STAYCATION SESSIONS—SAN ONOFRE (triple sesh), WED 7.13.2011 EVE

Crew: Frances

Time: 1730-1830, 1 hr.

Conditions: Onshore wind still, inconsistent, three feet, sunny, higher tide.

Captain Cool:

We're all watching the surf, and it doesn't look good. It's getting really hard to motivate ourselves for another paddle out. A car parks next to mine, and a huge beast of a man approaches our site. Rick asks, “Hey, are you Samoan?”

“Only at heart,” he replies. “We scored yesterday at state beach. Seven feet!”

“You paddling out?” I ask.

He looks down at me, nods his head, and says with reassurance, “Eeeeeeevery day, my friend. Every day.” He concentrates on the line up and adds, “They're sitting too far to the right. They need to sit right here.” He points out to a peak right in front of us.

So I'm thinking, okay, well . . . I guess this guy is just Mr. Awesome, right? Captain cool and shit. Billy bad ass. I watch him as he grabs his longboard and paddles out to the line. For the intro that he made, I'm expecting this guy to be some kind of Mickey Dora throwback or something. I watch him scratch out on waves until I get bored. When I glance over later, I see him doing late, unsuccessful turtle dives as tries to make it past the sets. Motherfucker. What a disappointment. It's a perfect example: let your surfing do the talking.

The Leashless Rider:

Beast's friend paddles out without a leash. This guy is more laid back and doesn't try to impose his coolness on us. All of us on the sand are critics. “I wouldn't go leashless,” says John.

“He's gonna lose his board,” says Rick.

I think it's a pretty gutsy move, but I can't tell if he's try to just show off or not. I hate to admit it, but I wanted to see this guy lose his board and swim back to shore after it. Instead, we watch this guy surf. He's fast, careful, and keeps a grip on his board after every wave. He only surfs for fifteen minutes and catches three rides. As he passes us on his way back, we all applaud. “Well done,” I tell him. “Well done.”

The Fastest Left:

So with the rising tide, there's this quick left hander that keeps teasing Frances and I. It's just to our south where no one is at. We keep talking to eachother, estimating, saying that if we sit right there as it starts to break that we'll get a fast little left. The main lineup doesn't look appetizing at all, so it's almost a joke to paddle out and try this.

“I'm changing,” I tell Frances.

“All right. Me too.”

We're smiling and laughing at eachother as we paddle out. It's ridiculous. No one wants this wave, but we're sure that others have eyed it and thought about it. Not us, we're pioneering. It looks much easier from shore, as we keep scratching out and shifting out of position from the current. Frances is the first to catch it. I expect for it to close out on him, but I later see him all the way towards the inside. I try to do the same, but it feels like I'm going to get pitched, so I back out a couple times. I finally scratch and kick my way into the drop. The wave jacks up at the last second and sends me flying into the open face. Just as the wave looks like it's going to close, it opens. It's a weird wave. I pump as far as I can to make the section, and a longboarder on shore scratches his head as he watches us. We're fools, but fools having fun on a wave all to ourselves.

I manage my way into a couple more, but Frances is the one putting on a clinic. He sees me air drop into one as I eat shit on the landing. The higher tide is making the inside bigger, and the backwash also adds some surprising lift.

We're done after an hour. The tide is so high that it's reaching the high shore line; I've never seen the tide so high at San Onofre before. We say our goodbyes to everyone, stop in San Clemente for some coffee to go, and beat the traffic back to LA. It wasn't a “surf your brains out” staycation sesh, but I was happy to see some new friendships being made. We were all brought together through surfing, and eventually we'll all be brought together again the same way.

STAYCATION SESSIONS—SAN ONOFRE (double sesh), WED 7.13.2011

Crew: Frances, Rick, and Jimmy B.

Time: 1330-1430, 1 hrs.

Conditions: Onshore wind still, inconsistent, three feet, sunny.

     Despite the surf, the day's turning out to be a success. Frances gets along with John quite well, especially since Frances is from Oahu. John says that his daughter goes to UH, as he shows us his UH sticker on his truck. They have a lot to talk about. We help John set up his tent, and Frances gets beers tossed at him the whole afternoon.

     Jimmy shows up with his friend from New Jersey, and he's about to take him for a paddle out. Rick follows and so does Frances, while I'm stuck deciding if I'm going to trunk it or not. I throw on some shorts and paddle out. The line up is lighter than the morning because the tide just bottomed out. There are still some three footers coming through, but the sections still seem fast and closed out. I get no memorable rides, but I watch Frances do his usual front side thing, and Rick never has a problem catching waves.

     We're only out there for about an hour. It starts to get a little crowded, I'm not getting any good rides, I'm cold, so it doesn't seem worth it to stay in the water. The activities outside of the water seem to be better than the actual surf.

STAYCATION SESSIONS—SAN ONOFRE, WED 7.13.2011 MOR

Crew: Frances and Rick

Time: 0730-1030, 3 hrs.

Conditions: Onshore wind, inconsistent, three feet, racy.

I've been dying for the opportunity to surf HB or go further south to San Onofre. Rick's friend John has a campsite reservation, so it seems like a good idea to go there for the whole day. Frances was down for the trip, so Wed. morning was all planned out.

As Frances and I exit Basilone Rd., we have a good view of Lowers. Unfortunately, the texture on the water is undeniable. The waves look crumbly, and nothing seems to be breaking other than Lowers. It's another gloomy morning. We park as close as we can to Churches and watch the waves roll through. It's not the San Onofre homecoming that I was hoping for. Frances has never seen Churches or Trestles in all of its consistent and glassy glory. There's just too much wind which is making things a little choppy, knocking down the waves prematurely.

I call Rick, and he's still on the road. Frances and I decide to walk to Middles, just south of Lowers. We score a peak all to ourselves. It's inconsistent, but at least there's no crowd factor. We sit there for at least an hour and a half, trading off rides. Trestles is a pretty slopy wave, and in the past month I've surfed nothing like it. I struggle and scratch out on a lot of waves while Frances does his front side attack on many. I get one good right that gives me two solid top turns. My backhand is still a little rusty, but that wave makes my morning and leaves me wanting more.

The high tide shuts our peak down, so we walk towards Churches to find Rick. We spot his bald head in the line up and paddle out towards him. Even though our peak at Middles was inconsistent, at least we didn't have the crowd of surfers that's at Churches. I have to give up on a couple waves to the longboarders on my inside; I can't compete with them. Rick paddles in, and minutes later I'm surrounded by a pack of about ten high school aged chicks. They start talking about plans to skinny dip at night. I look at Frances. Frances looks at me. We take this as our cue to call it a morning.

A PADDLE SESSION, TUE 7.12.2011 EVE

Crew: Klaude, Dais, Khang

Time: 1900-1945, 45 min.

Conditions: Onshore wind, choppy, horrible, and cold.

     Klaude calls and says he's heading out to Porto. Khang and Dais are supposed to be there already. I had just told Lauren that I'm on my way to do some laundry, but I can't pass up the opportunity to see my friends again. I also have Klaude's board bag to give back to him, so I head out to meet him there.

     It's good to see the boys. We shoot the shit and have a little small talk about my trip. There isn't much time, so we head to the tanks to paddle out. It's crowded and the surf looks like shit. We're all fiends, surf fiends, looking for that feeling of being on a wave to end the day right. It's funny how even in the poorest conditions, we need it; it's like a drug.

     I hit the water first but struggle to catch anything. If I remember correctly, Khang draws first blood, and Dais gets a couple waves too. Klaude and I are disappointed with the conditions. I catch one good left that actually has shape, but when I look in front of me, Dais is right there paddling out. I could try to maneuver around him, but it's not worth the risk, especially on a session like this. He's cheering me on and smiling. I step off the rail to avoid a collision, no gripes.

     The Manhattan meter maid is out there again, ready to collect for the city. The goodbyes are short. We all part separate ways, hoping to get together again this weekend.

A SMALL VICTORY, TUE 7.12.2011 MOR

Time: 0700-0900, 2 hrs.

Conditions: Gloomy again, clean, 2-3 feet.

     The back of my neck is all rashed up from my wetsuit. I can't understand it; it's never happened before. The initial plan is to go to HB, but I have to go to the VA to see the doctor, so I have to surf local. I check Porto and 26^th, but Porto looks much better. The surf is a hair smaller than yesterday, but there's no wind, the waves seem clean, and it looks pretty fun out there.

     I wish I could remember all of the rides that I got. I can't because there is one wave that overshadows the rest of them. Practicing my barrel riding, I've been working on staying close to the face until the wave closes out. Even though Porto is small, the waves are standing up. They aren't slopey, the faces are vertical, and the shoulders taper sharply after the curl. On one left, I crouch close to the wall, but there is nothing going over me; I'm too far on the shoulder. On the next wave, the section in front of me goes vertical, but it's longer. Expecting a close out, I tuck in going front side and extend my right arm to make myself flatter against the face. Instead of the usual crash and darkness that follows, I watch the wave throw-out over my head for a solid two seconds. I don't fall. When the wave closes, I'm still standing after penetrating out the back. Yes, it was fast, just mere seconds, but it was a new sensation that I've never felt before. Who cares that it was barely a three foot wave. Stoked, I look around to see if I got any validation. Of course, there are no witnesses. It's something that only my perspective can appreciate.

     It doesn't count as a barrel, but it feels like I've unlocked something here. Before Bali I wouldn't have even imagined that Porto would have this kind of potential, especially in small surf, but now I know it's there.

     I spend the rest of the session trying to reduplicate that wave, but it doesn't happen; I can't force it. I hope this is just a small taste of what's to come.

NOT SUMMER, MON 7.11.2011 EVE

Crew: Rick A.

Time: 1900-2000, 1 hr.

Conditions: Sunny, cold, windy, choppy, and crowded.

    I will always regard Rick as my first surf mentor. Sure, he's a bit longwinded at times, but there's a lot about surfing that the Venice alumni knows, so I listen and say “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” if it's the hundredth time that I've heard it. I do this with the utmost respect of course.

    Rick tex'd me to ask if I've been in the water. I told him about how China Airline's dinged the rail on my JS, so he said to head over for the repair. I show up with some offerings: a sushi platter from Trader Joe's that tastes like the $5.99 that it cost. Rick's doing a repair on his favorite fish, so he already has the materials ready to go. He makes me put on some gloves to help him out. He's giving me a seminar on what his mixture consists of, what to use, where to get them, and so forth. I try to absorb all of this, but . . . I don't remember any of it for the life of me.

     He says he wants to rush it for an evening sesh. The wind's been up all afternoon, but how can I tell the guy no? He's fixing my board, I haven't seen him since I left, and sometimes the paddle out is all about spending time with friends more so than the surf.

     

    
    I expect nothing, and El Porto has nothing. My God, it's so choppy. Everyone's sitting so close to the shore, as that's where the waves are breaking. There are little, random lumps that jack up for a short ride. We only have an hour, so I trunk it, thinking that I can endure an hour of cold. It only takes fifteen minutes before my teeth start chattering. Summer my ass. The DMS feels too tiny for this one to two foot surf. I catch a left and go as far as I can. Rick points out that I'm too far ahead of the wave, the same thing that Randy told me after a video of myself at Churches. Front side turns, I'm aware of my weaknesses more than ever now.

     There are guys finding some gold nuggets in the midst of it all, still getting some nice looking waves despite the evening chop. None of my rides are significant. My fever bothers me, I'm cold, and I feel like shit. The setting sun turns the sky orange, the dark blue water keeps every surfer bobbing in place, the waves seem to be rolling through in fast forward, and my eyes squint from the pain; I'm sick.

     I catch a close out as the meter maid shuts the 45^th St. entrance. I'm forced to park by the bathrooms, as the old man starts writing up tickets for the cars parked next to me. I feel like shit. I need rest.

PORTO REVISITED, MON 7.11.2011 MOR

A conversation weeks ago at Dunkin' Donuts, Bali:

I asked, “So when you came back, did you feel like your surfing improved?”

“No,” said Randy. “I had to get used to wearing a wetsuit again and riding small waves. . . . I sucked.”

Crew: Jon M.

Time: 0645-0800, 1 hr. & 15 min.

Conditions: Gloomy, slight north current, 3 ft., random peaks.

Since landing in LAX on Thursday, I had to get ready for work on the weekend. Facing brutal jetlag and a cold upon landing, I muster up the energy to surf as soon as possible. I told myself in Bali that I'd “kill the ego,” but I am human. I've waited for this moment, the moment I'd paddle out at my local break to see and feel my improvement first hand. At the same time, I don't want to be an asshole or get too cocky. I know I didn't “conquer” Bali. In fact, I know that it's just the first of many trips in the making. Nonetheless, aren't we all human? Can I blame myself for wanting to see how I'd do at Porto after my month long experience?

A mantra of old, and I'm now doing it again. I pull up to the Porto lot with my friend Jon trailing behind me. He's from my original surf group, back when I was on the gayest, epoxy 7'10 NSP with bright red flames on it. I let him sample my 6'6 Merrick MB, and I have no choice but to use my backup 6'1 DMS because China Air dinged my JS. It's weird looking out at the ocean and little peaks here and there. It's crowded, and it's not the same kind of crowded that I dealt with in Bali. In Bali everyone masses at the peaks. Here, it's just one continuous line as far as the eye can see, with thicker concentrations in front of 45^th, the shitters, and the sandwich shack.

We walk to the tanks (or now it's just one tank) like the good old days and time our paddle out. Jon tells me that regardless of his recent weight gain that he's one of the standout students at his martial arts school. Unintentionally, I cut him off as the last wave of the set dissipates. I grab my board, run out, and say, “I'll see you out there!” Porto's gray waters welcome me. My timing is off for the paddle out, but I still get to the line up with ease. I turn around, and I have no idea what the fuck happened to Jon.

I look back to check my position. Right here, in front of the small, white tank, this is where I'm holding. My first couples waves have no shape, but at least the little three footers are standing up a little for a fast ride. The waves are closing, but I still tuck in and practice staying close to the face. I get pinched, but why not get pinched? There's no reef, nothing pokey below, it's not five feet Randy/Bali scale, and the paddle to the lineup is ridiculously short from the shore; from now on there is no reason not to go for it. When I recheck my position, I see that I've drifted north. I look for Jon; there's still no sign of him. Where the fuck is this guy?

My wetsuit is loud. A gift from Manny A., a free “hand-me-down.” It's a brand new Hurley wetsuit, dark blue, it has light blue lines on it, there is white trim on the back, and it's short sleeved. It attracts attention that I don't want, but ninety-nine percent of surfers are unsponsored, so what right do I have to complain about a free wetsuit. Thanks, Manny, I'm grateful.

Carrying the same attitude from Bali, I say hi to the locals that I paddle past. There's the heavy set guy with a beard on his longboard. “Good morning,” I say.

“Good morning!”

There's the local guy on his short board, Caucasian dude. “Mornin',” I say.

“How are you?”

“Good, good.”

I look north and see Jon sitting on his ass on the sand. He's by the smoke stacks. Fuckin' A. He walks in front of me and starts pointing towards his van. I wave at him, motioning my arm as if to tell him, “Get your fucking ass back in the water!” He sits and watches, and I go for more waves.

My DMS feels so tiny compared to the JS, but to my surprise I'm actually catching waves. I should be scratching out, but I'm popping up before the lip curls. No, no fancy turns this morning, but it's still an awesome feeling being back in the water. I'm paddling hard, kicking my feet, no one's getting in my way, and everyone seems pretty mellow. On a left the section tries to close out on me, but I pump ahead to keep momentum, walk the nose, and take it to the inside. My rights are rusty, as I lose speed on my top turn. In Bali I barely caught any rights.

I look back to see Jon giving me his final wave as he walks back to his van. After my next ride I am faced with an oncoming set as I paddle back out. Testing my duckdive, I see if I can make it under the waves effortlessly. I fail. My board's still snatched away on a couple waves. It's a reminder that I need to work on it. A guy paddles next to me. He's short, stocky, dark like me; has short, even length, black hair with a little salt and pepper look to it. He looks Polynesian, but I can't tell for sure.

I say, ”Good morning.”

“Weren't you over there?” He's pointing towards 45^th. 

 

“Yeah, I was, but I got washed around a little, so now I'm over here.”

“Oh . . . because I was watching you.”

I can't read this guy's mind, but the whole energy of the conversation feels positive. I guess I was doing something right for someone to be watching. Two of the local rippers--this young guy with long, curly hair, and this other guy with short hair wearing a grey wetsuit with what looks like a Swiss emblem on it--show up on the scene. I become self conscious of my loud attire then feel the pressure to do good. It throws me off a little. I tell myself to be humble and that just because I went to Bali doesn't mean that I'm the John Holmes of El Porto now. It's almost eight, it's time to pay for parking, so I cut my session short to start the day's errands.

I'm ashamed to say that I expected to hit the water and just shred. Again, I'm not perfect. But it was still a good welcome home session for me. I'm thinking positive and looking forward to my progression back home.