WHAT A GOOD CARVE CAN DO: TUE 04OCT2011 MOR

Crew: Solo

Time: 0700-0800

Conditions: Overcast, inconsistent, long lulls, 2 ft, occasional 3-4.

            Last night I sent out the mass text about surfing in the morning. J said that he’s down, Shan said he’ll be there, and Francis opted to sleep in. 

            Upon walking out of my apartment in the morning, I notice that the sidewalk is a little wet, so is my car. The thought occurs to me that it rained last night. Driving past the LAX lookout, I see the flag blowing a little. I’m already expecting to get skunked. J calls, and he’s already parking. It’s been a little while since I’ve seen J too. I apologize to him for not being in touch to talk about our Baja trip we have coming up because I’ve been busy. It’s still a dark morning, and the atmosphere is a heavy, gray filter hindering the sun’s power. It’s such a dismal site; the creeping sun and dark sky give a midnight-blue appearance. 

            “There’s a lot of people,” says J. 

            I look out. It appears that the high school surf team is practicing. I immediately get the flashbacks. Last fall this was a common site; every morning those kids would be out there, even in the shittiest conditions. They paddle out no matter what. It’s a good lesson for us all. 

            J says it’s not worth it. I understand. The water’s not as messed up by the wind, in fact . . . the wind is weaker at the beach, but the peaks are small and low. It looks like long two-footers with little corners at the end. It’s still drizzling a little. I tell him that I’m gonna see what Porto’s doing. He says he’ll follow. 

            I pull into a half-filled lot. As I park J calls. “How’s it look?” he asks.

            “Eh, it’s all right. It looks like two feet. Not much better.”

            “Okay, dude. I think I’m just going to work early.”

            J can only surf for an hour in the mornings. I don’t blame him for his call. I send a text to Shan and Francis to let them know how it looks. I’m so close to turning around, and then the left just south of 45^th starts working; a set comes through. Easy three-foot waves start peeling . . . unridden. That’s all I need to see. It’s about a quarter to seven, and I’d like to get a solid hour before the meters require their daily raping of my funds. 

            There’s no warming up this morning. I suit up and hit the water. The lineup’s still empty. I hate myself for being filled with nervous energy. It’s caused from the emptiness in the water. I have this spot all to myself, and there are waves here. I need to catch waves before it gets crowded; the pressure’s on.

            I paddle over a wave half way to the line up. I duck dive a little wave three-quarters to the line up. In the distance, I see the set coming. I prefer to not “turn and go.” I love paddling out, sitting in the lineup, and getting a feel for the spot before actually surfing, but this wave is coming right for me. I’m already breathing hard from the paddle and breathing even harder for this wave. It’s an easy four feet on the face and building. Before I even get to the lineup, I turn around just in time to slide down the face. It’s a long building shoulder, but the shape is holding. I’m racing to get to the end of the shoulder, so I end up pumping down the line. It’s not the greatest wave of my life, but for the crappy morning I was expecting, this is indeed a jewel. I’m stoked when I get to the lineup. The majority of the surfers are by the shitters and the sandwich shack. I want another, but the lull is long. Before the next set arrives, people start trickling in towards my area. I give up on waiting and paddle a little north to escape the invaders. At the north of the tanks, I catch a fast right. I can see that it’s forming into a wall and going to close, but before it does, I negotiate a bottom turn and carve the lip. The feeling is almost indescribable, but I believe it to be one of the sensations that we as surfers strive for every session. The lip was so soft, textureless, like a blanket of silk. I pushed on the tail with the balls of my feet as I torqued my body, pointing my nose back down. The carve itself slowed my turn down for a moment, but it was still a smooth and fluid motion, seamless. I redirected myself back down the line and pumped the face before it closed out. Again, it was just a moment that was barely a couple seconds, but the feeling itself left an impression, that even writing this post days later I can go back to it. The gray skies, the lone paddle out, the solo first wave, and the carve that sustained me. 

            The waves were good, but they were few and far between because of the long lulls. I paddled back in at 0800. I only surfed for an hour, but I was so happy that I didn’t turn around and go home. The day was made in one carve.