SOUTH OXNARD: YOU CAN ONLY SURF SO MUCH - SAT 14AUG2011 MOR

Crew: Rick, John A., Jordan, Klaude
Conditions: 3-4 ft., glassy, slight offshore wind, high tide, inconsistent, overcast, warm, fast, peaky, pitchy, brutal, round, slightly hollow.



Something Different:


    After getting skunked so much down south, I need another option for a south facing break. Rick has been telling me about his secret spots, so I try to make myself available the next time he goes. Yesterday on the drive back home, Klaude called to invite me to County Line. I told him that I’d see what Rick was doing first. Sure enough, Rick called me right after and invited me up north. Last night I told Klaude that I’d pick him up at 0615.



Your body will tell you:


    I’m up. It’s 0530. I sit up, and my upper back and shoulder muscles are aching. I make a cup of coffee and eat a banana. I have a bad feeling about this. In the back of my mind, I worry that I’m pushing myself too much and that I should take a little break from surfing. But today we’re going to a secret spot, and I have to surf it there with Rick to learn as much about it as possible.

    I text Klaude as I start the car. I’m late. He texts back: Whaaaat! Matt late! The whole world is coming to an end!

    It is a little out of my character. I pick him up, and we start our long morning drive on PCH. We pass Sunset. It’s small and crowded. Malibu is the same. County Line looks clean, but it looks kind of small and extremely crowded as well. No, not this morning. No more crowded surf, at least for today. We’re heading somewhere that I’ve never paddled out at before where no one should be at.

    We pass Rick’s vehicle on the road, but they don’t see us. When Klaude and I approach the beach, we can’t see over the big rocks, but when we climb over what we see doesn’t look too promising. There are peaks, well defined peaks. They are almost too defined. There’s a fast drop with a tapered shoulder. “Looks like mostly shore pound,” says Klaude.

    To me, he doesn’t sound stoked, but I’m optimistic. For one thing, there are only three guys out. The rides look short, but they are peaks and not walls. I can work with that. The sand bars spread the peaks out a little. Also, there’s no wind, and it’s glassy.

    Rick and company show up. They’re a little disappointed too. John says, “This is the first time I’ve seen this place so flat?” It doesn’t matter. Rick’s the first one to suit up, Klaude follows, and I take my time getting ready.

    I use my DMS potato chip for this session. Since the peaks look fast, I should have enough push to get me into the waves. We all paddle out, and the water’s so smooth that it’s hard to make out the curling lip. I eat shit on my first couple waves. They jack up so fast that as I’m popping up the lip’s already over me. It’s good, it’s a challenge. It’s a challenge and it’s rideable, a 180 compared to the last four days. It’s just before high tide, and the place just seems to turn on. Random peaks unexpectedly sprout. Sitting on the shoulder, we can see almond shaped slots when the waves pitch. Some peaks are so sharp they look like inverted Vs. Some waves transform into beasts that jack up violently and leave no room for error. I’m in awe, and today is only a four foot day on the face, maybe only three feet. Klaude turns to me and says, “I think it’s pitchier than HB.”

    “I was thinking the same thing.” Out of all of us, John makes it look the easiest. I don’t have full view, but he gets shacked on one wave. Rick paddles in to waves early with his fish and unleashes backhand hacks that spray water out the back.

    “I’m going for the barrel,” Klaude says. “It’s time to go barrel hunting.” Shit, he’s not the only one. I wouldn’t mind getting one too. I get a couple waves that moosh out after the drop. On some, the section is just too fast so I have to penetrate out the back. I do get some good rights which let me have a good top turn to end it. The waves aren’t the problem, it’s my body. Everyone fights the current to stay in place. I keep drifting north and away. Each stroke just feels tiresome. I actually welcome the lulls to catch my breath.

    One of those freak monster waves jacks up in front of Klaude. He’s paddling for it. As he pops up going left, it looks like he’s grabbing rail for a backside slot, but the lip comes down on him and pushes him towards the inside.

    A peak forms in front of me. I know it’s jacking up right away, so I turn and paddle early. I make the steep drop and look down the line. The section is building, but I’m able to pump my way around it. I see that the shoulder is standing up, and the lip is about to curl over. Rick is paddling out near the shoulder. He yells, “Yeah, Matt!” in approval. I’m feeling good. My brother told me to fade out, pull in, and check turn; I’m about to set myself up. Unfortunately, the wave’s speed has me on a collision course with Rick. He’s not over the shoulder yet. We both look at each other like deers caught in the headlights. What should I do? I should straighten out and avoid hitting my buddy, but for some reason I can’t stop my self from pulling in. Collision is inevitable at this point; I’m literally two feet away from him. The lip starts to curl, Rick starts to duckdive, and I start my leap over Rick to avoid a heavy impact with my board.

    We resurface and I say, “Fuck, Rick, I’m sooo fucking sorry! Are you all right?”

    “Yeah, Matt, I’m fine. Sorry, I had no where to go.”

    “I know, but fuck, I shouldn’t have ran over you.” We pull our boards apart.

    “It’s okay. I duckdived deep. That was a good one!”

    “I know. I couldn’t help it. I really wanted to get slotted.” My demeanor switches from that moment. God dammit I want another one just like that. I paddle closer to everyone, and we’re all hooting at the big sets that are rolling through.

    Unfortunately, the tide gets higher which causes things to get swampy. Just like that, it shuts off for a little while. The lulls are long again with a couple waves in between. Jordan’s practicing with us for her high school surf team, and despite the backwash jacking up the waves on the inside, she’s fucking charging. All morning long, she gets her fair share of waves, either ending her rides with good carves or semi floaters that she kicks out of. She makes me feel old, while the two brothers make me feel inexperienced. I struggle at this point. I’m repelling the peaks, and John seems to be scoring the most. Rick paddles up to me and says, “I got hit by my fins on the inside.”

    “What, where?”

    “On my head.”

    “Are you all right?”

    “Yeah, I’m fine.”

    “Put your head down.” He complies, and I see a small bright red square in his scalp. “Dude, your cut.” Poor Rick. He’s had concussions from snowboarding and surfing. His accident brings me back to the realization that surfing is dangerous, and we’re always one awkward wipeout away from being exposed to serious harm. A peaky left comes my way, I paddle for it, and as I’m dropping in I can see that the section is walling up. I try to penetrate out the back, but I get sucked down with the white wash. The inside is so turbulent, and that wave is pretty heavy, so it’s full weight sucks me under. The wash yanks my right arm behind me, and I feel a sharp pain from my right shoulder. I resurface laboring myself on my board. I paddle, but there’s pain in my range of motion. Every time I paddle with my right arm, something hurts in my rotator cuff. I alter my paddle to work around the pain. I think I get one more wave before Rick calls the session. It’s almost noon. Just like that, the whole morning is gone. It doesn’t even feel that we’ve surfed that long.

    On the way home I deny the pain, but I know that it’s serious enough to keep me out of the water. Coping with it is weird because surfing is a huge part of my life. I’d like to think that I just need a day of rest, but I know it will be more than that.



Aftermath:


    Sunday rolls around. I dedicate the day to Lauren. Klaude and Francis text me. It was a good morning for surf. Consistent 2-3 ft. at Parks and glassy. Just my luck. When I get injured, the surf is good. The Amador brothers were out there too. I’m missing out. My shoulder feels worse today. I’ve had partial tendon tears before, and I expect the same. I want to surf so bad, but the smart thing to do is stay out of the water this week. Lesson learned. It’s better to miss one day of surfing to give your body rest than to surf nonstop, injure yourself, and be out for a week. Damn, I miss the water.

STAYCATION SESSIONS--TRESTLES: FRI 8.13.2011 DAY

Crew: Solo
Conditions: 2-4 ft., choppy, strong onshore wind, sunny, inconsistent.


    High tide passed at around 1100, so I take a short nap to surf later when the tide drops a little. It’s a little before 1300 before I wake up. Gregory Isaac plays as I watch the surf, trying not to squint from the light. It’s bright out there, looks hot, but there aren’t any good waves. The peaks are kind of long and racy. It’s obvious that the window for excellent surf was during the morning, and now it just looks like a typical, blownout afternoon. None-the-less, my car’s warm and protecting me from the wind. The reggae music captures the moment. I nod my head in rhythm with the roots style bass, and I start to apply my sunblock. An older guy is done surfing next to me. “What you playin’?” he asks.

    “Gregory Isaacs.”

    The guy gives me a lesson on how Jimmy Cliff was the first to bring reggae to America. “Have you ever seen the movie The Harder They Come?”

    I’ve heard of it, and I have a feeling that it’s one of those classic movies that I’m missing out on. “No,” I reply.



Only One Thing Missing:


    I’m feeling so good right now. I just had a decent nap and a nice piece of chocolate. There’s nothing that can stop me from having a bad day at this point. I start making the walk past Churches into Middles. For the first time I feel Al’s absence. It was awesome spending some time with him and his family. Surfing was all we talked about in Iraq, and we actually set time aside to make it happen. It’s just too bad that the surf wasn’t great the whole time here. Well, battle buddy or not, there isn’t a cloud in the sky, the sun’s blazing down on my back, the sand and dirt trail is almost hot enough to cause discomfort, and the wind is blowing in my face. Churches has a couple waves, and Middles seems empty until Lowers, but there’s no rush. Uppers, I’m thinking. It was good this morning, it should be worth the walk now. The high angle of the mid day sun gives everything hard light. I stop and face the trestle. Green bushes sway in the wind; tiny, yellow, flowers sway along with them; even the dirt on the hills seem to have life to them. I take in this foreground with the palm trees and vegetation in the background to make it all one. Still the wind blows, the trail is empty, and I try to take in this moment for myself. People are off on the sand, so I continue my trek in case I’m weirding them out.

    There’s a Black guy walking with a small group of people towards me. He looks like the guy that hosted the Billabong XXL Global Big Wave Awards 2011. I’ve seen some pros over the last couple weeks. It could be, could not be, whatever.

    Lowers is working of course, but I want a wave to myself. I walk all the way to Uppers, but the wind has taken away the random peaks. It’s crowded too, and everyone’s sitting where it’s the most consistent. By now the walk isn’t as peaceful as it was earlier. Uppers is about a twenty minute walk, and the sun is cutting right into me. I’m thirsty. I stop south of Lowers again, but no spare sets are breaking. There are two other surfers at Middles, so I paddle out just north of them. Just a couple rideable waves with some shoulders on them, that’s all I want.

    The lull’s ridiculous. Waiting for a lower tide doesn’t seem to matter with the wind. The peaks are long. Once the wave starts breaking, the whole section becomes one long lip that crumbles away. I get a few pumps maybe but no turns. The two other guys leave, and it’s just me. I’m searching for that mellow session to end the trip right, and I’m not in the mood for competing on my last day. I let the current take me further south. At the BP I catch a couple little lefts and rights that go a distance. I even get a couple small carves. Later, the current takes me to the north peak at Churches. Here I score a couple waves, but I scratch out on a lot too. The small pack that I’m surfing with becomes more crowded. For some reason, the surf gets consistent with long clean up sets. I’m tired, and my mellow mood lets the waves get the best of me. I’m washed around a little. It wouldn’t be so bad if there was a nice peeling shoulder, but they are close outs. I drift further south, and the main peak that I was at has surfers coming down the line claiming the waves. My body feels tired, with each stroke my shoulders feel like they’re on the verge of tearing something. I have been surfing a lot, and I’ve been forcing this mid day session.

    Back at the whip, I’m unsatisfied. As much as I wanted this trip to be a nonstop wave buffet, it hasn’t. I’ve packed light. I take a hot shower and hit the freeway. In San Clemente I go to Coffee Bean and Jack in the Box to refuel for the drive. Surprisingly, most of the traffic is going southbound, while I only hit traffic through HB. Once I get home, I’m a zombie. Lauren comes home from work, she’s tired as hell too. Looking for fulfillment through surfing, ironic perhaps? Paddling out doesn’t guarantee waves, so on trips like this one I feel even emptier. I’ve surfed the last four days to find myself unfulfilled, and the hunger to feel that sensation and bottle it up in one short moment eludes me. How can I rest?

STAYCATION SESSIONS--TRESTLES: FRI 8.13.2011 MOR

Crew: Al
Met: Ecuadorian John
Conditions: 3-5 ft., clean, glassy, slight offshore, overcast, cool.



Salvation:


    My body wakes itself up at 0514. I sit up and see Al already getting his gear ready. I step outside and only feel a light offshore breeze. It’s not even first light yet, so we can’t see the waves. The plan is to meet Al’s surf mentor John at Uppers. When Al lived down south, Uppers was where he surfed most consistently. We walk off in the darkness, and one guy is already paddling out at Middles. Finally, there are scattered peaks and the water looks glassy. It’s not even 0600, and I already count fourteen heads at Lowers. When we get to Uppers, Al finds John’s bike, so we put our slippers there.

    I’ve never surfed the main Uppers peak before. It’s a really long peak that produces a long right-hander. There’s a left that breaks, but it’s mainly a right. Al warns me about the shallowness of the inside. He walks out while I warm up. The water feels a little cooler than the previous mornings, and I make my way towards Al and John. Uppers is a little crowded, but it’s much more spread out than Lowers. Clean four foot peaks form in front of us. John and Al take a party wave together to start things off. A peaky wave comes my way, but I don’t make the section, so someone on my outside takes it. They are sitting at the main take off zone, and I’m not digging the crowd. Even though it’s not Lowers, there are still a lot of people there for one wave. Out of frustration, I paddle south of the main pack, and as I do, an outside wave appears in the horizon. No one else is in position. This morning the waves are working. That classic shape that I’ve referred to before, it’s here. The wave’s about four feet high, starts off with a steep drop, and has a nice speed section. After a couple pumps I pull off a clean top turn and reenter. On my second top turn I stall on the lip and am forced to kick out. No matter. It’s the wave I’ve been dreaming of before the trip started, minus the overcast.

    On the next set, I scratch out on all the waves, so I head back to the guys to see if my luck will change there. Same thing. Every time there’s a wave, someone’s already on it. Al does much better in crowds. Back at the outside, I wait to see if I can score again. Like clockwork, a set appears, but I have to chase it down. I paddle into the wave right at the peak, as the lip’s starting to curl. Angled sharply down the face, I make the drop and feel the rush of air through my body. It’s a long right, and I’m milking it as much as I can. It’s a three turn wave which, for me, is good. I’m stoked on life again as I paddle back. The set’s not over. Another big one pops up, but there’s a chick on my outside that’s going for it too. She looks back, sees me, I pop up, and she backs out. It’s another Hail Mary of a wave. I get as many turns as I can and find myself far away from the lineup when my ride’s over.

    Al’s waiting on the sand for me. We have to cut the session short because he’s driving back up north. I fail to catch a last one, so I have to paddle in. I help them pack, see them off, and eat some sandwiches from the leftovers in the cooler. I could’ve just stayed out, but it’ll be a while before I see him again, and I have to choose his friendship over the waves, at least on this morning. Now I pack up my stuff and move closer to Churches. Double sesh?

STAYCATION SESSIONS--TRESTLES: THU 8.11.2011 EVE

Crew: Al
Conditions: Dying evening wind, calm, 3 ft.

    Again, I’m so damn full, but we’re paddling out before the sun goes down. As expected, the wind dies a little, but Lowers is the only break working again. I’m not expecting much. We both sit at our respective places. Scavenging isn’t going so well, and Al’s mixing it up with the crowd as usual. Once the sun sets, the lineup dramatically thins out. I notice peaks with only one surfer paddling for them, so I move right in with the few heads that remain. I get two good waves in a row. Back at the lineup, I can barely see Al’s face. He gives the signal to wrap it up. My last wave is reminiscent of last night’s wave. On the shore I wait for Al. It’s completely dark now, but surfers are still out there. I wonder if he passed me earlier. I go back to the BP where we stashed our sandals. They’re still there. I finally see Al walking towards me. It was a small window of opportunity at Lowers for me, but at least I was able to get some easy rides as people were leaving.

    Back at camp we burn the remainder of our firewood. This evening is different. The wind is almost non existent, and the air is warm. “What are your predictions about tomorrow?“ I ask.

    “Tomorrow . . . I don’t know. It’s probably gonna be shit again.“

    I don’t say what I’m thinking, but I’m expecting for things to finally get good. One day left. 

STAYCATION SESSIONS--TRESTLES: THU 8.11.2011 DAY

Crew: Al
Conditions: 3-4 ft., onshore wind, inconsistent, sunny.

Days of the Skunk:


    I wake up periodically through the night from a tapping noise. It’s coming from my car’s roof. It’s my surfboard leash. The wind’s blowing it. My alarm wakes me at 0530. I turn to look at the RV parked at the neighboring campsite. The cloth trim over its windows are flapping in the wind.

    Shivering, I step outside and put on my sweater. It’s dark and the wind is strong. I walk to the bathrooms to brush my teeth and sit in front of the fire pit until first light. The water’s choppy. I look at Old Mans and Churches, and the waves look blown out. Since I begin to nod off, I go back to the wagon for a little more sleep.

    An hour later, Al’s tapping on my window. “Dude, it looks like shit,” he says. He suggests that we just go back to sleep, but it’s day three of the trip, and I’m tired of crappy conditions.

    “Let’s check it out further south,” I say. Francesca stays behind, we load the car, and we get on the 5 South to join the morning traffic. We first check out South Oceanside. It’s terrible. The wind is just as strong, and there aren’t any peaks at all. Fuck. We jump back in the ride and head further south. Blacks it is. It’s my first time driving there, but I find it without incident. I park where Francis and I did, but the wind’s not dead like the last morning I surfed here. Even though the wind is a little lighter, it’s there. We walk out to take a look, and the peaks are crumbly and small. Triple skunked. “This is your first time here, right?” I ask.

    “Yup.”

    “Well . . . this is Blacks!” I snap a photo, and we’re on our way back to camp. Was it a waste? If you don’t check it out, you won’t know. You’ll have to rely on a surf report that’s sometimes unreliable or someone that might exaggerate mediocre conditions. Regardless, we’re doing the drive of shame.

    Back at camp, we pick up Francesca and head to Pipes Café in San Clemente. It’s my first time there, and I wish I had found the place sooner. Their “Big Breakfast” is about seven bucks, but they give you a shit load of food. Innersections plays on the wall mounted TV. Eating is the best part of the morning thus far.

    Back at the camp, Al and I are stuffed with food. The overcast finally burns off, the wind lightens up a little, and we keep our eyes on the surf as our food goes down. Even though I need more time to digest, Al makes the call to paddle out. We walk towards the BP and see a set roll through. The shape’s not as good as Lowers, but we’ll gladly take it over dealing with the crowd. We paddle out and catch some waves. It’s a little smaller at Middles, maybe 2-3 ft. We get a couple turns here and there, but the lulls keep getting longer. “You wanna go over there don’t you?” Al says.

    I can’t stop looking at those perfect rights at Lowers. “Maybe just on the side,” I reply. I work my way towards the show, and Al trails behind. I get a spare wave right away. Al passes me up and goes straight into the crowd. I watch him working the inside line and actually catching waves amongst the competition. I wait, catch another wave, but the scavenger technique isn’t working good this afternoon; not much is breaking my way. I have no choice but to go closer to the crowd. I catch nothing. Almost an hour goes by. Al throws me the signal for the “last one.” When I make my way back south, away from everyone, a spare wave actually breaks and takes me all the way to shore. Al’s a little stoked. He tells me that he got snaked a couple times but that he managed to get some rides. Me? I’m a bit frustrated. I vent on being “over“ the crowds. The stoke that I had last night has evaporated and turned into this.

    There’s a ton of food left in our cooler. Back at the site, we kill off as many sandwiches as we can. We’re full again.

STAYCATION SESSIONS--TRESTLES: WED 8.10.2011 EVE

Crew: Solo
Conditions: 3-4 ft., light evening wind, inconsistent, light overcast with patches of sunlight.



Thought moves us to action:


    My phone alarm goes off. It’s 1845. I sit up in the tent and see that some clouds have moved in. There’s still onshore wind, and the texture over the bluish, gray water looks cold. I surfed earlier. I could just pass on this evening session. However, the thought of being on a wave has me thinking. So what if it looks uninviting? I don’t even need a turn. Going down the line on a nice shoulder, the more I think about it the more I feel like I’m missing out. It’s out there, that wave that I’m picturing in my mind. Why not go and get it?



Heaven might be right here:


    As I’m walking up to Churches the wind starts to weaken. Finally. Even though the bay is gloomy from cloud cover, beams of light shoot through empty patches along the sky. I see Lowers in the distance and the black dots massed around its peak, but watching the waves roll through so perfect and consistent makes me appreciate nature’s gift. There’s not one drop of anxiety in my blood at the sight of the crowd. Instead, the mellow evening has me over anticipating my paddle out. The trail is empty; I’m the only walker going to or from the breaks. Everyone that’s in the water is staying to wrap up their last session until the sun goes down, and no one that’s dry wants to paddle out so late. I can’t help myself. I paddle out just north of Churches to see if I can catch anything. Despite the scenery, scenery doesn’t make waves. Just like the last couple days, Lowers is the only place with any real shape. As I make my long paddle towards the wave machine I note the colors and shapes of the water. The gray ocean and reflections of pink from the sun make shiny, glistening spots of light in the midst of the wrinkled surface. It almost looks viscous and gooey, but my hand enters feeling nothing but fluid substance. Meanwhile, the wind is still dying, and each stroke towards Lowers is a stroke closer to ideal perfection. I’m tired, so I catch a wave in at the BP and walk closer.



Surf Scavenger:


    So I have my technique down. I sit just south of Lowers. On a good day, random peaks shift outside of the main pack. If I’m lucky, the main peak won’t connect with the peak on the side. These are the waves that I go for. Sure, the rides aren’t as long, but those rights still line up well, and you can catch them without five people going for them at the same time. Where’s the sun? I can only assume how low it is, but it’s obvious that its power is leaving and going beyond the horizon. As the evening crowd thins, I scavenge unridden waves from the main peak that roll in my direction. The lulls are long, but each wave is far from a throw-away; each ride is worth keeping. Even though it’s a shame that the swell hasn’t produced scattered peaks everywhere, one can’t deny how the wait is worth riding a perfect Lowers right-hander, a scavenged one that is. The minutes tick away as facial features become dark blurs. Surfers leave one by one, walking up the sand to call it a night. Some still catch rides all the way to shore, never breaking rhythm as they turn around for more. I can’t give a breakdown of each of my waves, but one stands out in my memory the most.



Feeling:


    Squinting at what looks like a bump, I can’t tell how far it is or how big for that matter. All I know is that it looks rideable. Away from the main pack, I’ve been engaged in my own existence. They probably never noticed that I was there, and on this wave I might as well be all alone for hundreds of miles. In my own little spot I’ve made a paradise for myself; who cares if no one knows I’m alive. I turn, paddle, and I feel that the lip is actually lifting to angle my board down. Popping up, I look down the face, but I only see bold, dark green. I bottom turn where the pocket should be and can only see small splashes of white that my wake is leaving. The lip’s crumbling white as well. My senses tell me to pump down the line, but I top turn and still keep momentum. The turns feel critical and late, and with my lack of vision it appears that I’m riding on smooth, dark green glass.

    Any traces of light are now faint and dissipating. Barefoot, I walk the trail back with only my last wave in my mind. It’s the perfect way to end the session. To non surfers, we find it hard to relate our reasoning and drive that makes us paddle out. Surfing is intimate, as it can mean something different for each individual. For me, it’s all about the sensation that I get from being on a wave. It’s too bad that words can only explain it so much.

STAYCATION SESSIONS--TRESTLES : WED 8.10.2011 MOR

Crew: Al, Kevin, Francesca (guard duty)
Ran into: Julian Wilson, Coco Ho, and some other pros that I don’t know.
Conditions: 3-4 ft+, onshore wind, inconsistent, high tide, overcast to warm, crowded.



Wake up to this:


    I shift the whole night. The surface in the back of my wagon is so hard I’m uncomfortable. I still manage to get some sleep. At 0530 I wake. I look outside and see the cloth trimming on the RV next to us swaying. I hear a tapping sound on the roof of my car. It’s from my surf board. The wind is already up before the sun is. I take a piss and sit next to the cold firepit for a look. Old Man’s and Churches looks crumbly and blown. I hoped for clean and glassy conditions, but instead it’s gray, windy, and cold. I start to doze off in my chair. There’s no need to rush it now. By 0545 I’m cocooned in my sleeping bag again. About an hour later, I see Al stepping out of his tent for the first time this morning. We discuss the morning’s conditions and decide to suit up regardless. Kevin’s lagging, so Al has us go without him. The crowd’s a little thinner from the unwelcoming conditions. We walk along Middles. Nothing is breaking. We walk by Lowers; it’s crowded as hell. We continue walking and Uppers doesn’t look so appetizing either, so Al says, “Fuck it, let’s just paddle out right here.” It’s another Lowers session. Competing for one peak is not my ideal surf sesh, but we came for good waves. Al and Kev go right into the thick of the crowd while I do my vulture technique to scavenge for scraps. Al surprises me with his first couple waves. He inserts himself into the lineup and gets waves all to himself. He’s a big guy is what I’m thinking. I guess no one wants to fuck with him. I wait for the peak to shift, but it’s more inconsistent than yesterday. After a couple waves, I find myself at the main peak. I notice a guy paddling out in a neon green Nike 6.0 wetsuit. Hmmm, that guys looks like Julian Wilson. Two chicks paddle up, and one looks like Coco Ho. That would be funny if the pros were out here, I think to myself. No one is crowding them, but the more I look at the guy in the neon wetsuit, the more I’m believing he’s Julian. His accent is Aussie, and as I drift closer there’s no doubt that it’s him.



Wave Hogs:


    I have the hardest time getting a wave at the main peak. I sit and wait for the outside wave, I paddle for it, a couple other guys paddle for it, and I’m surrounded by guys popping up just as I am. What happened to my wave position? I’m just not aggressive enough. Lowers is the only spot working, so this is what I have to deal with. The wave scatters everyone, and there’s only me and another guy left on the outside of the line up. Just then, another outside wave approaches. We both paddle for it and pop up. I look behind me; he’s going left. This right-hander is a legit Lowers wave. This isn’t one on the side, this is a plus sized jewel that I so happen to be in the way of. On the way down the face, surfers are everywhere trying to make their way back out. No one’s in the way, and I want to crank out some good turns in the company that I’m in. I get two solid bottom turns, nice and steep, that set me up for two good top turns. I’m a little rusty, so my turns fall short just under the lip, but it still feels like I’m carving well. I catch the wave to the inside and paddle back to my usual spot just south of Lowers. Al paddles up, and I say, “Dude, there are pros here.”

    “Yeah, I know. I saw Bethany Hamilton.”

    “What, she was here!?”

    “Yeah, but she paddled in earlier.” I’m shocked that I missed the opportunity to see her surf. I inform him on Julian and Coco’s presence in the line up. He drifts closer to the main pack, and Coco and her girlfriends are right next to him. Al looks at my direction and gives me a smirk. A little later, Coco is sitting right next to me. I’m a bit star struck. I want to say something, but no one has bothered any of them since their arrival. I go with the grain and give these surf stars their space as well. A wave appears, and I turn to paddle for it. I look towards my inside, and Coco is on it. I pull out gladly. I just pulled out of Coco Ho’s wave . . . FUCKING AWESOME! One can say that I’m exaggerating or that it wasn’t really her. However, her surfing shows that it’s her. They have professional photogs on the beach, and they’re fixed on Coco as she blows the tail then whips back around for some face-gouging cut backs.

    A set wave pops up at Lowers, and Julian has the peak to himself. He’s going right, so I have to paddle over the wave to get out of his way. I sit hoping for the next wave to swing wide, and it does. It’s a smaller wave more towards the inside, and I I’m in prime position for it. I turn around and start paddling, and then I notice Julian paddling back out, but he’s turning around trying to paddle for my wave. Fuck, I’m thinking. This is Julian Wilson right here, and he’s on my outside trying to take my wave away. I HAVE TO CATCH THIS WAVE! The pressure’s on. I start kicking and scratching to claim this one for myself. I’m one weak stroke from missing it, but I somehow pop up before the wave can pass. Julian looks back and sees that I’m on it; he pulls back. Holy fuck . . . I’m so fucking stoked. Not only do I pull out of Coco’s wave, but Julian Wilson almost drops in on me. Unfucking believable.

    The morning session is only two and a half hours. Al tells me that he’s about done. We catch a couple more then get to shore. We wait for Kevin who vents his frustration to us when he comes out. “There’s so many people out there,” he says. “How do you miss a wave when it’s coming right to you? These fuckin’ kids just paddle around you to take the fucking wave.” Shit . . . I feel his pain. But despite the crowds and lack of options for different peaks, I’m satisfied with the morning’s waves. Best of all, I got to surf in the midst of the pros for the first time. It’s funny how some of us try to be nonconformists and go against the grain of popular culture, but when we see the stars who are associated with the things that we follow, we can’t help but be in awe and feel the need to get a piece of them.



Doin’ it right:


    After the surf session, we change and head to my favorite spot for AYCE sushi. The lunch special is twenty bucks, and we devour a variety of different sushi for almost two straight hours. When we get back, we buy some ice cream and eat it with cookies. Kev leaves, and Al and Francesca have to visit their aunt in Temecula. I’m invited, but I opt to stay behind to write and do an evening sesh. The wind’s a little strong, the overcast is back, and I’m due for a nap. Lying down in the tent, I hear little kids playing with the sound of the ocean in the background. My eyes are getting tired. Today is a good day.

STAYCATION SESSIONS--TRESTLES : TUE 8.09.2011 EVE

Crew: Al, Kevin, Francesca (guard duty)
Conditions: 3 ft+, onshore wind, inconsistent, super high tide, warm.

Demobilization this time last year. Finally going home.

Military Bonds:

    My very first duty station was Germany. I was twenty years old and didn’t know shit. The daily rituals of military life were a given. Our leaders preached on the importance of serving the nation and emphasized hard on training. Although, most soldiers or veterans will let others know that the best thing about the military is the relationships you establish along the way. After each duty station and deployment, things are never the same. Good friends that become family come and go, and most of us never see each other again. In this case, my roommate from Iraq planned to camp at San Onofre. In an effort to keep these same relationships strong, I told him I’d be there to help him setup.

    I sent out a mass invite to see who else could go, but everyone was busy. Oh well. More waves for us.



Late Start:


    I usually get up at first light to score an early morning session, but Al is driving down from San Jose, so I have a lot of time until he gets there. Lauren’s not feeling well, so I opt to hang back to watch over her. I’d love for her to join me, but her job has her pretty busy nowadays, so I make the trip alone.

    I’m on the road my 1130. There are small pockets of traffic, but for the most part it’s a smooth and easy journey. Landmarks that I usually pass in the morning sun look different at high noon. I pull up to a busy campground and see a mass of black dots at Old Mans. I meet Al at the main office. His sister Francesca, who’s visiting from Ecuador, and his cousin Kevin are there. I haven’t seen Kev in a while, and I go through the introductions with his sister. We get our campsite which is right on the beach with firepit, water, and electricity.

    The onshore wind feels weak, the sun is out, and the water looks clear and inviting, but first we must get supplies at the grocery store. When we come back, we load the cooler and suit up for an evening session. Unfortunately, the wind picks up, and the tide is making things swampy. We walk in front of the crowds lying on the beach, and as I look up I see a girl waving in our direction. I look behind me in confusion and don’t see anyone. I continue to walk. I look up again, and the girl is still waving. I turn around again and ask Al what the hell they’re waving at. She points at me then waves again. There’s no doubt that they’re checking out Al’s lifeguard cousin Kevin. I say, “Hey, Kev, those chicks are checking you out. You better handle that.”

    “Which ones?”

    “Right there.”

    He looks up then looks forward again. “You mean those fat ones?”



Surfline, damn you!:


    Well, surfline can’t predict everything right? I blame it on the tide, but we sit just north of Churches, and the peaks are so long and crumbly that the waves shut down fast. We get turnless rides for about forty-five minutes before we walk towards Lowers. Al doesn’t want to deal with the crowd, so we paddle out again in front of the battle position. The waves there don’t seem much better, so I make my way towards Lowers. I sit just south on the outside. It’s inconsistent, but some peaks shift and build in front of me. It catches a lot of people off guard, so I get some nice right-handers to myself. Pretty soon Kevin joins me. Al’s stubborn, so he maintains at Middles where I can’t even see him anymore.
   
    There are some groms in the water that have a water photog with them; they are doing fish-eye shots. Kev competes with the wolves at Lowers, and I watch him pop up on a right-hander. One of the groms with the photog drops in on him. I see Kev looking at the kid waiting for him to kick out, but instead he continues to snake him and hits the lip to get his shot. Fuckin’ greedy. I have to back out on a lot of waves myself from guys on my inside, but I get enough random waves to make the session worth it. I share the inside with another surfer. I say, “So you didn’t feel like competing either, huh?”

    “No, it’s sooo crowded here. I’ve never surfed here before.”
 
    “Where do you usually surf?”

    “Oregon.”

    I’m surprised at this. It makes me think about Tom Leykis’s references: Porkland, Oregon, home of the other white meat. “How’s the surf scene up there?”

    She raises her eyebrows and says, “Uncrowded.”

    I can’t choose any memorable waves out of this session. If anything, our expectations are failed. We’ve been watching the surf forecast every day up until this moment to only find one break working: Lowers. Lowers is good, but we had hoped for more scattered, empty peaks. Without a choice, we were forced to deal with the crowd or bad waves.



The Real Experience:

    Back at the site, Kev hovers around the warmth of the fire. Francesca prepares the food, and Al has some sausages cooking on the grill. We eat hot dogs around the fire and listen to Francesca’s stories about Al’s drunken mishaps. I show them my Smores techniques, and we end the night with cookies and milk. At about 2330, only Al and I are awake by the fire. He asks about my journey to Bali, we talk about surf, and then the conversation moves to our lives and relationships. We’re here for the surf, but quality time with friends is something that you can’t put a price on either. I lay down my sleeping bag in the back of the wagon for a good night’s rest. Tomorrow, I plan to get up really early to catch the good stuff before too many people are on it.