BIRTHDAY GIFT, THU 29DEC2011 MOR

Crew: Rick

Time: 0745-1030

Conditions: Sunny, glassy, four feet, mid-high tide, semi consistent.

Pre Blog:

     Life has been pretty damn simple since my winter break started. Lauren’s finally been given time off of work, and we’ve been able to spend quality time together to bring some balance back to our relationship. Other than surfing and a few family get-togethers, I’ve been a homebody. Instead of waking at the crack of dawn I’ve been sleeping in. After my morning sessions I work my way back home, eat until I’m full, lounge around in my Forever Lazy, wait for dinner, and end the night with some alcohol and video games. 

     It’s almost too simple. I’ve had time to think about my life. Is this the way to live? I’ve been invited out to do different things, but all I want to do is move at my own pace, go with the flow, and surf at every opportunity I have. I can only justify it by thinking about how busy I was during my last month of school or also by the thought of school starting again next month. But the fact that I’m questioning my free time makes me feel like something’s missing. Perhaps I should step out of my surfing world and see some old friends I haven’t seen in a while. Maybe that’s it; I’ve been isolating away from things that don’t fit my surf schedule.

Happy Birthday to me:

     It’s 0549 when I get my first text from Rick. I’m so tired. He’s asking me if I’m awake. I can see him now stirring about in his kitchen, sipping on coffee, checking out the forecast on his computer with all of his gear staged and ready to go. I’m so warm . . . so very warm in my bed. After a couple more punches on the snooze button I finally text him back at 0635. He suggests that we stay local. In twenty minutes he’s downstairs ready to go. 

     We swap vehicles and roll in the wagon. It’s just too damn frosty out there. I got seat heaters which catches Rick by surprise. I throw on some old school punk from GBH. “Cool,” Rick says. “That’s what I used to listen to back in my days.” I do this on purpose expecting to hear some old Dog Town stories from the late 70s or 80s and his childhood days in Venice. You can always count on Rick to keep a conversation going. 

     We first pull into the El Porto lot. I haven’t surfed here in ages. There’s size, at least a solid four feet and a little bigger on some sets, but it looks closed out. He lets his brother Manny know the report, and I text CC and Khang to suggest coming out during the higher tide. “We can go to HB?” I say. I got my parking pass, and I’m really not in the mood for closeouts. Not to sound picky, but I know for sure that over half of my sessions this winter have been wall-dodgers. 

     “Let’s check out the jetty,” he says. Ahhhh, the jetty, the spot where I caught my first wave. I haven’t surfed it since my brother left to Bali. It was where I got my biggest wave for 2010, a wave which my brother only labeled at six feet when I swear it was over one story. Since then I’ve severely trimmed down my estimates. 

     On the way to the Grand lot we see a nice right line up off of it; there are about four guys out. “This may be the only place with shape,” he says. Me . . . I’m kind of skeptical. It’s not crowded, but even with less than six guys it can be hard to share one wave. 

     Parking’s only three bucks. A local guy that Rick knows pulls up in a truck. His name is Yoman (sounds like “yo, mon!” reggae style). He’s an older dude from Bali. I chit chat with him a little and tell him that these waves must be too small for him. He replies, “No . . . too cold!” 

     Hammerlands isn’t working because the tide’s too high. It’s been a while since I’ve taken the “Grand walk.” Looking at the Jetty it’s hard to tell if it’s promising or not. A set rolls through which brings a sweeping wall, leaving the only makeable section just short of the smoke stacks. “I’m paddling out over there,” I say as I head south. 

     “No, we’re going to paddle out right against the rocks.”

     Hmmm, I don’t agree with this. If a wave comes I’m thinking that, not only will we be in the way of surfers, we might get slammed against the rocks. “Yeah, this is the easy way out,” he says as we start to paddle. The white wash is surprisingly mellow by the rocks. “You know, back in the day I used to swim right under the pier . . . it used to suck me right out. You feel it pulling us right now?” He’s right, and my anxiety dissipates. “If the swell’s coming from the northwest we’re protected.” We even get to the top of the wave faster than the guy walking on the jetty to jump off. If I tune in and listen I could learn a thing or two. 

     I don’t know any of the four other guys sitting at the point. It's quiet, and I feel that negative energy that says, “Great, more fuckin’ dicks just showed up to our spot.” I’m not used to catching waves next to piers or rocks; it always feels dangerous like one wrong pop-up could land you with a broken skull. Rick catches his first wave which doesn’t materialize; he ends up on the inside behind. I take a similar wave which does the same. Hating crowds, I paddle a little south and sit away from the pack. It’s pretty much what I do when trying to get scraps at Lowers. On the plus-sized sets, everyone paddles way in front of the jetty and actually takes off on the Hammers side. I swear that one guy is on a collision course for the rocks, but he narrowly miss them, and the wave opens up for a long ride just short of the smoke stacks. Again . . . long ride. We all look back to see the tosses of water, the occasional silhouette of the black-suited figure skyline over the lip then reenter, all the way until he’s just a little figuring somewhere by the shallows. It’s envy. . . . 

     I’ve caught a couple closeouts over here at my spot. Rick paddles by to ask if I’ve caught anything. Just as I’m about to let out my usual, pessimistic reply, a huge peak starts to form; it swings wide and misses the jetty completely. My mouth is still open, half-caught in dialogue, when he says, “Paddle for it, Matt!” Of course, he’s trying to go for it too, but I’m the only one sitting for enough to get the forming shoulder. Another guy is right on the peak, but he’s too deep and duckdives it. Gawd damn . . . the wave’s mooshy, but it’s big. I feel the lift as I’m just sliding into to it. The drop is so gradual; it’s like Trestles on a big day because this wave is so clean. The guy that just got the long ride is in my way, so I can’t do a deep bottom turn, but he’s watching me before he duckdives. I take the highline to avoid a collision, do a light cutback, set up my bottom-turn, and connect three solid carves all the way to shore. It’s classic. For a wave to break this big and this clean at Porto is unbelievable, slopy but rippable because of the size. Trestles at Porto, at least on this wave it is. 

     I’m just so fuckin’ lucky, I don’t know what else to think or say, but my crooked ass teeth are all that’s visible as I paddle back with my shit-eating grin. Rick throws me a thumbs-up from the top of the wave. I paddle nearby. The other guys aren’t saying anything, but they look antsy, waiting for the next bomb that doesn’t exist in the lull. “You got your birthday gift, huh?” Rick says.

     I paddle back to my spot. That’s me . . . the scavenger, a vulture of waves digging for leftovers, but right now it’s working. I watch the show, guys barely escaping with their asses; sometimes it looks like they’re surfing over the rocks—nuts. My next best wave is so walled that the guys by the jetty can’t make the section. I look to my left and see a guy straighten out; again, my distance from the pack has me on the shoulder. It’s a four-turn wave. I can’t even remember the last time I got four turns, but I can tell you that it’s only happened a couple of times, and for sure they were at Trestles. It has the in-between shape: not too vertical that you purl on reentry and not so slopy that you bog out; it’s perfect. Each turn feels more familiar every time I pull one off, top to bottom with speed, crouching low then extending as I climb. I can see why surfing good waves enhances one’s abilities. Unfortunately, for most of us they are few and far between.  

     I score for the first hour and a half. It’s not wave buffet status, but the waits are reasonable and the rides worth waiting for. The second half of the sessions gets inconsistent. My spot turns off, and most of my waves are closing out. Even the guys at the point are now all sitting towards the inside. I go to the top of the wave hoping I can end it on a phenomenal, long ride, but it never happens. I catch a bogger next to the rocks and meet Rick on the sand. Back at the car I run into Whiffleboy. I give him my morning report as he shakes my hand with his polar-bear death grip. Afterwards, Rick treats Lauren and I out to breakfast at Good Stuff. I return home to find a gift waiting for me; it’s Modern Warfare 3 for PS3, so I know what I’m doing tonight.

     I know it sounds cliché, but I’m so fortunate to have scored good waves on my birthday. If it wasn’t for Rick, I wouldn’t have made the effort to walk from the Grand lot. I would’ve just drove by for a peek as usual and complained about paying for parking. 

     I don’t really go all-out on my birthdays: no Vegas, big dinners, bars, or clubs. But the gift I was given couldn’t have been bought or planned; it just happened. Good waves that came specifically to me for my picking. Topped off by a homemade meal, video games, and champagne with my girlfriend, well . . . I can’t say that I’d want to be anywhere else.