PURL, SAT 31DEC2011 MOR

Location: North O-Side

Crew: Rick & Francis

Time: 0815-1045

Conditions: light fog, offshore then switched to onshore, 4-5 ft, mid tide, inconsistent.

Yesterday morning at Manhattan Beach. Too much fog.

 

Pre Blog:

     I didn’t surf yesterday, but I wanted to. I sent a text out to Khang and Rick with no reply. I headed to Porto anyway to see if I’d bump into anybody. Rick was there, but said, according to everyone else, that the shape wasn’t so good. You see, the fog was so thick that you couldn’t see past the shore. I was skeptical because I really wanted to catch some waves. We ran into Whiffleboy who said the same—not much shape out there. Rick went home, and I went to 26^th to face the same visibility issues. Not worth it, I guess. Later that morning Khang sent me a text. He said it was fun. Bad call on my part.

The Plan:

     Rick was hellbent on traveling for surf this weekend. He, like many others, has to go back to work next week, so this is has last chance to surf before going back to the weekend warrior schedule. North Oceanside was the call. With one more slot open in my car, I sent an invite to Francis who gladly accepted. 

     It’s 0500. I can’t believe it’s this early already. I just went to bed around midnight. I hit the snooze button, and it’s now 0511. I contemplate on five more minutes, but I have so much shit that I have to prep. Officially, I wake up. Francis is right on time, and I meet him downstairs to load up our gear. Rick’s a little behind schedule, but we’re on the road by 0545. We’re all hoping for some good surf. I tell Francis that our O-side spot is always a gamble, I’ve never caught it good, and I’ve been skunked my last couple times down there. Of course, Rick has caught it when it’s firing, barreling, double-overhead, you name it. Also, this is a chance to escape this thick South Bay fog.

The Trip:

     The fog clears once we pass Carson. We’ve made it. We can see the purple horizon; things are lookin’ up. As soon as we enter Costa Mesa the fog is even denser than El Segundo. I’m in the slow lane doing 55 because I can barely make out the tail lights in front of me. As we approach Trestles the fog clears again. The celebration repeats itself. Lowers and Churches looks fun, most important is that the water’s glassy; there’s no south wind. So far things are lookin’ good; we might score. 

     Rick’s friend Michaelson is meeting us in O-Side, and Rick calls to tell him that the fog has cleared up, but as soon as we leave the San Onofre area we drive into another blanket. We tell eachother that we celebrated too soon, but just as we reach our surf destination we’ve reached the end of the patch, and the sun is just about to rise over the mountains. 

     We can’t see the waves from the parking lot, but as soon as we hit the sand we see fast, five-foot, scattered peaks all along the beach. The lefts off the jetty are working too. In an instant I start getting the caffeine jitters from my anticipation to paddle out. I’m jogging in place and so is Francis. There are only two guys out, and a hollow, right-hander barrels right in front of us unridden. 

     The only problem is that we must backtrack to lead Michaelson to our spot. By the time we gather the rest of our party and suit up, the size and consistency has gone down just a hair. Michaelson’s not too stoked, Rick’s changing, but Francis and I can’t wait any longer, so we paddle out to the closest peak. It’s 0815, and the tide has bottomed out. Francis and I catch a couple waves, but they closeout towards the inside. The current’s pulling south, and by the time Rick joins us we’ve already drifted to the jetty. We see a big left A-frame and peel away unridden; it’s fast and lumpy, but it has an open shoulder. The water refracting off the rocks makes the surface unstable. Rick’s the one to draw first blood. He gets one of the set waves all the way to shore. I’m in position for another pitchy A-frame, but it has so much speed that as I slide down, my nose gets caught in the face. It’s a healthy wipeout. Now it’s Francis’ turn. Instead of paddling for the shoulder he heads for the peak, turns around, nearly air drops, almost falls backwards as he sticks the landing, regains his composure, and he makes the section. Looking behind the wave I see his toss of water over the back. 

     Unfortunately for me, my wipeout sets the tone for my session. The lulls are long, but when the waves come they’re big, fast, technical bastards. Over and over again, I watch Francis and Rick put on a clinic. Rick makes the call that Francis is getting the waves of the day. I look for waves that line-up, but they closeout towards the inside. On the fast A-frames, I just can’t survive the pitch and keep purling. It’s frustrating because I’m blowing good, long rides. I see the faces opening as my nose goes under and propels me forward. I wear my emotions on my sleeve; it’s obvious that I’m frustrated. Francis even sits off to the side to give me priority. Rick says, “You got the next one, Matt!” I hate charity, but my pissy attitude is causing it; I just know I can do better, and I want a monster ride like these guys have been getting. 

     Eventually I get some rides that I don’t purl on, but they are so fast that I struggle to stand on my board. The G’s keep me stuck in a crouched position, hand in the face, and being more careful than manueverable. The water’s refraction makes the take-offs bumpy and the sections a little wonky. My main concern is distance more-so than carving. 

     My best wave is my worst wave. I make two sections that seem like they’re going to close, but I take the highline on the lips and get momentum as they come down. The third section stands; it’s vertical. Instead of pulling in I straighten out, missing the barrel. A guy sitting on the shoulder goes for it and gets the remaining half of the ride. I’m just not on it today. I don’t have much experience here, I’m not as good as my two counterparts, and my surfer reflexes can’t keep up with the speed; I literally feel like a Barney, the fetal stages of surfing when you’re on the wave but don’t know what to do. I just had an awesome session on my birthday, but I resign to the fact that not every session can be a good one, and just like how I scored last week while Khang didn’t, it’s my turn to take the back seat while my buddies are in the zone. 

     I have the peak all to myself after Rick and Francis leave the area. There’s a new crew taking over the lineup, but I’m at the top of the wave. I know what the water’s doing, and I bolt for the horizon at the first signs of the next set. I’m in front of the peak but behind the shoulder as the wave jacks up. The guy on my outside sees me going, so he pulls out. I feel a little deep as I pop-up and slide, and then . . . purl. I resurface after the destruction. The other guys are looking at me. It’s the path of a surfer. Some moments are triumphant, others are embarrassing and humiliating. This is the latter. 

     Back on the sand I can feel how much the wind changed, it’s now onshore. Rick sips on a beer, pats me on the back, and tells me that I should ride a thicker board. It’s the lecture that I’ve heard from him ever since I started riding a shortboard. I know he means well. He has the right to make the suggestion, as he constantly defies the odds of paddling into waves that look unmakeable. Once we’re all taking a hot shower, I begin to mellow out. I’m not perfect, no surfer is perfect, and I can’t expect to have a breakthrough session every time I surf. Rick scored, and Francis caught the morning’s best waves on his first trip here; their stoke is my stoke.

Fuel:

     Rick suggests a Mexican market in San Clemente. At first I’m skeptical. When he says “market” I’m expecting that we have to stand on the corner and eat our food. The restaurant’s called La Tiendita. I order the machaca plate for $5.95, and it’s even better than Café Del Sol. The portions are bigger, and they have a better selection of tacos under two bucks. Rick treats me to coffee for the drive home, and I barely keep my eyes open for the last stretch back to The Gundo.

     It’s the last surf session for 2011, but I’m not even thinking about tonight. I feel unsettled, and I hope to redeem myself tomorrow morning.