Crew: CC
Time: 0715-1000
Conditions: Cold, offshore, mid to high tide, 5 ft, angry closeouts which improved with rising tide.
Okay, so today was the day I was supposed to take a break . . . but Francis hit me up last night and said he’d be surfing at first light. Again, I’m a sucker for invites, so. . . .
It’s 0630, and I’ve already hit the snooze button twice. I’ve been saying that my body needs rest, but today I’m one-hundred percent sure that I really, really need the rest. I’m just worried about my shoulder. I’m fine now, but I can feel the strain that I’ve been putting it under. The last thing I want is a relapse, and I’m sure that one full day out of the water can make a world of difference. I take my time getting mission-ready, and then I’m out the door. It’s another cold one, as I can see my breath on the way to my car. Street cleaning is today in Manhattan Beach. I don’t expect any free parking, but I score at the top of the hill. Francis hasn’t returned my text, so I assume he’s already in the water. Counting from my parking spot, I only see two guys out. Rick’s already text’d me. He said he’s paddling out at El Porto, and that there are big, thumping closeouts. Looking at the waves it’s similar to Christmas day but a little gnarlier. The inside is nothing but roaring white, and the set that I just saw come through was nothing but long, shapeless lines. Regardless, I’m here and Francis is probably out there. I get my shit right and head to the sand.
The morning coffee crew is checking out the surf from the walk path, seeing if this morning is worth it or not. Only one other guy joins me on the sand to warm up, it’s a kid who’s got a body board. Other than him, there are only two guys in the whole lineup and two guys further north by 33rd . . . that’s it. It’s not even that early. I can understand if it’s first light, but it’s not. The ocean’s a ghost town, it’s eerie, and it’s fucking with me. One of the guys looks like Francis, but it’s hard to tell. It’s a long paddle to the lineup, but it looks like him. I start to wave, do a quick warm up, and make my way out. There’s a lull, so I’m rushing before the place turns on. The kid on the body board paddles next to me. About half way out is when the set comes. To me, this is the worst part about surfing—getting caught on the inside. I know that this isn’t Pipeline, but I don’t care. The South Bay can get heavy, and when it’s dumpy it’s powerful. There’s nothing like seeing that wall coming down right on top of you. You duckdive and brace only to get violently thrashed while your board’s ripped away by something so powerful that the only way out is to give-in. And then there’s the next wave, and the next, and then the loss of breath, until finally Mother Ocean lets you crawl on through, only after you’ve paid your fee. It’s what I hate the most, but worst of all is when you’re out alone. In this case, two paddling out and two in the lineup, that’s still pretty grim.
Despite my anxiety, I don’t lose my board, but I get dragged back and washed around a bit. The next one breaks farther out which is exactly what I don’t want. The body boarder moves past me. After the third wave I’m huffing and puffing, and my right shoulder’s feeling weak too. Francis is looking back at me, but the only problem is that he’s not Francis. It’s a look-a-alike, another dark dude with long black hair. I was waiving to him on the sand, and he’s giving me that look that says, “Do I know you?”
The waves back off. With these earplugs I can hear my own heartbeat pulsate through my temples as well as my rapid breathing. The body boarder just makes it out; I passed him somewhere on the inside. The guy that looks like Francis is now on the shore heading home. So there’s just us three, but the two guys up north paddle close enough for me to see their faces. It’s sketchy. On the next set I paddle into position, but all of the waves are closeouts. Some rogue sets break further outside, but not so far that I can’t paddle past them. The body boarder catches a closeout. Minutes later he’s taking the exit on the sand. In my immediate area it’s just that one other guy. He’s got the whole NorCal get-up: hood, gloves, and booties; he looks like a gingerbread ninja.
I’m being especially picky. For one, if I get caught on the inside I want it to be worth it. It really sucks to knowingly catch a closeout only to resurface in the impact zone and find that the rest of the set has your name on it. Nope, not me. I need something better than a closeout if I’m gonna pay that ticket.
I play with my position for the first twenty minutes before sliding into my first wave. There are closeouts, but the rising tide takes keeps the waves from being completely round. You know there’s some size when you only see the top of the wave when looking down the line. You actually have to look somewhere else to see where you’re going. It’s a steep, fast drop, but this is different, there’s a chance to make it. I draw a high line to make the section faster and then slide down with the lip as it crumbles. The shape gets better towards the inside, but I’m surfing over marbleized white-wash which means I should be kicking out now. The other guy is paddle back out behind me. It feels good to show him that he’s not the only nut out here, and that I’m catching waves as well.
For the first hour the scene is still desolate. I see more guys watching from the metered lots now, at least four of them just standing, gauging. And we . . . we’re their test monkeys. Within the first hour a couple more guys paddle out, catch a single wave, and leave. It makes me wonder why the hell I wanna be out here. Francis isn’t here, none of my boys are, but yet I remain. My surfer soul, I think to myself. That’s what I’m doing; I’m feeding it. Ninety-nine percent of us aren’t pro, amateur, or anything remotely close to that. And if we don’t have anyone to prove anything to then we’re out there being our worst critics. How the fuck could I go home now? I’m here. Yeah, it’s eerie and empty, but I need to at least try to catch something. Even if I get beaten up on the inside, I’d be a coward not to paddle to exhaustion before going home. Coward . . . is that why we have something to prove? I could be out here because I’m a coward.
Like yesterday, the higher tide is making things better. A couple more waves come through that are makeable. Any wave that looks like it has a chance of having a shoulder, I’m paddling for it. The morning started off slow, but now I’m getting rides. On my next left I manage two sloppy turns. They are sloppy because I really don’t want to eat shit and get caught on the next wave; everything I do is calculated. I kick-out, stoked because I didn’t fall and stoked because I can make it back to the lineup safely. My backside is just as ugly, but at least I’m out here riding what no one else wants. It’s about 0900 when a small crowd starts to show. Don, the king of 26th St., paddles by after his wave. He says something, but I can’t hear shit because of my earplugs. I reply with a general statement, “At least it’s empty!” hoping that it’s a universal answer to whatever he just said.
“There’s a couple fun ones out here,” he says.
A couple new faces are in the water. One of the guys paddles up to me and says, “Aloha.”
What seemed to be a session of doom becomes a fruitful morning. Only one grom is out, and I take off on a wave that he passes on. I feel like I’m doing something right. My best wave is a right. The aloha guy takes off on a closeout, but he leaves a bigger and nicer wave out the back; now it’s all mine. I’m right on the shoulder, and he hoots me onto it as I drop in. The face is so smooth, concave, and vertical that it feels as if I’m entirely on my rail, but it gives me more speed. I loosen up my arms on the bottom turn and set myself up. The sun gleams off the shoulder turning it into a light green with little pits on the surface from the offshore. My top turn is still sloppy, but this wave is treating me like an ugly chick in a nice dress; I’m gonna look “all right” no matter what.
By 0930 there are about a dozen guys out. It’s a thin crowd by local standards but thick enough to be annoying. The stand-out spot’s been identified, and everyone’s sitting on it. Another familiar face paddles up to me and says, “Plenty guys out today, yeah?” I’m surprised that he chose me to address this to and that I wasn’t just one of those “other guys.” This spot is special, there are a lot of regulars out here, and within those regulars there are the elites too. I guess it helps to have etiquette. I don’t ever drop-in on those guys, so I’d like to think that I’m welcomed to my small share.
I don’t mean for the session to go over two hours, but it does. It’s hard to leave because the shape has become softer and cleaner. I’ve seen the waves turn from horrid to fun. I see CC stretching on the sand. She paddles out on a gold-railed Zippy Fish. Our chit chat is interrupted by the consistent surf, so our conversation is broken up into increments. She says she’s trying out the board and that she’s just getting a feel for it.
I blow my next two rights for no reason. I can’t stick the top turns and fall on the reentries; I’m tired. Whenever I surf over two hours I start making silly mistakes. I tell CC that I’m catching my last one in. It’s a close out, but I’m just looking for a ride to the sand.
Later at home Rick calls to let me know he’s refueling for his second sesh. He says that Porto is firing. I believe him. About two hours later he calls me back to tell me that his favorite fish got buckled in half while duckdiving a big wave. He says there are a lot of cameras and photographers there; he got a tube ride but got pinched. I’m glad that I’m not crazy; it must’ve been a little gnarly today. The best thing about the sesh was being out there for over an hour with just a couple guys. Maybe the guys from the lot thought we were stupid, or maybe it was just too cold and eerie to go out that early. Maybe everyone’s bed was too warm and cozy to get out of. I was out there because I wanted to be out there—drive. That can’t be a bad thing?
Okay, but I honestly wouldn’t have gone out if I didn’t think Francis was there. I wonder if I’ll be able to rest tomorrow.
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