THE RETURN TO PORTO, FRI 30SEPT2011 MOR

Crew: Solo
Time: 0700-0930, 2hrs & 30 min
Conditions: Overcast, onshore wind, low tide, 3 ft with occasional 4, a little walled with a couple shoulders, kind of crowded.


Intro:

    After a skunktastic Wednesday, I had a chance to check out Porto Thursday evening after school. I was surprised to see how big and consistent the sets were coming in. However, the low tide seemed to make for walled-up conditions. I debated on paddling out. It was quite the spectacle. I missed the big swell a couple weeks ago, and I haven’t seen Porto this big in a while. I watched guys try to make the shoulders. Some did, but most could only go straight. It looked like a brutal afternoon. Instead, I went home and planned on saving myself for Friday morning. I thought it a wise decision to catch the tide a little higher and paddle out when the water’s nice and glassy. After the funky luck I’ve had lately, I thought I would be due up to score.


The Return:

    The recent surf trip followed by a full day at school has me too tired to get up when my alarm first goes off. I snooze until 0630. Shan called me last night, a guy I haven’t seen since I left for Bali. He said he was down to surf in the morning and asked me to bring his stuff that he left during the last camping trip. Khang told me he’d meet me out there too. It’s 0630 by the time I’m sipping my coffee. I’m running late. It’s another gloomy morning, and I’m hoping to score some decent South Bay surf. Clearly, I’m due up. The thought surfaces again that I haven’t truly caught any awesome surf since being back from Bali, and the recent shoulder injury has been another regressing factor as well. Clean, smooth, consistent shoulders, at least three feet high, that’s all I want.

    It’s been a long time since I’ve surfed Porto. I usually hit up Parks, but I like catching Porto during the work week. The crowd is thinner and the energy more mellow. Also, I love when the surf gets good; sometimes there are little peaks forming all the way past the tanks, in front of the smoke stacks, and on both sides of the jetty. A classic Porto morning, that’s what I’m yearning for.

    The lot’s already packed, but I still get a spot well before the bathrooms. Looking at the Manhattan homes, I see the leaves of palm trees lightly swaying from the wind. I look out and can see that the onshore wind is messing with the shape a little. The size has dropped off a bit, it’s still a little walled, but I watch guys in the prime spots get some nice looking rides.

    I haven’t paddle out at the Porto lineup in a while. The morning crowd is a little thick, so I feel really awkward paddling in the center of them. I recognize about ten faces, but I still feel like the new guy that’s had his Porto pass revoked. On top of that, I’m wearing my really loud Hurley wetsuit while everyone else has the standard black; I’m sticking out. Besides the groups that know each other, a lot of surfers are solo. The energy is off: no smiles, not many people conversing, the silence reeks of wave-lust, and no one cares for eye contact. Despite the lack of words, what everyone’s thinking is obvious.

    I have to back out of a couple waves because there are guys owning the take off spots. I don’t feel like competing, especially after I haven’t shown my face for a while, so I paddle further north by the tanks. I catch a couple closeouts to start things out, no significance. My third wave holds shape a little, and on my backhand I’m able to kiss the lip before it smacks down. I recover nicely and ride the foam; it feels good. I’m hungry for lefts, but only rights are coming. My kingdom for a left, I think to myself. On my last wave before I feed the meter, I get a long backhand ride all the way to shore. My feet are too far forward, so my turns lack that emphatic umph. I feed the meter and come back out for more.

    I meet a guy named Bruce that just moved to Gundo from working in Puerto Vallarta since 2004. I love getting good energy from people in the lineup. He says that over the last half-decade he’s scored small, clean, and empty point breaks with only him and his buddies out. I don’t understand why he’d leave that, but he says, “There’s no money there right now. Everyone’s scared to come down."

    An outside set comes which produces a perfect right-hander. The peak is long and walled, but the shoulder tapers off into a corner. I watch a guy in position take off on the wave. He’s a lucky bastard. So there are good waves to be had, you just have to be lucky or be in the right place. Right after, a juicy left pops up on the outside. I’m a little late for it, but I turn & go. As I prepare to pop up, I hear a couple hoots from the crowd, but I’m too slow. I stand too far up on the nose which purls my board straight into the water. When I resurface I’m embarrassed; I choked in the spotlight. I can either laugh it off out loud, say something in frustration, or just paddle back to the lineup with my head down. I return and sit quietly. What else can I do? I blew it.

    The meter’s almost out, so I paddle back by 45th to be closer to my car. I see another acquaintance, Steve, who’ve I’ve met out there. He tells me that the last couple days have been good. There’s my luck for you. I catch an average wave in. Shan calls and says that he couldn’t make it because he has to be in the office early. Khang texts me later and says that he showed up at around 0900.

    I wish I had more to write, something groundbreaking, but this is just how surfing has been for me lately. I’m sure everyone goes through this. I can’t blame the conditions entirely. I’m just in this surf slump. Hopefully next week I can score at least one good day before Baja to get me ready.

SKUNKATION (double sesh), WED 28SEPT2011 EVE

LOC: Middles Trestles & Churches
Crew: Solo
Time: 1615-1815, 2 hrs.
Conditions: Overcast, onshore wind, low tide, inconsistent, 1-2 ft.




    While doing my readings, the surf actually looks decent when mid tide hits. At about 1600, I start suiting up again. It’s one of the lowest tides that I’ve ever seen here. I’m used to the sight of exposed cobblestones, but not so many over a long distance. I take the 6’1” DMS. I have the wrong boards for today, and I regret leaving the 6’3” JS at home. Before I shut the rear hatch, I stop a surfer who’s going home.

    “You just come from Middles?” I ask.

    “Yeah.”

    “How was it over there?”

    “It’s all right. Maybe a little better than over here.”

    “Are there a lot of guys out?”

    “Nah, just a few.” He looks out at Churches. “But it’s not worth the walk, it’s not that much better.”

    Well, there’s only one way to know for sure. With the evening onshore wind, the waves don’t only look small, now they are more crumbly. I walk to Middles, and there appears to be a couple peaks working. I do the cobble stone dance and paddle out. Initially, there seems to be some consistency. The sets come in every three to five minutes, and I’m lucky enough to start with a couple quick rides. Then, the lull starts. I get a right that gives me one clean top turn. After that, the spot turns off again. It’s hard to imagine a spot so good to just turn to shit. Just like the morning, I paddle in and start walking back towards Churches.

    I’ve only surfed for barely an hour. I watch the small group of surfers catch some waves, but it’s so small and inconsistent. I’m on the verge of calling it a day, but something compels me to paddle out once more. For the first time, there’s a small clearing among the clouds where I can see the sky. The sun’s already low by the horizon, but it’s beams finally shine down, illuminating the water out in the distance. For the chance of catching the sunset, I paddle out once more.

    There’s a solo surfer at a random peak just south of the main one. I share it with him. The waves are smaller than the morning, but the rides are long, classic Churches’ conditions. The overcast is still thick over the horizon, so a sunset is out of the questions. However, the appearance of the sky overhead alters the scenery. The ocean turns into a metallic blue with even lighter blue shimmering on the surface. With each chop or ripple of water, oblong shapes of clear reflections dance over the ocean. Even with the grass and seaweed scattered around me, I’m reminded that this is still a beautiful place. I end the session with a couple long rides bringing me even closer to where I parked. The day’s over, and the next decision is made: I’m not spending the night here; it’s not worth it. I meet up with my childhood friend Seba for some all you can eat sushi. The surf sucked, but at least the post surf meal is good.

    My full stomach brings discomfort the whole drive home. When I arrive, I don’t even unload the car. I simply take a shower and go to sleep. I’m taking this as a sign. No more traveling for surf, at least not for another week. Never trust the forecasts, and some times, it’s just better to stay local.

SKUNKATION, WED 28SEPT2011 MOR

LOC: Middles Trestles & Churches
Crew: Solo
Time: 0815-1030, 2 hrs. & 15 min
Conditions: Overcast, glassy, high tide, inconsistent, 1-2 ft occasional 3.


Intro:

    I think we all hit that point when we are so stressed out that we need to get away. Or sometimes we are so busy that, against our own will, we have to stay out of the water. Whether it be from work, family obligations, time constraints, school, or whatever, we are stuck with mindsurfing all day. For me, it’s been one of those months. I’ve been bombarded with “work” obligations, school, homework, and uncle duty. As soon as this Wednesday rolled around, I knew that I was taking a solo trip to get some clarity and get recentered. This was supposed to be the “surf to exhaustion” trip, the “wave buffet of all wave buffets” trip, the “cranking turns on waves all day affair” trip. Trestles . . . Surfline gave it the gold rating for Wednesday. It seemed simple enough. 3-4 ft and G-O-L-D GOLD! Guaranteed, my friend, guaranteed. . . .
    The plan was to load up, surf all day, sleep in my wagon, wake up smelling like ass, surf again Thursday morning, and then go to school with blood shot eyes and crusty, saltwater hair. Let’s just see how the situation unfolds. . . .


“I would write on the lintels of the doorpost, Whim.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson, Self Reliance



    It’s Tuesday night, and I’ve just returned home from school. Looking at my homework for Wednesday, I realize that I have a lot of reading assignments, but that’s all they are, just reading. I can do that anywhere so long as I make the time for it. Klaude told me yesterday that there’s swell all week. I go to surfline.com to see if it’s true, and what do I see? South OC has the GOLD RATING, 3-4 ft. I check what the local forecast is. It looks good, but it’s not gold. Memories start flashing in my mind. The last DRC camping trip at Trestles, the one when it pissed on us all night. That Friday before everyone showed up, that was one of the best sessions that I’ve ever had at Trestles. I was at Middles by myself on a Friday morning. It was about four feet, clean, sunny, glassy, super consistent, and uncrowded. The only reason I got out of the water was to check-in and start unloading the gear, but that was one of the best sessions of my life. Perfect, endless, soft, peaky, long waves. Easy three turn waves if you didn’t screw up and fall. And tomorrow is supposed to be “gold.” On a whim, I say, “Fuck it.” I start getting my shit together. When Lauren comes home I tell her that I’m going to Trestles in the morning and spending the night in my wagon. She supports my war on terror. My packing list is easy. Since the surf’s gonna be good I pack my 6’1” DMS thruster. Most importantly, I pack my 5’8” Lost thruster. It will be my first time riding it. I’ve been saving it for such a joyous occasion. Instead of taking it out in crappy surf, I’ve been purposely waiting for a day like tomorrow to ride it in good, clean, and consistent surf so I could feel its full
potential. I pack three military rations, a sleeping bag, a pillow, and my gear is staged for the next morning.

    I’m so excited that I can’t sleep. Finally, I dose off around 0100. At 0530 I’m done loading up the car. I’m in front of the TV watching some Innersections before I kiss Lauren goodbye and head out the door. It’s a dark morning on the 405 S. I’m swerving a little bit because I’m tired, so I take a hit from my coffee mug and crank up the stereo. It’s a good feeling. In my mind I’m paraphrasing a quote from Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai (1999). The actual quote is this: In the words of the ancients, one should make his decision within the space of seven breaths. In the spirit of the moment, I feel that the decision to go is a significant one. Even though I’ve made several day trips like this in the past, it’s been so long that it all feels new again; I’ve missed this. For a while there, I made the drive to Trestles so much that it was kind of getting old. But now, this old routine is more than welcomed. I’m hitting the road all by myself. Just me, my music, my gear, driving and waiting for the sun behind the horizon.

    Well, the sun rises, but I never see the bastard. I reach San Onofre in good time, but it’s so foggy that there’s moisture on my windshield. It’s not a patchy overcast; the sky is gray for as far as the eye can see. When I pull up to Churches, I only see about six guys out, and some small two foot waves roll through. Probably just a lull, I’m thinking. I look clear across at Old Mans. The ocean looks like a god damn lake. I mean, literally, the glassy water with the gray sky just makes everything away from the shore look like one gray screen. I’m still optimistic, and I try not to let the site of surfers going home demotivate me. One guy stops and gives a blank gaze back at the water.

    I ask, “How was it?”

    “Small.”

    “Really?” I’m not convinced.

    “Yeah, there’s a combo swell, but it’s not hitting here. Better to go to the beach breaks. I bet they’re getting’ it!”

    At hearing this, I think about Porto. Something in my gut is telling me that it’s going off over there, but I’m already here, and I have to make the best of my situation. I start suiting up as I watch the water. A couple peaks form way south of Churches because of the high tide. The shape is there. I turn my glance away and start locking things up. Armed with my new 5’8”, I start making my walk up the beach. Churches is a really consistent break, but the surfers are just bobbing in place, waiting for waves. A woman on a longboard even sits on the inside over shallow water waiting. When the set comes, it’s small. Think positive, think positive. I’m hoping that my favorite spot at Middles is working, the Cliffs and the BP. When I arrive, there’s a small group of surfers there, and the water looks just as stagnant. There’s only one other shortboarder in the group. Remaining optimistic, I tell myself that things can change. How many times have we all experienced those kinds of situations, those “all of a sudden” stories, when the waves just turn on out of no where.

    The water’s a little cold; it feels like the fall. I look at Lowers. It’s still consistent as usual but smaller. Another bad sign is that it’s empty for Lowers. The first wave comes through. The peak’s long, so by the time I pop up the section’s gone. The second wave is just as bad. Now I’m sitting back in the line up with the others. We look bored, like guys at the mall perched outside of a women‘s clothing store. It shouldn’t be like this. Boredom turns into frustration and then to anger. I accept the situation. I’m fuckin’ skunked.

    After my first hour, I finally get a wave that holds shape. I hit the lip before the section closes. I’m surprised that I pulled that off on the 5’8”. I crack my first smile of the morning. After a couple more insignificant rides, the spot shuts completely off. I paddle in and paddle back out at Churches. There’s no need to elaborate on this part of the session. I get a couple long rides, but they are just over two feet, gutless. I get two turns on one that I’m grateful for. If anything, it’s a sub average day at Churches. On a good note, it is fun to be on a different board, it’s just not the best conditions to feel its potential. It feels loose, fast, and more responsive; I can’t quite control it. After the second hour I decide to paddle in and start my reading assignments. It’s one of the emptiest days that I’ve seen at this spot. The forecast is off. So far for great expectations.

SHOULD‘VE BEEN HERE YESTERDAY, SUN 25SEPT2011 MOR

Crew: Klaude, Christina, Tom
Time: 0700-0900, 2 hrs.
Conditions: Light onshore wind, overcast, high tide, 3-4 feet, consistent, but walled.

    Yesterday, Klaude and Rick told me that they would be surfing at Parks. Last night I sent out a mass text. Cheryl couldn’t make it, but Christina said that she’d be there.
   
    It’s about 0530 when I roll out of bed. I eat a banana, drink some OJ, and take my vitamins. Sunrise is much later due to the fall season. As I pull out of my parking space at 0600, it’s still a dark morning. When I pull up to 26th there are a couple cars parking on the street. I swing around the metered lots, and all the spots are taken. I find an open space on Marine, but before I can change I feel a monstrous shit coming on. I walk up to the 76 gas station wondering if they’ll let me use their bathroom.

    “Is the restroom open?” I ask the lady that’s sweeping around the pumps.

    She‘s a little startled because Manhattan Beach still looks like a ghost town. “Yeah,” she replies.

    The door doesn’t lock, but I plant my ass on the seat any way. My mission is to push this brown guy out before the lady can ponder if I’m taking a shit or not. I’m successful, but when I flush the toilet the water swirls slowly as it rises. My eyes widen as the logs get higher and higher near the rim of the toilet. I have to flush three times before they reach their destiny. All I leave behind is a small nug which is better than toilet overflow.

    I get to the 26th St. tower a little before 0700. It’s just as overcast as yesterday. There aren’t many surfers out yet, so I take my time warming up. Unfortunately, there’s a little onshore wind which puts some texture on the water. There’s some size, but most of the waves are walled. It doesn’t look that good, especially with the tide coming up, but I hope for the best. I don’t see any of my buddies in the water, but I turn around to see Christina walking down from the bike path. She tells me that yesterday was a little bigger, and there were peaks everywhere. I’m hoping that it wasn’t as good as she says because I hate to think that I missed out.

    By the time I paddle out, more people start trickling into the lineup. The current pulls north, but I fight to maintain my position in front of the tower. I’m sitting in the saddle between two peaks, but I don’t feel like going where the main packs are. I pass on numerous waves because they seem to be closing out. The first wave I get is a closing right which lets my get one sloppy turn off the lip before it comes down. It’s a picky morning.

    For the life of me, I can’t remember this guy’s name. I’m horrible when it comes to names. I turn around to see if I recognize anyone on the sand or in the water, but I only see Christina who’s drifted further north. I let out a deep exhale and tell myself to just concentrate on the ocean. Just then, a guy next to me asks me something.

    “Hey, are you the guy that writes the blogs?” he says.

    I’m caught off guard. I’ve never seen him out here before. He’s a brown guy, just like me, he has long hair, and he’s on a longboard. I smile and reply, “Yeah, that’s me!”

    “Cool. Good stuff. Keep it up.”

    “Thank you, man. This is like, only the second time that this has happened to me.”

    “Really?”

    “How’d you come across my blog?”

    “Oh, I read a blog where there’s a link to yours. I read other ones too. Whiffle Boy’s stuff. . . .”

    “Yeah, he asked me if I was Donny Duckbutter at Porto once.”

    “You see him around?”

    “Yeah, every once in a while. He surfs Porto.”

    “I read his stuff, but he doesn’t write so much any more. I read your blog when you went to Bali. I usually read it when I‘m at work.”

    We exchange names. He’s from Marina Del Rey. I thank him for the compliment. It’s nice to know that there are a couple people out there that actually check my blog.

    I see Christina walking on the sand to come back by the tower. That’s about the time that I catch a fun left. On a steep drop, my front foot accidentally slides forward all the way to the nose. The angle I’m dropping in at is sharp, and I have my hand in the wave struggling to regain balance. With this odd stance, I’m slowing down my speed and going down the face as its slowly crumbling. It’s not a breakthrough wave, but I just appreciate how it feels different. On another wave I pull off an imitation floater. It’s a left, and as the section’s about to close, I climb the face, get on top of it, and come down with the lip while still keeping my nose down the line. It’s not a “real” floater, but it’s a good start.

    Christina paddles up. She’s exhausted and says that she’s spent a lot of time on the inside. I tell her to do her best to turtle dive. She leaves to put money in her meter. When she returns, Klaude is with her on the sand. As soon as he paddles out, I paddle up to him and his friend Josh. It looks like Klaude’s telling him that I’m paddling up.

    I say, “What’s up, Josh right?”

    He says, “Tom.”

    Klaude says, “What? Did you say Josh? Damn, Matt.”

    Jesus, I’m so bad with names. I apologize. Tom confirms that yesterday was a really good day here. As we’re being told this, Klaude splashes me with water. I know. I fucked up with yesterday‘s decision. Klaude drifts north with the main pack trying to score the right-hander. The right is actually working, but there are just more people than I feel like being around. Same goes with the left to my south. I hear other people talking in the lineup about how yesterday there were waves for everyone. One guy says, “I’ve never been so tired surfing here, just from going back and forth so much.” Another grom says to his friend, “I surfed three sessions yesterday.” Damn, I guess it really was good.

    After my second hour I’m tired. My right shoulder bugs me a little, not to the point of pain, but I know that I’m on the brink of it. I catch one in to be safe. Christina’s on the sand meditating. I say bye to her. I don’t get a chance to say bye to Klaude and Tom.

    I’ve been dying for some good waves. This weekend barely sustains me. Since I’m not working this week, I hope to drive down south to score some good, solo sessions.

LOOKING FOR WAVES IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES, SAT 24SEPT2011 MOR

LOC: County Line
Crew: Klaude
Time: 0800-1030, 2 hrs. & 30 min.
Conditions: Clean, glassy, no wind, overcast, inconsistent, long ass lulls, uncrowded, 1-3 feet.

    Yesterday Dais hit me up and said he, Khang, DK, and their homeboy Kataro were going to Trestles on Saturday. I initially told him that I’d go. Why not after all? I’m due up for Trestles. The last time I was there was during Al’s camping trip late last month. When I hit Klaude up, he said that he had to go to work, so he wouldn’t be able to go. Since he was staying back, I thought it would be a good call to gamble on a new secret spot south of Oxnard where I injured my shoulder. Klaude said he’d be happy to come along, so I told Dais that I catch them next time. However, this was a gamble. I made it clear; I couldn’t guarantee that it would be good.
   
    It’s 0515 when my alarm goes off. The plan is to pick up Klaude at 0545. I start the pot of coffee and pack my gear. As I pull up to Klaude’s, I notice that my tire pressure is low. My gas lamp is also on, and I doubt that we can make the sixty mile journey without sweating bullets the whole way. We load his gear, go to the gas station, fill up my tires, and Klaude tosses me some cash for gas.

    “Damn, looks like the swell is hitting the South Bay, “ says Klaude. 

    I’ve been so busy lately that I don’t really know what the swell is doing. We stick to the plan and head up north. It’s an empty Saturday morning. The cruise up PCH is too dark to see any surf. I’ve pacing our speed, as we keep passing CHP cars hiding in little cuts on the road; we see them. The morning is foreshadowed once the coast line becomes visible. Zumas to County Line looks flat as a pancake. We pull up to the secret spot which has a mountain of rocks blocking the water’s edge.

    “I don’t hear anything. That’s not good,” says Klaude. I step outside, and I’m in denial, trying not to let the silence in the air ruin my hopes. Once we climb over, we see that the high tide has brought the water all the way to the rocks. Waves are breaking, but they are really close to the jagged boulders. “Daaaaaaamn, skuuuuunked.”

    Fuck my life, I’m thinking. Klaude presents our second option of County Line. I’m usually stubborn in situations like these. Klaude takes a seat and as we wait for a miracle. I’m looking further north up the coast. Away from the rocks, some waves are breaking, but it’s mostly shore pound. In front of us, we see a set. There’s a fast peak working that looks rideable. “Break, break, breeeaaaaaak,” says Klaude. It breaks a little late, too close to the rocks. It’s too risky. This is a great spot. No one is here, and we can have this spot all to ourselves, but it’s not worth it. “County line?”

    “Yeah.” I’m still staring out at sea. “Let’s go.” Klaude heads back to the car and stands outside the door. I watch a little bit longer in futile hope. County Line it is.

    It’s about 0745 when we show up, and there aren’t many cars there yet. Another bad sign. Once we step up to the railing by the cliff, we see about four longboarders and two SUP boarders at the north point. The silence between us speaks volumes. We watch 1-2 foot, soft right-handers roll through. Towards the middle of the bay, there’s a fast peak that’s breaking close to the shore. Other than that, it’s pretty much a lake out there. We see some sets roll through that are just under three feet, but the lulls seem long. We are officially skunked.

    “What do you think?” asks Klaude.

    There’s another long pause. I’m still watching, looking, peering, and trying to transform this picture before us into something else. The waves are small, but the shape is clean. “I don’t know. There’s a little something out there.”

    “My concern is, are we going to be able to catch anything?” I see his point. The waves are small, and it’s definitely a longboard day. “26th, bro.”

    I still scan and watch for something. “You really don’t want to surf here, huh?”

    “I mean, c’mon. It has to be better than this. I mean, you’re driving, so . . . whatever you want to do.”

    The message is clear. It’s small here . . . tiny. But the thought of waking up around 0500 and driving all the way up here just to go back to the South Bay doesn’t sit well with me. It’s a selfish move, but I’m usually pretty stubborn and stick with my decisions for better or for worse. Sometimes, they work out, but sometimes I’m hating myself in the after math. Against my friend’s advice, I motion towards the call to stay.

    I take my time suiting up. Klaude’s faster than I. “I’ll meet you down there,” he says, and he takes off. I see another wave roll through. It’s barely three feet, but it’s so long and clean. It reminds me of Churches on a small day, not big but fun. Klaude and I paddle to the small pack of surfers by the point and wait for a wave. I stay south towards the outside, and a pretty, little three footer comes my way. I’m stoked; the wait isn’t long at all. The shoulder is so soft and clean, I’m looking down the line to set myself up. I bottom turn, top turn, but get stuck on the lip, and the wave passes me. Damn . . . I’m pretty rusty after a week of no surf and still rusty from my injury. I paddle up to Klaude with my post-wave grin.

    “Fuck, I had a good one, but I BLEW IT!” I say.

    “Yeah, there’s some nice ones out here.”

    I sit and wait for the next set. Two more waves come, and both of the longboarders I’m sitting with take them. After that, nothing comes for a long time. The lull is stagnant, silent, and frustrating. I look at Klaude, and he raises both of his arms to his sides with his arms out, the universal gesture for “where the fuck are the waves?” Some little waves come, but they’re too small for us to catch. A couple more people join our pack. Frustration mounts to anger and regret, not only for myself, but I’ve dragged Klaude down here too for some bad surf. I hate it when that happens. The tide drowns everything out in the first hour, and we don’t catch shit. Half way through the second hour, a couple more peaks start to sprout. Unfortunately, I’m working like a bad luck charm. Every time I paddle where the waves are breaking, they break where I just left. I’m lucky enough to catch a few, but the rides are short.

    Klaude gets a bad cramp and has to exit the water. Something happens after that where I get back-to-back waves. With the tide lowering, the conditions get a little better with more options. Klaude comes back to the lineup when I start getting some rides that go a little distance, but I struggle to crank out more than one turn.

    “You’re getting yours today,” Klaude says. At this point for me, I’m getting the day’s worth out of the session. I can comfortable walk away feeling satisfied that I’ve caught something. I think Klaude’s board may be a little too small for what’s on the menu, so I offer to swap. He grabs hold and mounts the JS. “It’s huge!” he says.

    “Yeah, but it worked in Bali.”

     I feel like as much criticism as I can get with that board, at least I’ll always be able to say that it worked for me during took my trip. Later I see Klaude returning from the inside saying that he finally caught one. I catch a couple on his advanced shortboard, but it feels like I’m sinking it when I’m on the wave, and my stance is too wide from the length change. We change back to our regular boards. Just as I’m returning to the lineup from the inside, I see Klaude all by himself as a set wave approaches him. I’m trying to get out of his way because I’ll be in his path in a couple seconds. He pops up on the shoulder, but for some reason he bogs out as the open, lonely section runs away from him. He’s not happy; I can relate. It’s one of those waves that you end up waiting for forever. And finally when it shows up it’s all yours. But for some reason or another, you blow it. For me, I’ve blown these kinds of waves because I’ve had too much time to think, and then my timing or positioning is off. I think most surfers are used to having that “other guy” to deal with, where you need to make an on-the-spot call on going for the wave. In this sense, time can be the enemy.

    I paddle up and try to find the right words. “We don’t really have the right boards for today,“ I say.
    “Nah, fuck that. . . . I should be catching them.”

  
It’s past 1000, and Klaude needs to get back to work. The tide approaches mid level, and the peak north of the point starts to get consistent, but we have to leave. On the inside, I catch an inside left that’s fast and racy. I actually get some decent frontside pumps before the wave closes out.

    “You’re pumping’s looking pretty good,” says Klaude.

    I smile at the thought, but then I realize that I missed an opportunity to do more. I could’ve attempted a couple floaters to make the section, but I still lack the talent to know what I should really be doing when the opportunity presents itself. It’s a reminder that I’ve still got a lot of work to do.

    It’s an easy ride back with minimum traffic. We actually reach a patch of sunlight near Malibu before it goes gray again. Malibu’s small, and Sunset isn’t breaking at all. Klaude gets a text from Christina. Apparently, she surfed 26th and it was really good. When I drop off Klaude, he grabs his things and throws them on the ground by his driveway. It’s out of character.     The day’s a gamble and a loss, and I’m the one that made the bad call not to come back to the South Bay to surf.