HOUSE WINS (double sesh), WED 9NOV2011 EVE

Crew: Francis

Time: 1500-1700, 2 hrs

Conditions: Sunny, clear, warm air, stinky and cold water, glassy, 1-2 ft, consistent, low tide, closeouts.

            We go to Café Del Sol for brunch. I order the machaca and Francis gets something so spicy that he rushes his meal. It’s my second time here; the first time was on my way to Baja. We drag out the meal in hopes that the conditions are miraculously improving while we eat. When we get back we can see the cobblestones exposed along the shore. The wind blows steadily onshore, and there are some consistent waves coming in. The main issue is with the size. Everything is about two feet. We watch and try to make the conditions better than they are, but it’s clear that there are no three foot pulses. Again, a small handful of longboarders rule.  

            In desperation, we walk along the San Onofre side to see what it’s doing over there. I’ve never been there during the day, and I show Francis the little hodads that Rick brought me to for the first time months ago. A lot of older people are hanging out in the lot or are laying out on the sand, most likely where they planned to spend their whole day. An old timer greets us with a hello as we walk by. When I respond with good afternoon he says, “Is it that time already for ‘good afternoon?’” I wonder if I’ll be chillin’ at the beach like this when I’m older. 

            The hodads are the highlight while the surf still proves to be tiny. We drive back to Churches but fail to find the worth in paddling out. Just then a truck full of guys pulls up next to us. Their windows are closed, but we can hear the commotion going on inside. They pour out and look at the break. I hear, “Look at that, look at that!” followed by hoots of praise. They reach in the truck bed and pull out assortments medium boards and fishes; they are stoked. 

            The drive back is a little depressing. I thank Francis for taking this gamble with me and coming along. He says, “I’ve been skunked so many times over the years that I’m used to it.” I guess that’s the attitude I need to have. He’s been surfing longer than me, and in my short time surfing I have definitely had my share of “the skunk,” but I still get bummed out the same every time.

            For shits and giggles we stop by 26^th St. to see if it’s worth a local paddle out. The tide is around zero feet. Small little 1-2 foot peaks form and fizzle over shallow water. It’s much worse than Churches. I make the remark that if we could have juxtapositioned both breaks we would’ve paddled out for a second sesh down south. We drive to Porto and it’s just a hair better. We walk all the way to Hammers to see if there are signs of life. Coming back to the car we lean over the El Porto rails and look out. I say, “Dude, I’m with you, man. We can paddle out, but it’ll be like this until at least another hour when the tide comes up a little.”

            “If it wasn’t such a nice day I could just turn around and not even think about it.” 

            He’s right. There is zero wind here compared to down south. It’s one of those classic, El Porto, late afternoons that are super glassy, uncrowded, and warm . . . minus the waves. They look like they want to do something, but because of the tide they close. The thought of going home gives me a feeling of emptiness. We put two hours worth of quarters in the meter and suit up.

            The water’s just as cold, but the surface texture is so smooth, ideal for good shape. We trudge through kelp as we walk towards deeper water. Little bits of trash still linger from the weekend rain, and the water smells like stale garbage. Welcome to the South Bay. Some waves break in front of us. They start off so clean that they look rideable; all we need is more tide. I turn to Francis and say, “I got a good feeling about this one.”

            Immediately after paddling out, we catch waves in rapid succession, but these rides are all short. The drop-ins are fun, and some of the bigger waves actually go a little hollow for an imitation barrel on the closeout. Even though they’re not lining up, I’m having fun just dropping in. The crowd thickens momentarily, but everyone’s spaced out evenly. The low sun is blinding, and the water is so smooth that the light reflects back up as if we’re at an indoor pool. The water is unbelievably still which keeps us from any thoughts of turning around. The tide’s coming up a little, but the shape is still marginal. My wave of the day comes during sunset. I paddle into the shoulder where I have the best chance to get the most out of the shoulder. The face holds long enough for me to get two bouncy and responsive pumps, and then . . . the wave closes out. That’s it, that’s my wave of the day; two pumps culminate the whole day’s surf journey: the drive, the trials, and the search to find more. I’m a two pump chump, and usually I’d be pretty upset, spawning with negative energy all the way home. 

            On the way back to the car I wasn’t sad at all, in fact there was some sense of fulfillment and satisfaction. We tried; we did our best. The conditions were better down south but still not good overall. We came back home and still paddled out despite the meager conditions. It was a fun little sesh to put a period on the day. Sure, there was no shape, but we stayed busy, and the repetition of dropping into smooth faces before tucking into oblivion had its value of fun. Today wasn’t the day to go out searching for surf, but if we hadn’t we’d be indoors surfing the internet instead, maybe going on jizzonline to blow one good load on a dirty T-shirt out of boredom (me for sure, I don’t know about Francis), and we wouldn’t have even gotten our toes in the sand or our feet wet. Despite gambling and losing, we spent the day doing the best thing possible: surfing.

           

            After we changed I started the car to leave, but I took a look up at the ocean. “Damn, check that shit out,” I said. Francis turned. It was one of the most majestic sunsets that I’ve ever seen at Porto. The horizontal lines of the faint pulses of waves moved in as they reflected the orange and pink sky. The oil rig in the ocean shined its lights in the distance looking like a floating city. Streaks of clouds froze as the pink turned to a light purple with every passing second. The sunset remained picturesque until I made that right turn on Grand Ave., officially turning my back and saying good bye to the sun and the sea. No . . . our day wasn’t wasted at all.