STAYCATION SESSIONS—TRESTLES: THU 7.21.2011 EVE

Crew: Solo

Time: 1700-1900, 2 hrs.

Wave count: 9

Conditions: Gloomy skies returned, the sun never came back. Cold, very light on shore wind, solid 3 foot surf, but frickin' crowded!

Where Am I again?:

     I had a dream that I was underneath a car doing some kind of repair, but when I tried to get out from under the car, the light from the sun blinded me. I could hear kids in the neighborhood playing, but I didn't want to freak them out in my current state. I called for my sister Jenny who I thought was near by. I open my eyes and find myself staring at the “oh shit” handle above the passenger window. Where the fuck am I? The neighborhood kids I heard in my dream are just kids playing in the sand. It takes about ten seconds before I realize that I'm sleeping in the back of my car. Odd.

     I'm so very, very, very thirsty. That Butterfinger Sonic Blast was a bad idea. My mouth is parched with the faint taste of ice cream; I need water badly. I sit up in the back of my car still half asleep. It's overcast again, and cool wind blows in from the ocean. I watch this older guy with a peak all to himself. He's falling really awkward, and then I notice that he's riding without a leash. He's good though. Right after each pop up, he walks the length of the board to hang 5 off the nose. The immediate weight-shift brings power and speed, but he eats shit. His board shoots in the air and coasts to shore. He's coming closer doing the swim of shame.

I look at the waves, feel the wind in my hair, and look down at my ashy legs. I wonder if I've wasted my day. While I'm at it, my life for that matter. Hmmm, all thoughts of a drained surfer who wakes in the back of his vehicle/cabin. I start the car and head to the snack stand. Instead of a water I order a large mango shave ice.

     The old lady working the snack shack is a total bitch to the little kids. I hear her as I'm crunching away. “The waffle cone is one dollar, if you order the ice cream by itself, it's three dollars.” The kids are silent and fail to respond. She continues, “So if you buy the ice cream, it's three dollars, if you want it in the cone, it's four.”

     A kid says, “Can I have the waffle cone?”

     She replies, “So you just want the waffle cone with no ice cream in it?!”

     Jesus H, I think to myself. Why are there people like that who work in places like this. I was just like those little kids dealing with cranky old people when I was young. It makes no sense. Then a father brought his daughter over to buy her some ice cream. I'm trying to crunch away again, and then I hear him bitching about the price. “This costs four dollars,” he says.

     The girl tells the old lady, “I'll have the happy birthday ice cream.”

     “No, no happy birthday ice cream,” says the old lady. She goes over the flavors that she has.

     “Do you have birthday cake flavor?” the girl asks.

     Unbelievable. I drive back to my parking spot with my shave ice in hand. What the fuck is wrong with people nowadays? 

 

An Evening Battle:

     I feel like crap after Sonics. Klaude texts me and writes: Garbage in, garbage energy. I look at Churches and see that there's enough room for me to squeeze in, but I wonder how my spot at the cliff is doing. I don't paddle there; I walk. Damn, surf looks pretty dismal. There's more texture on the water, but it really just looks flatter than the morning. I get to the cliffs, and no one is out. But I have faith, and I sit right where I did in the morning. It takes about fifteen minutes before a wave arrives. It's a right, it lines up well, and it's good for two turns. After that, a couple more waves come that break too close to shore; I scratch out. At the twenty minute mark my faith is gone. I look at Lowers. It's working; it always works. Lowers is like a wave machine. It can be shitty everywhere, Lowers will always have fun, clean waves, and there will always be people on it. I can go back to Churches and catch one of those little shit peaks, or I can be a Spartan and “go for glory” by slithering my way into the Lowers line up. I can hang outside and get the scraps. I hate crowds, but sometimes you don't have a choice, especially if it's the only peak that's working. There are no other options.

     I squirm my way to the outside, and surprisingly, some of the plus size sets are double wide. Even though someone from the peak is on the wave, his section closes which leaves the second wave rideable. It's bigger than any of the waves that I had in the morning. I can't believe that I'm scoring. I drop in and set up, I want to crank out the gnarliest top turn that I possibly can. Why? Because I want to prove my fucking worth. Yes, that's right, motherfucker I belong here! It's too bad that my over aggressiveness led to my own folly. I cranked out the top turn but lost control reentering the wave. My nose pearled as I tried to transition back into the pocket, and I fell. As Chick Hearn would say, “I put too much mustard on the hot dog.” It's crowded, and I'm embarrassed, but I seem to be having luck on the outside. I'm like a scavenger, a surfing hyena, pouncing on waves that others will miss. Another wave is going double wide, I turn and go, but someone yells at me, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!” I miss the wave. I'm confused, no one's on my inside. It was my wave, right? It was some guy that looks like an AI wannabe. He's tatted up, a local. He paddles past me.

     With a hint of sarcasm I say, “Oh, I'm sorry, was I in your way?”

     “No, I just thought you didn't see me that's all.”

     I feel like I'm cursed when it comes to this, or am I the one that's wrong. I've always thought that, when paddling out, to paddle towards the white wash if someone's about to drop in on a wave. Isn't that good surf etiquette? It's happened in Bali and now here too.

     The scavenger technique stops working. No waves are coming double wide any more, so I have no choice but to be part of the crowd. I get into the mix and do a head count. There are twenty three surfers not including myself. Sure, Lowers is an A-frame peak, so eleven can go one way and eleven another. In a perfect world, everyone would share, but not here. Man . . . twenty three motherfuckers for one peak. Is that outrageous?

     Everyone sits in the same spot; they know what's up. A wave comes, and everyone scrambles while I'm still sitting outside of the pack. A random shift occurs in the the peak, for the next wave breaks slightly south by where I am. Awwwwesome! First of all, I don't want to surf in this crowd because these guys have probably been here all day. The last thing I want to do is be “the new face” right before the sun goes down. Second, there's no time for me to “ease my way in.” It's already late in the day, so I have to invade if I want to catch anything. Third, I'm not used to paddling to take away another guy's position. On this wave, there are three other guys going for it. I paddle as deep as I can to go right which forces the guy on my outside to back out. Meanwhile, I'm expecting the guy on my inside to go left, which he does, and we end up splitting the peak. It's my second chance at a Lowers wave. Two groms, a dude and a chick, are on the inside waiting to paddle if I fail. The waves at Lowers are so much better than Middles and Churches. It's so peaky, clean, bigger, and steeper on the drop. I slow my thoughts down on my bottom turn and calculate hitting the lip. When I do, I put everything into it that I possibly can. As I'm unwinding I'm pushing as much force as I can into the tail with my rear heel. The groms back off, and I get one more cranking turn before it's over. The feeling is sensational. But in the end, what am I really celebrating about, that I showed some groms who's boss? Am I celebrating because I battled it out with three guys on a wave that shifted off of the main peak? Or is it because of my awesome backhand snaps that everyone was “oohing” and “aahing?” Fuck . . . those groms have been scrapping for waves with the heavy hitters right in the lion's den probably all day, those dudes that I paddled against were probably scavengers just like me, and I'm sure that my performance on that wave felt better than it looked.

     Coming back to reality, I feel unsatisfied. I want one of the main waves. I've avoided crowds because I felt I wasn't good enough, but I mean, I've been to Bali. As I'm watching guys take off I know I have what it takes to paddle into them; the only challenge is the crowd. I remember what my brother told me about paddling: “Use your hands and your feet, be aggressive, if you really want it, it'll show, and people might back off when they see that.”

     I paddle forward and get on line with the guys at the forefront where everyone's sitting. I love outside waves, and I'm waiting for that pulse to shoot for. A small waves comes, people paddle for it, and in the distance there's a big set forming on the outside. I dart for it. It feels right, like I got a head start amongst everyone else. My paddle feels strong, and there's only one guy that's about to criss cross with me, but I have no idea what he wants to do. He's an older guy with a salt and pepper beard. I look at him, he looks at me. “Go, go, go!” he says. Fuck my life, the lip already seems to be curling. I'm trying to turn & go, but the crashing lip sends me straight too fast. I don't even know how the left or the right looked, but they are now gone and peeling away on both sides. I am splitting the “A” on the A-frame going straight. To save face, I at least stand up before I get off. I take the rest of the set on the head.

     What can I say? It was a humiliating moment. It was a defining moment completely missed. I feel like, that wave, if I got it, would've given me the respect to deservingly sit in the line up. And if not, then who cares? Mentally, it would have given me more confidence to put myself wherever I wanted. Also, it would've been a hell of a wave and a good story to take home with me. Instead, it's another due paid. Instead of a badge of honor, it's a badge of shame.

     I'm embarrassed again, and it's fucking with my head. How good was that wave that I missed? Who saw that? Did everyone see it? I try to think positive, but AI wannabe is the main attraction, catching every wave while everyone backs off. It's wrong to hate, but I do because I'm just a man, and I think that guy's a dick. I insert myself back into the line up. I'm not waiting for the big set. I just want a wave at this point. A peak forms and stands up fast. I'm paddling, splitting the peak with another guy, but I look back, and someone caught the wave late behind me. The section's running away from him, but I kick out anyway because, technically, I dropped in on him. Randy always said, “Just paddle for it, you can always kick out if you have to.” Well, I did.

     Every wave I go for has someone on it, but I manage to get one last wave that shifted off the main peak. In the midst of my saga, something else unexpected happens. I pull off a top turn that arcs so smooth that I pretty much draw a “C” into the face. I find myself turning into the pocket facing my oncoming wave. I have no idea what I just did, but . . . I think it's good? Since it's unexpected I don't try to rebound, and I fall.

     As I'm climbing back on shore I see AI wannabe with an old man and a grom, and then I tell myself that I shouldn't have put so much negative energy into him in the first place. I change, drive out the gates, get on the 5N, exit Camino Real, and go to Coffee Bean. I tell the guy behind the counter that I need something to keep me awake all the way to El Segundo. I tip him a dollar, and he throws in an add shot for free. There are still good people out there.

     The morning session was the true jewel, but it was nice to get a taste of competing for that Lowers peak. If I surf it again, I'll need to surf there from sun up to at least noon, but that's only if I want it. A good swell will sprout vacant peaks all over the place, hopefully soon. Oh, and my wave count was only 9 in two hours.

     It's a flat weekend of surf, and I've been away from home quite a bit. I think I'll take care of my woman and let my body recover.

STAYCATION SESSIONS—TRESTLES: THU 7.21.2011 MOR

Crew: Solo

Time: 0845-1145, 3 hrs.

Wave count: 24

Conditions: Overcast turned sunny, off shore to marginal wind, small, consistent, just under 3 ft.

The Turn Around:

     On the way home from Blacks, Khang had called and asked if I was going to Trestles the next day. I said yes, but that it might be a gamble because the surf could end up being really small. He said to just let him know how it looks when I get there.

     By the time Francis dropped me off, it was just after 2200. Lauren waited up for me and was nice enough to warm up my dinner. I was so tired, but I showered, ate, and spent a little quality time with her before racking out. There was no time to prep for the next day's adventure. My alarm was set for 0545. I'd have to get up, shovel down some breakfast, load the car, and just go. I'd be traveling on minimum rest, but South OC has the best surf forecast for Thursday, so I have to do what I must if I want good surf.

Another day, another adventure:

     If you can imagine, I hit that snooze button quite a bit before finally rolling out of bed. Butt naked, I brush my teeth using the faint morning sunlight. It's 0615, and I plan on hitting the road before 0700. No cooler and PB&J sandwiches today, I pack light again, but this time I bring my sleeping bag and an extra board. Traffic is light until I hit Long Beach. By the time that's over, I'm cruising through Westminister trying to make my way down south as fast as I can. It's another gloomy morning, and it tires my spirit.

     I pull into San O and cruise past all the campsites. There are vacancies. Would be nice to have a site. I park under the tree by Churches, the same place as the last time. The water is so glassy that it's like a mirror reflecting off of the sky, completely gray. There are only about six longboarders out catching two foot surf. I step outside to take a look next to another guy on the sand. I strike up a conversation. His name is Rick from Palos Verdes. He says he's a Marine St. regular and that he surfs Parks Beach sometimes too. Small world. After the morning chit chat, I sit in my car and text Khang. I tell him that it's small and that it may not be worth the drive. Makes sense, yes? I mean, it's only two feet. There's no need to burn that much gas over two feet. 

 

     I don't expect much, but I change into the short sleeve Hurley wetsuit that Manny donated to me. This suit and my shortboard is an opposite to today's longboard conditions. Instead of walking to Middles, I paddle out right where I'm parked and work my way down. The water feels cold. I doubt that I'll get another chance to bareback it this summer. I paddle out to the first peak by two other longboarders. A couple two-foot waves roll through, but I scratch out on both. On to the next peak. I sit at the next one, only longboarders are catching waves again, so I continue to Churches's main peak. I don't expect any greetings, but a surfer actually says “good morning” and asks what time it is. When I sit, it doesn't take long for some waves to appear. The longboarder I just talked to goes first, and I catch the next wave. It's probably only two feet, but it's so perfectly shaped that I'm stoked to be on it. No turns, just going down the line until it's shallow. Last time I surfed here it was blown out, but this morning has San Onofre's glassy and clean conditions that I've been waiting for. I feel confident and catch about four waves before I start to feel bad. I feel as if I can do this all day, but it's only one peak, and the other three guys here need to get their share too. Besides, a small Churches's morning like this shouldn't be a competitive one. I look north towards middles, and everything between Churches and Lowers looks flat, but I still make the paddle.

     I'm already thinking that this is a small, easy day. There's no rush. I paddle slowly without a purpose as I make my way towards the cliffs, just south of Lowers. I stop at the battle position and sit south of the small crowd. Most are longboarders, and they seem to be the only ones getting waves. I sit waiting for a pulse. Nothing. I paddle past a heavy set, red haired, guy with a beard. I'm silent, but he greets me with another unexpected “good morning.” I paddle north just outside of the pack. Lowers is in perfect view. I watch clean three to four foot waves peel through. I'm envious, but the crowd there is already thick. One day, I think to myself.

Hit the Switch:

     I'm already canceling out the double session in my mind. I drove all the way down, but I'm already thinking about home. Would be nice to get home early for a change. I can catch up on my blogs, relax, eat a good meal. . . . Just then, out of the gray flatness, a set comes through. It's double wide without a shoulder within my distance, but I paddle out to beat it. That was unexpected! The next wave breaks on the outside. It's bigger than two feet but not quite three. When I pop up I see it lining up nicely. I get two ugly turns on the warm up wave. There may be potential after all. For the first time, I click to the chrono feature on my stopwatch but soon realize that it's also a wave counter. I log in my first wave and see how much longer until the next one.

     I never would have thought this would happen, there's a good half hour where there seems to be a wave every three minutes. The spot turns on all of a sudden, and best of all, the crowd thins out even more. For two plus hours I only have four other guys to share the waves with, and everyone is so spread out that no one's in anybodies way. It's small, but God bless the shape. It's turning into the epic session that I've been waiting for. No, not epic in size, but epic in quality and abundance. It's a wave orgy with only a few riders on deck. The lefts aren't holding as well, but I'm catching right after right. Turns, turns, turns, finally, all morning, and all to myself. No one's there to validate them, but I'm getting at least two top turns on every wave, some three, and even four on one. Yes, I counted it, four. I didn't think a sub three foot wave would allow it, but it did. I talk to myself in the line up. In my mind, I'm thanking my brother for showing me how to use my feet when I paddle. It's working today, and I'm barely missing any waves.

     By now the sun is out. The gray water turns into more of a light turquoise color, while patches of dark blue can be seen out in the distance. I overhear an old timer talking to one of his buddies. He says, “It's sunny, there's waves, and there are only. . . .” He pauses and looks at the line up. “One, two, three, four other guys out.” It's a no-brainer. We all are feeling it; we've scored big-time.

     One guy leaves as another new face take his spot. The old timer knows this guy too. He's wearing a hat and ends up right by me after a wave. “Nice one, “ I say.

     “No, yours was better. I was watching you. Didn't think you'd get that one.”

     “Yeah, I got lucky. I'm pretty surprised. It's small but so good out, and there's barely anyone out.”

     He motions towards Lowers and says, “Yeah, or you could be out there, catching one wave every twenty minutes.” The energy is good, but we're too close. I paddle further north to get my original spot.

     At the three hour mark the waves seem to taper down in size just a hair, and it goes a little inconsistent. It doesn't matter. Three hours is a good cut off time, and some form of lunch is in order. I look at my wave counter, and it's at 24. It's the first time I've kept accurate track of my waves. I assume that 24 waves in three hours isn't that bad. Of course, I'm counting the waves that I caught at Churches, and I hit the wave count button about four times on accident, so it's still 24.

     On the walk back to my car I think about the sense of loss that I've had since leaving Bali. But then I realize that here I am at Trestles scoring good, uncrowded waves practically all to myself. I don't have to travel half way across the globe to get that. On this morning's surf session, I may as well have been anywhere in the world. I'm stoked. Three hours of silence, catching the wave, thinking about the wave I just caught, breathing, meditating, and then doing it all over again. I'm drained, speechless, and exhausted from all the surf. It's what we live for.

The Splurge Addict:

     I stop at the snack shack on the campgrounds, but nothing appeals to my appetite. There's a Carl's Jr. on Cristianitos, but I wouldn't mind trying something different. It's either a sandwich at the grocery store or Sonics. I've never had Sonics before, so I figure that this may be my golden opportunity.

     As I gaze upon their menu nothing seems too healthy. I know I don't want soda, but if I buy the combo I'll be forced to drink a soda. My only other option is to order the burger separate and order the Oreo Sonic Blast. But then again, hydrating with twenty ounces of ice cream, whip cream, and crunched up Oreos sounds preposterous!

     Why did heavenly father bless me with such a gift and talent for devouring ridiculous amounts of food. When I try to fight his “plan” for me, I fail at every attempt. I approach the counter, order the Super Sonic Burger and large chili cheese tots. At least I avoid the Oreo Sonic Blast. Instead I order the Butterfinger Sonic Blast, should be a little more healthy. I get back to the car and eat as I watch the surf. Churches is still consistent with a thin crowd of longboarders raking in more than they can chew. After I eat my food, I set up my sleeping bag for a cozy power nap in the back of the wagon. There are mustard stains all over my shirt. Flies buzz about as I drift into sleep. I feel like a bum.

STAYCATION SESSIONS—BLACKS, SD: WED 7.20.2011 EVE

Crew: Francis

Time: 1645-1845, 2 hrs.

Conditions: Overcast, onshore wind, scattered peaks, cold, 3 ft. 

 

Options?:

     We decide on taking another look at some of the other peaks that we passed up on the way to Blacks. We first pull into Solano beach on accident. There's no surf, it's a swimmer's beach, and you have to pay for parking, so we turn around. We pass some other breaks that I don't know, but there's traffic, and turning around's a bitch. Francis and I exchange farts the whole way. I can smell my own, but I can't catch his scent. We finally pull into a quiet beach parking lot. We are surprised that there are open spots and that it's, once again, free. We are at a lookout point right over Swamis. The wind here is light, the water looks glassy, the waves are clean, but they are tiny. It's barely two feet, and there are about eight longboarders out. Francis calls it “mind surfing.” We watch the waves imagining what kind of rides we'd get out of them, but we're both lying to ourselves. “San Onofre?” Francis says.

     I look at surfline's report. “The wind's dying over there. It's gonna be clean, but it might be too small,” I reply. I spend more time pouring over our possibilities. We finally decide to backtrack and go to Blacks. 

 

Cock & Balls Beach round two:

Uh oh. Bad omen?

      We arrive at a now crowded parking lot. The sky is filled with parachute gliders, and we still find an open spot with ease. In fact, it looks like the same spot we parked at this morning. We thought about trunking it after the first session, but the onshore winds definitely put a chill in our spines to beg the differ. “You gonna take your slippers?” I ask.

    

     “Nah, gonna keep my feet Hawaiian!” he says. We scale down the path again, stepping aside to let people hike up from time to time. Once we reach the bottom we see a huge White woman with her daughters. She's naked from the waist down; all we see are two huge, pale, bulbous cheeks. We walk towards the break, and there's a guy lying out next to his naked wife who's tanning butt naked on her stomach. Out of respect, I look out at the ocean, but Francis asks me a question which forces me to face the direction of the woman's pale ass. We near the break by the lifeguard hut, and a couple is body surfing waves on the inside. For some reason, the dude's girlfriend takes off her top and starts bodysurfing with her tits hanging out. “Floaties,” says Francis.

     “Unfuckinbelievable,” I say. There are only about six surfers out. It's just like this morning, no one's by the other random peaks, and everyone is concentrated in one area. It's a little smaller, the wind is putting more texture on the water, but there are still some corners to be had. As soon as we hit the water, the evening crowd starts to appear out of no where. Next thing you know, those peaks that we walked by fill up again with surfers. Despite the dwindling conditions, the surf is more fun than it looks. The rides are shorter, but I'm at least cranking out one turn before the waves close out. I sit just outside of the pack while Francis fully immerses himself amongst the crowd. Eventually I work my way towards him. We surf for two hours, milking the most that we can out of the session.

     On the way back to the truck I ask Francis, “So what's it gonna be this time? Cock, balls, ass, or vagina.”

     Francis has an aimless gaze but wears a smile. “Schlong,” he says. There's nothing on the way back. We're behind the lifeguard hill walking towards the steps, but as we round the corner we see what's behind the hill.

     “Fuck, you were right,” I say. Right there before us is a guy, butt naked, walking out for a skinny dip.

     “Told you.”

     We keep walking, but I turn to stop. I tell him, “Wait. We gotta wait til' he turns around.” The guy turns, and there's a huge patch of pubes where his penis should be; it looks like an eagle's nest. The guy can pass for a caveman.

The Great Churro Adventure: 

     We're dressed, it's just past 1930, and we're pulling out of the lot. I turn to Francis and say, “I had fun! It was definitely worth coming out, but next time we're gonna have to find that churro place that you were talking about.” Rewind to this morning, Francis talked about this churro cart in downtown SD and how they have the best churros. He opted not to go there because it could be hard finding the cart.

     “Let's go right now!” he says. 

 

     “No, no, I was just joking. We can go next time.”

     “Nah, we can find it. It'll go good with the coffee.” And just like that, we're heading south looking for some churro action. We end up in an urban Mexican neighborhood where the churro cart should be, but is not there. Francis takes some time to find the coordinates on his GPS, and he learns that it's just down the street a little bit more. “There it is!” he yells, as we spot the cart right in front of a Mexican market. I love churros. I'm so fucking excited to eat some without getting gouged by Disneyland prices; I can't wait any longer.

    The kid working the cart is named Luis, and Luis and Francis start hitting it off. Churros El Tigre is the name of the business. Luis offers their churro and fried banana ice cream dessert, but we tell him we'll do it next time. The churros take fucking forever. The kid is cool but can't stop talking, and we let him give our initial order to two ladies that need to catch the bus. A little over a half-hour later, we finally have them. Luis is cool, as he gives us an extra bag for our troubles. There are a lot in one bag. By the time I polish off one, I'm good on churros for a whole fucking month. We find a Starbucks, grab some coffees for the road, and hit the freeway.

 

     Today's staycation was well worth the trouble. We got some familiarity with a new spot, caught the best surf that SoCal had for the day, and scored waves on two sessions. It's still not the epic session that I've been waiting for, but it's the best session since being home thus far.

STAYCATION SESSIONS—BLACKS, SD: WED 7.20.2011 MORN

Crew: Francis

Time: 0915-1215, 3 hrs.

Conditions: Overcast, dead air, clean, scattered peaks, 3 ft.

Sense of Loss:

     It's been weird being back home, especially with the lack of swell. I drove to El Porto on Tuesday morning to have a look. It was so small, dismal, and crumbly. Still, so many people were charging the sand, hitting the water running, and skimming the oncoming waves on their longboards. I know I probably sound like an asshole. This is L.A., and it's not always like this. There will be days with waves, but I have to be honest with the way that I felt. I thought about the days in Bali. Sure, not every day in Bali is thumping with heart dropping, epic waves, but even on the smallest days, there are spots on the island with at least three feet of surf. And three feet Bali scale is a big “three feet.” I thought about the anxiety I felt before paddling out on a big day, anticipating the ass kicking. Who'd have thought that I'd miss getting my ass kicked?Enough. I went home and looked at surfline's forecast for any fair rating. It looked like I'd be taking a drive to get some good surf.

Escape from L.A.:

     I met Francis through Klaude. He's a homegrown Oahu boy, and he's one of the most mellow, local guys that I've ever met. He's a true ambassador of Hawaii and is a living example of “Aloha.” He called me on Tuesday and said that he wanted to surf HB. I had to break the news that HB's forecast was only 1-3 feet for Wednesday, and that staying local for a chance at poor-fair 2-3 foot surf would be a better call. He was pretty adamant at scoring some kind of surf, as he kept blowing up my phone throughout the day. I told him that South San Diego had a good rating for Wednesday, and that's when he said, “Lets go to Blacks, I'll drive.” Well . . . how could I turn that down? It's a hell of a drive, and his willingness to commit himself to day long adventure caught me by surprise. That's Francis, I thought. Awesome. Let's get the fuck out of L.A. and score some waves.

History:

     The last time I surfed Blacks was over four years ago with my friend Jon M. He used to surf, and he's the one that took me there while he was going to SDSU. I was on my DMS shortboard but shouldn't have been. I was overwhelmed by the fast and hollow left-handers. Basically, I got my ass kicked. I wondered how I'd do now, years later.

First Times:

     I wake up with the expectation of packing light: one board, one container of Lauren's homemade choco-chip cookies, one wetsuit, and one water bottle for rinsing. Francis pulls up in his Tacoma at 0600. We have a hell of a drive ahead of us. I take a look at the morning report for Blacks, and it reads: 2-3+, mainly waist high, some belly high, and clean. The conditions are listed as fair. I relay the info to Francis; we are stoked.

     We pull off at a Chevron to prevent me from ruining my shorts and change routes to a scenic drive. We drive through Cardiff, Swamis, and Del Mar. I'm not familiar with these places at all, and it's my first time seeing the breaks and surrounding beach communities. Free street-side parking and Mexican food joints dot the journey. We drive along a cliff, look down, and see scattered peaks with empty line ups. It's a good sign, and we can only imagine what we might score up ahead. 

 

     Francis has been to Blacks to check the surf before but has never surfed it. I call Jon to ask for directions to the residential area we parked at last time, but he can't remember. We end up parking near UCSD in some dirt lot. It's so quiet; it's different. I'm so used to airplanes flying overhead, but there are barely any cars around, and the air is so stale from the lack of wind that time seems still. Best of all, parking is fucking free. Damn, it sucks how we're raped in the South Bay when it comes to parking. And here we are at Blacks, a premier SoCal spot, and parking doesn't cost one red cent. Unbelievable.

     A local guy comes up from the stairs and changes next to us. We ask him how it was, and he says that there's barely anyone down there, and that it's pretty spread out. His energy is mellow, and it's a great way to start the session at this new spot. He tells us how to get down, where to sit, and wishes us well. 

 

     Did I say stairs? It's more like a cliff trail down, a steep one. It's narrow with some old shoddy stairs built into the dirt. On the way down we pass more local guys heading up. “Have fun!” They say. I expected a little localism here, but so far, we're happy with the positive energy.

     It takes a long time to get down, but we finally do and see uncrowded, scattered peaks before us. We wonder where everyone is, but as we make our way further south, we see a small pack of surfers in the line up. We're surprised that no one's surfing the peaks closer to the stairs, so we decide to stay close to the crowd because . . . well, they surf here every day, so they must know something we don't. Right?

     We drove a long way just for 2-3+ feet of surf, but it's better than what's in the South Bay, and the gamble pays off. Obviously, the conditions aren't remarkable, but some of the three foot waves are clean A-frame peaks. It's low tide, so some waves double or jumble up which hinders the conditions, but it's still the best surf that I've seen since I've been home. Francis chooses our peak, and we start making our way out. I notice a sting ray swimming out to sea in the shallows. Oops, not just one, there are two more. I look at Francis, and he sees a couple more by him. Fuck. “Drag your feet,” I tell him. I hear Rick's coaching in the back of my mind and recall the times he's told me to do the same, even at Porto. I step on something slimy. Yuck, I hate that feeling.

     Once we're out there, I look behind me to mark our position. There's something that looks like a metal globe on top of the cliff, so I mark that. I'm still working out the cobwebs since being home, so I'm hoping to get some good waves. I can't remember everything wave for wave, just the ones that have some significance. I draw first blood on a left that closes out. Most of my rides to start off the day don't have many turns. I try to make it a point to practice on my frontside. Randy recently told me to stay in the critical part of the wave to help with my turns, so I give it a shot. Instead of pumping all the way to the weak part of the wave, I practice fading out and top turning with the curl. On one attempt I hit the lip, top turn, but my board doesn't turn with my body, so I ended up falling on my side. I'm not sure what happened there. Maybe I'm too far up on my board and need to be on the tail more?

     Soon the rest of the morning crowd starts to show, and everyone shifts to the empty peaks that we saw earlier. Just our luck, we could've had those peaks to ourselves, and now everyone wants them. The current takes us just a little south in front of a structure that looks like a roman palace. It's square with tall pillars reminding me of Caesar's Palace in Vegas.

     Francis does his thing, there's no need to be concerned about him. It's already a familiar sight. He paddles, pops up, disappears, and before I can breathe he hacks some water off the top. We both paddle around looking for the best spots that suit ourselves while randomly coming together depending on where our waves take us. A peak forms between us, and we both paddle for it. He gets there first, and I yell, “Go!” He's two strokes away from dropping in when I see that there's a Japanese chick behind him that just popped up. “Watch your left!” I yell again. It's too late. The wave jacks up, moves past me, and they both disappear. The chick's boyfriend is further north watching too. I hope to see someone kick out or penetrate out the back, but the wave finally explodes without a sign of either one of them. Once the foam settles, both of their boards are together, and both of their heads reemerge. I can't hear what they're saying, but Francis paddles back and checks his board. “You guys all right?” I ask.

     “Yeah. Was she behind me?”

     “Yeah.”

     “Oh shit, I didn't see her.”

     “Yeah, I know. I tried to warn you, but you were just going for it. Was she okay?”

     “I asked her if she was hurt, and all she said was, 'blahhhh-nahhhhhhhuy.'”

     He mimics the noises that she made, but I can't reproduce them verbally or even in text. No bodily or board damage in both cases, they survive.

     My best left of the day is motivated by Fransauce's smooth cut backs. In Bali I practiced getting a lot of speed going left, especially at Balangan. On my next left I get two good pumps to gather momentum to set up for a top turn. I stomp on the tail, stretch out my arms, twist my torso down the wave, and puff my cheeks on a deep exhale. Surprisingly, my board follows, and I cutback cleanly into the pocket. Too bad the wave bogs out right after which ends the ride right after. Eh, it's not the cleanest cutback. I recognize that my frontside turns are still rough, but it's still a small breakthrough for me, and residue from the sensation remains for the rest of the day.

     At the three hour mark we're getting tired. The crowd's thinned out, there are still waves, but it's taco time.

So it's that kind of beach:

     On the way back to the stairs we see a guy in flesh colored shorts squatting down. When he stands up, we realize that those aren't shorts; they are bare ass cheeks. He's old, fat, wearing a fisherman hat, and everyone else around him is clothed. Francis and I get through our “what the fuck” stage just as the old man turns around. “Damn,” says Francis. “Schlong and all.”

     The walk back up the stairs is brutal. It takes us double the time it took to get down. It's a true workout.

Nourishment:

     We're so thirsty and hungry. I tell him that a giant smoothie from Jamba Juice would do us some Justice. “Let's find one,” he says. He gets on his GPS, and we're there in minutes. Each frozen sip reenergizes my body. We're the darkest guys around, salty as ever, in this high end mall. The lack of minorities makes me nervous, so we GPS the closest Mexican food place in town. Afterwards, I take a shit at Vons. Round one complete.

READY, SET, SNOOZE!: SUN 7.17.2011 MORN

Crew: Christina

Ran into: Rick and Jimmy

Time: 0930-1030, 1 hr.

Conditions: Sunny, onshore wind, cold water, 1-2 feet, inconsistent, more crowded than yesterday.

Last night I talked to Klaude, and we planned on meeting at 26^th again. The swell forecast is small, and the drive down south doesn't seem worth it for 2-3 foot surf. Unexpectedly, I had to drive Lauren to Hollywood last night for her friend's party, which threw a slight wrench in my rest plan. The end result, I woke up late.

It's 0815 when I hit the snooze button for the last time. I see nothing but pure blue through the cracks of the blinds. There's no time for breakfast. The day looks warm, there's no wind, so I plan on trunking it. I get a text from Klaude at 0821. It reads: We're surfing 26^th. I spend a good fifteen minutes driving around and looking for free parking. It seems hopeless. I drive back up 27^th St. and find Rick changing out of his wetsuit. I should be happy, but I'm a little bummed. I missed a chance to surf with him. He says he just finished surfing with Jimmy, it's small, but it's fun. Jimmy double parks around the corner, stops to chit chat, and then they both leave.

As I'm changing into my shorts, I see what looks like Klaude's van parked in the top lot. When I reach the walkpath, I see Christina arriving at the same time. She's ditched the wetsuit too. “Is anyone else coming out?” She asks.

“Klaude should be out here. I think I saw his van.”

When we reach the sand, Christina's friend Rich joins us. The lineup is even thicker than yesterday, some locals are mixed in with new faces, every little peak is taken, and the waves are even smaller than yesterday's; it's a longboard day. I try to make out Klaude and company among the masses but can't. I paddle just north of the tower, but there's no sign. I paddle back south and don't see him. I wander feeling like a lost member of a tribe trying to pick up of the scent of his people.

The onshore wind starts, and I start to feel a little chilly. Thirty minutes into the session my teeth are chattering. Not as warm as I thought. I catch a couple waves right from the start, but the lack of power prevents me from doing much on my thruster. I sit by Christina and Rich, but I need to escape the crowd. I go more south but can't escape. In an hour the cold is too much to handle. I catch my last wave in and head back. I wish I woke up earlier.

26th ST WAVE BUFFET, SAT 7.16.2011 MORN

Crew: Christina, Klaude, Khang, Koa, Dais, Cheryl, Dave

Time: 0630-1030, 4 hrs.

Conditions: Gloomy then sunny, 1-2 feet, fairly consistent, crowded, warm, barely any wind, mellow, fun.

I have to give Christina credit. She's the one that sent out the bat signal to ask everyone to come out to Parks today. Initially, I wasn't enthused at all. The forecast only called 1-3 feet with poor conditions. I really wanted to drive south to HB, but everyone agreed on 26^th . Instead of being selfish, I made the decision to see good friends that I haven't seen in over a month.

Going to bed early helps. It's 0515, and as I sit up in my bed I'm not tired at all. Poor Lauren. I got sick since returning from Bali, and I've passed my head-cold on to her. She's knocked out, usually waking on the sound of my alarm, but this morning the sleeps. I kill off a bowl of cereal with blue berries, and I get my cup of coffee started. I turn on the news to see what's up with Carmageddon, and things seem all right for day one of the freeway shut down. I make it a point to get to the beach early. It's still the weekend, I'm still the cheap bastard that I've always been, and I'll avoid paying Manhattan Beach's bills if possible. I find free parking and take a look at the lineup. The tide's low, the waves are consistent, it's overcast, there are a couple waves with shape, but it's also small with a lot of closeouts. I watch some of the local guys get some decent rides, so I look forward to doing some damage of my own.

As I'm passing the metered parking lots some guy yells out to me, “I see you got the warrior paint on!”

I look over. I have no idea who this guy is. It's the first time I've surfed 26^th in over a month. Does he think I'm someone else? I reply, “Yeah . . . just a little.” A couple other guys in the lower lot look in my direction to see what's going on. Really . . . who gives a shit?

I don't know their names, but there are some older guys that shred at 26^th. They are regulars and there every time I paddle out at that spot. Two of them are splitting a peak. The waves don't look like much, but they sell them, going for rides all the way to shore. I'm done with my presurf rituals. I abandoned them in Bali; they never did me any good. I paddle out near those guys hoping to join in on the plunder, but every wave I get is a close out, and I fall on a small left hander. At the same time I'm not that disappointed. The waves aren't good, so I'm not hard on myself.

At about 0745 I see Christina on the shore. I try to wave her over, but she doesn't see me. I make my way south of 26^th to cross our paths. She welcomes me with her classic smile and tells me she's been following my Bali blogs. I thank her. I've only been gone a month, but I see the difference in her surfing. As soon as bumps appear on the horizon, she turns and starts paddling before I have a chance to react myself. Not all the waves are rideable, but her sheer initiative deserves praise. I acknowledge her new aggressiveness; it's a good sign.

A little after eight, I see Klaude, Khang, and Dais on the sand. It looks like it's going to be a good showing after all. For some reason the surf gets better with their arrival. I catch a couple waves while they warm up, but I still don't crank out one turn on a wave thus far. Klaude's on his longboard, Dais and Khang on their thrusters, and we all say hi. Someone else is saying hi to me in the line up. He looks familiar, but I have no idea who it is. It finally hits me after I return an awkward hello; it's Khang's twin brother Koa. His hair's longer, and he has a little mustache going. Deathwish Dave grabs my attention with his neon green wetsuit; there are a lot of us.

The line up is crowded, but with Cheryl’s arrival things actually thin out. This is when the wave buffet happens. The waves are barely two feet, mooshy, and crumbly, but there are a lot of them. The lulls aren't long, and everyone gets their fair share. Christina paddles so hard on a wave that I see the ugly grimace of determination. She's paddling, about to lose the wave, she's already stroking hard, her head turns, I see teeth and pain, and she somehow gets momentum over the ledge. It's a bit unnerving. No woman should wear a face like that unless she is giving birth, but it shows her hard work and determination to get the wave, and she does. When she comes back to the lineup I give her a new nickname: Neck Cranking Christina. Cheryl backs out on a couple of the bigger waves. Afterwards she says, “I should've just went.”

“Just go for those,” I tell her. “It's not dumpy, it's slopy, just go.” Her paddle has improved as well as she rakes in a decent wave count for the morning. The guys are just snaking each other. On one wave I got snaked by Dais while the twins were on the same wave ahead of him, and I wouldn't be surprised if Klaude was somewhere on that wave as well.

“Sorry, Matt,” says Dais as I turn to paddle back out.

“It's all right. Party wave.” Another significant event is a dangerous one. I'm trying to remember who snaked who first, but Klaude and Dave are going for the same wave. Klaude's watching Dave on his outside the whole time but they both fail to realize that a guy is already on the wave, and they're both in the way. Klaude eats it, and the longboarder maneuvers around him. Dave eats it, his board goes flying in the air, and the longboarder ducks just barely avoiding being bonked on the head. Some of the other guys see it unfold. After it's over, we're surprised that Klaude and Dave are oblivious to what just happened.

More danger. I usually praise myself on my good surf etiquette, but today I couldn't get out of the ladies's way for the life of me. I'm paddling out from the shallows after a ride. I scan the line up as I usually do. Cheryl's going for a wave that is right behind her, and I can't figure out if she's going left or right. I feel like I have no where to go and can only watch her pop up until she sees me and yells, “OH MY GOD, MATT!” She steps off of her tail, her board goes forward, and I go underwater. In the mess of it all I do a submerged front flip with my board. I hit nothing. We both resurface and I hear, “Matt, I could've killed you!”

“I know . . . I'm sorry. I had no where to go.” It's bad, no one's hurt, but I still need to be more careful on where and when to paddle out. Shortly after, I'm in a similar situation, but this time Christina is going left. I think I can get to her outside in time, but I end up in front of her. Again, someone has to step off her board to avoid dissecting me. FUUUUUCK! I apologize again. I'm better than this.

A little later Klaude paddles up to me and says, “I think I'm gonna grab my short board.”

“It's a little weak out here. I think you got the right equipment.”

“Yeah but . . . it's boring.”

I still don't have a ride under my belt that I can claim a turn on, but finally I get a peaky right hander. I see the shoulder before me as I drop in. I don't have good speed, but I force what I can off of the lip anyway. I hear a hoot from Klaude behind the wave. Koa's on the inside and says, “Got a little spray action on that one.”

“Yeah. . . . But I forced it. I should've just went down the line.”

It's about 1000 now, and it's still a marvelous day. It's odd that the wind is still so light, and there are still waves, even as I near my four hour mark of surfing. Christina and Cheryl are stoked out of their minds, but most of us sausages are complaining about the lack in power. Even so, I watch Koa get almost every wave he paddles for on his fish. My paddling muscles are spent, and I feel my body's yearn for nourishment. At 1030 we call the session, while Christina opts to spend the rest of the late morning on the beach. My last wave is a shouldery little left, the perfect way to cap off the surf. I make the drop and plan my line on the building section in front of me. I look ahead. It's Dais. Dejavu! 

 

The rest of us slap cheeks and give hugs until the next DRC session. In the end, I'm glad I didn't go to HB. Surf progression is important but so are relationships, and sometimes it's hard to pit solo memories against memories with friends.