TESTING THE “GOLD”, SAT 24DEC2011 MOR

Lauren's homemade jumbo shrimp pasta. Pre-surf fuel

Location: South HB

Crew: Khang

Time: 0730-0930

Conditions: Sunny, clear, cold air temp, light offshores, glassy, 3 ft, inconsistent, high tide, lotsa lefts.

     I didn’t even know that Surfline gave OC the gold rating this weekend, but Friday night I randomly checked Surfline and got caught by surprise. Even though there was surf predicted in the South Bay, it seemed like a good gamble to bet on consistent surf with decent shape. One conflict was that it would be Christmas Eve, and I planned on spending the day with Lauren’s family, but when she told me I wasn’t invited the first thing that came to my mind was Trestles. However, she told me that she wanted to at least spend the early part of the day with me before she had to leave, so I changed that gamble to Huntington. 

     I checked the roster to see who was on tap, but only Khang was available to roll.

    

     It’s 0530. I asked Khang to be here at 0545. I’m sluggish. For a change I eat a banana and drink some OJ right out of the carton. Khang texts me—he’s here. I fill up my hot water bottles, grab my surf pack, and head out the door.

     Despite my laziness to get up early, I manage to get us out on the road before sunrise. It’s a good feeling, taking these trips in the darkness. Everyone lives for something, and for us this is it: on the road, surfboards in the back, early in the morning coldness, and about to paddle out in frigid water; by society’s standards we’re crazy. 

     We’ve been using street parking when surfing HB, but on this morning I pull up to the state parking booth and buy myself an annual parking pass. Sure, it’s $125, but . . . I plan on making it pay for itself. Being the fortune teller that I am, I see many future sessions here in Huntington, many wipeouts, many waves, and . . . something looks fuzzy, I can’t make it out, but for 2012 there might be a possible barrel ride in there somewhere (wishful thinking)? Khang offers to pitch in, but I’m not that much of an asshole. I tell him not to worry about it and that a $3.50 post surf pho will do just fine. 

     So we’re VIPs once again. No more long ass walks to that cul-de-sac by that park further south. No more long ass walks eastward where we can’t park until 0800 anyway. We’re right here in the lot, spoiled fuckers we are. 

     The sun’s not even up yet. There are three guys on the sand checking it out while only a few cars dot the vacant lot. Oh, and I forgot to mention that it’s fucking freezing. My car temp gauge reads forty-two degrees, but Khang checks the temp on his phone which says it’s more like thirty-six. We’re all bundled up as we go for our first look. I’m sure that today there is the potential for gold, but since we are surfing early we are catching the high tide which is just under seven feet; it’s swampy. No . . . it’s not perfect, and now we’re on defensive mode again. Without verbal signals, our minds are in tuned with each other. On the verge of getting skunked there’s always that silence . . . you know, when you’re looking at the waves, they look like shit, but no one wants to say anything, especially when you drove a long ass way? BUT! There are a couple sets that roll through. The peaks look long but nowhere as long as the Manhattan walls. The center runs fast, but the shoulders form towards the inside and hold shape. So . . . it looks rideable, but it’s high tide, swampy rideable. Whatever . . . we came here to kick ass and chew bubblegum, and we’re all out of (you’ve heard this before). 

     What does cold weather do to a surfer? It’s actually quite ironic. It’s so cold that the thought of being in the water is paralyzing enough. The cold has us taking our time; it’s nothing to rush for, but we’re also stalling because of it. And then the anxiety that leads up to that moment when you do that first duckdive, it dissipates. It ends up being warmer in the water than on land; go figure. 

     Another reason why we don’t rush is because there’s only one other guy out who’s just to our north . . . that’s it. SoCal breaks are only empty if it’s too small or too big, and an empty lineup is usually not a good sign. Sitting there I turn and see Khang. The isolation is refreshing. The glassy water is a sea of gold. The sunlight, although blinding, gives an invigorating sensation, like having an amusement park all to yourself. We smile, laugh; say things like, “Fuck it, I’m just glad to be out here. It’s beautiful!” The water’s so glassy that the light bouncing up on Khang’s face looks like we’re in an indoor poor. Now all we need are waves.

Donny Duckbutter, you’re our next contestant on The Surf is Right!:

     I’m not an HB specialist, but after getting ass-raped here so many times I’ve come to learn the face of my assailant. This wave is fast. Even on small days it starts off as what seems like a harmless, two-foot bump, but once it hits the inside it jacks-up fast, pitches, doubles in size, and then lines up. 

     It doesn’t even take a minute before I see the first lump in the distance, and I start paddling for it right away. Still, it looks like nothing, but as it jacks-up it turns into a three foot wave. The shoulder forms fast, but I’m already there, popping-up as it reaches full height. What was a small lump is now a clean, glassy, lined-up wave. I get a couple pumps and one solid top-turn before kicking out. Yeah, it’s a short ride, but it’s better than a wall that you can only go straight on. Paddling back to the line-up I see another one. I turn and go, and just like that I get another good left all the way to the inside. Khang’s stoked for me as I make my way back, and I’m ear-to-ear at this point. I easily make the call that this is the best session in over a week. 

     Again, right when I get to the line-up I catch another wave but this time a “right.” I get a good backhand snap followed by a small cutback as the wave bogs out. “Damn,” says Khang. “You know what, Donny, that wave made me wanna suck your dick.” No, Khang’s not a military man, but if he ever was he’d fit right in. He’s manly homo humor is on point. Another ironic point: nothing spells “man” more than a guy who can grab another man’s balls and not even flinch. How the hell society planted that one in male behavior, I may never know.

     When I have good waves all to myself I get surf anxiety. It comes from the thought of other surfers crowding my spot. The guy to our north already paddles closer to us after seeing our waves. For the first hour only a couple surfers enter the water, still a good distance away from us. It’s not all a wave buffet though. We hit a long lull and decide to change spots, but as soon as we’re both on the sand the same spot that we just left turns on again, so we paddle back out. 

     By 0900 the crowd fills in, so I paddle south and away. It’s a bit inconsistent especially since the tide just topped-out, but there are still good waves. Someone must of fucked my ass with a rabbit’s foot and left it in there because waves are coming to me. Even guys sitting too far out pass on the lumps, leaving them all to myself where they are breaking. Khang gets some rides. He goes for the bigger ones, but they seem to closeout or get too racy. I want him to get a good wave so bad; I want him to share the same stoke that I’m enjoying. 

     I share my spot with an old longboarder. We paddle for the same wave; he’s on my inside. He yells at me (rightfully so), “I got it!” so I back out. He’s almost back at the lineup when a plus-set wave comes through. He turns to paddle for it, but this time I’m on his inside. He sees me and says, “Go!” What a gentleman. Behind me the peak closes but I slide down right on the shoulder as it builds. I love HB’s waves because they are fast. After my first turn I have so much momentum that I make each section, ending my wave with three turns. Now I’m all the way by Khang and the main crowd. Khang waves as I make my way towards him. “I saw every second of that wave,” he says. Fuck . . . I don’t know how I’m getting so lucky today. It’s my first three-turn left. 

     It’s almost 0930, so I tell Khang that I’m about to get out. I go to the car ahead of him as he works for his last wave. In the parking lot I see my brother’s friend Jim. I say hello as he changes between vehicles. What I don’t expect is to see him butt naked once I stop short from approaching him. I try to make the “Merry Christmas” a short one since I’ve already seen his ass cheeks and right testicle (it was a rear nut-shot view because he lifted his leg to get into his wetsuit), but he holds me up and tells me about how he talked to my brother.

     So good sessions aren’t entirely dependent upon the conditions. Sometimes waves just come your way. For a while it seemed like it would never happen—close outs, walls, bad onshore wind, skunked trips, and failed expectations. Finally, that day came; it was just my turn. As my friend Klaude says, “The shitty sessions will make you appreciate the good days that much more.” He’s right. When sessions are bad they’re unfulfilling, make you depressed even, but today I scored; it was my wave buffet . . . and it was fucking SUH-WEEET!