but it gets too deep, and we have to paddle. We are now jogging. Actually . . . the energy this morning is soooo rushed. I have no idea why. There’s just something in the air, and the funny thing is that it’s not just us. Surfers are going in every direction, passing each other on their way to their picks of the morning. We have to paddle across the second jetty. A crowd of groms look out at the surf. The river jetties are really consistent at this dark hour, and guys are already in the lineup. Our jog slows to a trot and then to a power walk as we escape the main body. After Wednesday’s wind, this morning is a godsend. There’s not one hint of breeze, and the water surface is only jostled by the breaking waves. We choose our spot. Francis leads the way, as he should since he doesn’t have much time. “Look, there’s a right!” he says as we duck dive a wave. There’s only one other guy by us. I’ve never surfed this far south in HB, so I’m not sure where to sit. The anticipation is killing us. Here we are, the conditions we’ve been waiting for are here, but this lull that’s only been seconds feels like an eternity; we need waves now! 

            Today has to be good. I know it, Francis knows it, we feel it in our surroundings. To our north, Dolphins play in the breaking waves, jumping towards shore. A small trace of clouds that look more like smoke are over the horizon. The hidden sun gives a deep orange glow over the skyline. At this very moment, this sunrise easily substitutes as a significant sunset, captivating and breathtaking in view. The cool water and light hum of the early morning gives a certain feeling: it’s so rare to be out here, in the ocean with the waves on so beautiful a day; thank God we’re alive. 

            Anxious as ever, we watch the river jetties and waves breaking to our north. Some waves come, but the shape isn’t at the morning’s potential. I want first blood so bad, but Francis, well deserved, gets a clean three-foot right to start things off. I see his wet, black hair over the lip going the distance. Good for him. The orange eye gives its first peek as I paddle into my first left. Yes, LEFTS, thank you! The tide is actually on the lower side, so the rides aren’t long but still clean and rippable. It’s not a wave buffet; it’s paced with short lulls. I don’t have a standout wave to describe, but I can say that I had a full morning of practicing my frontside turns. Lovely and fast, I gain enough speed to build up some energy. I connect my bottom turns with solid top turns after. None of my waves exceed two turns, but it’s exactly what I need, this form of repetition to make the action stable and concrete into second hand nature . . . eventually it will. I just love the feeling of speed, going up the face over the shoulder, shifting my weight to the tail, and then getting that nice sweeping arch; Oh my god, I live for this. Over and over as much as I can until the tide and crowd increases.

            If I’m stoked, then I can only imagine how Francis feels. He’s my role model of the morning, getting more rides than I. We’re greedy; we can’t help it. Why the hell are we paddling for the same waves, damn near calf to calf?  It’s playful, we kids, at least this morning we are during this grip of excitement. Some of the four foot waves are on the walled side. I watch Francis go on this closeout going left. Backside, he grabs rail and tucks inside the pocket while he’s dropping in. It’s so graceful. With a camera shot at the right moment, it would look legit before the wall comes down. 

            Now the sun is up and the word must be out, for surfers keep lining the beaches and entering the ocean. Every time I catch a right, I’m blinded by the sun. The water’s so calm that it’s like one huge mirror reflecting silverish gold. I get one right that I think is closing but is actually holding. I can’t see shit, so I look towards the shore and get two top turns based on feeling. A wonderful inconvenience perhaps? It’s harder to catch waves now with the crowds. It’s almost eight, and Francis says, “In about ten minutes I’m gonna go in.”

I hate to admit that my personality is that of an accommodator. I really want him to end his session on a good note especially since he went out of his way to come out before work. A good bump forms in the distance. It’s peaky, and I know it’s gonna be good. I turn around to Francis who’s more on the inside. “Francis,” I say, motioning towards the forming wave.

“You don’t want it?”

“It’s yours.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Go.”

I have prime position. Some other guys towards the shoulder want it, but Francis turns and gains priority. In my book, it’s the wave of the day. Just this gorgeous, open, four foot face, peaky and lined up all the way to shore. I’m glad he scored. 

Minutes later, from the inside, he signals that he’s out. I throw him a goodbye shaka and surf the rest of the session with strangers. I try to find Manny in the crowd, but the black suits and wet heads look indistinguishable as far as I can see. A guy next to me says, “It was better yesterday. Bigger, and half the crowd compared to today. That’s why everyone’s out here.” It makes sense. Despite the rising tide and mid morning there’s still no wind, and HB is still pumping out waves. I paddle further north to a working sandbar among new strangers. I try to stay to their outside, but I actually catch waves at the peak, thus eliminating their chances to get rides. I only do this for about twenty minutes, as I feel guilty for having an effect on their wave count. It’s just past 0900 when I paddle to an empty spot. It’s not breaking, but the early session is taking its toll; I’m fuckin’ tired. 

My trek back takes a while. I walk PCH because I don’t feel like paddling through the river mouths again especially with the higher tide. I catch myself falling asleep at the wheel during my drive home. I’m so hungry that I want to pull over and eat or grab a coffee, but I’m such a cheap bastard. As soon as I get home I cook up some ground meat, cook some black beans, chop some cilantro and onions, and devour eight tacos while watching TV. Exhausted on my couch, I’m enjoying this lazy Friday. It’s the session I’ve been waiting for.