GOOD THINGS DON’T LAST LONG, SAT 29OCT2011 MOR

 

Location: South Huntington

Crew: Khang, Dais, & Klaude

Time: 0700-1030, 3 hrs & 30 min

Conditions: Clean, light offshore, clear skies, 1-3 feet, weak, crowded, inconsistent, long lulls with random pulses.

            This is my sixteenth surf session for this month, and I’m still chasing surf like I barely get it. I think I should take a break come Sunday and Monday. Of course, I say that now . . . and next thing you now I’m in the water again. I need to do my homework.

            Last night I asked Klaude where he’s surfing on Saturday. He said he had to stay local, but that Khang and Dais would be heading to HB. I hit up Khang and learned that they’d be hitting the road at 0630. In hopes of reduplicating yesterday’s score, I have to be there at first light.

            It’s 0500 again, and I hit the snooze button until it’s 0530. Fuck, I’m late. Lauren doesn’t move as I propel my body upright. I went to bed around one in the morning, but I still muster the energy to get things going. I’m rushing again like I’m behind schedule. I meant to be on the road by now. 

            When I’m on the road I get a phone call from Klaude. “Where are you?” he asks.

            “Man, I’m by Carson right now. What’s up, I thought you were surfing local?”

            “I was, mannnn. I’m at 26^th right now.”

            “How’s it look?”

            “It’s dark. I can’t really see that well, but it looks baaaaaad. I can tell from the whitewash. No one’s here too. I was sooo looking forward to surfing today!”

            “You should call Khang and see if you can ride with those guys,” I say. I go to the same parking spot and score on a space that some guy in a truck can’t fit into. I look in my rear view mirror happy to see that the sun hasn’t risen yet. I walk along PCH to my destination, and I can already see that the river jetties are smaller than yesterday. Once I’m on the sand, I see that my spot isn’t doing much either. It’s looking a little laky and weak at this point. Oh well, I made it out here; time to surf it.

            It’s barely past 0700 when I paddle out. Surprisingly, there aren’t many heads in the water. I hope it will stay like this, but HB is the spot with the best surf today, so I expect more people to show. Even though the crowd is thin, I really don’t want to be next to anyone. I sit at an empty spot and catch some dismal rides. I paddle south and invade a bearded guy’s territory. After he catches a wave, I move into his spot and catch the second one. I paddle further south for some isolation and score waves to myself. It’s about a foot smaller than yesterday and less punchy. I’m not generating the speed I need, so I’m mostly trimming and pumping. A long lull occurs, and I view my surroundings. Besides the river jetties, everyone is sitting just like me. Yeah, it’s gonna be one of those sessions. However, In between these lulls there are random sets that give some fun, little rides. I catch a couple waves back-to-back, but it unfortunately attracts a group of surfers on the sand and to my north. Now I’m surrounded. I keep looking around for the fellas, and it’s not until I see a longhaired guy on the sand that I spot Khang. They are sitting where I was earlier, and I want to tell them it’s better where I’m at. I paddle just within yards reach of them, but they can’t see my face because of the glare. It’s not until Dais returns from a ride that he sees me and says wassup. 

            I tell them it’s better where I was, but . . . it doesn’t really matter on a day like this I suppose. The lulls here are even longer, and I feel bad the guys came out to these present conditions. Again though, some random pulses come through, and we’re all scrambling to get some of it. I take a closeout going right. I try to pull a Francis and go for a backhand pinch in the tube, but instead the lip crashes right on top of me. It gives Klaude a good laugh. Oh well.

            Klaude has the right board for today, which is Rick’s Zippy Fish. Every time I think he’s gonna scratch out, he gets the slide. Today’s just not a day for turns, at least for me. One thing that kills my session is this kid that gets in my way. I’m in perfect position for a right. I have no idea what he’s doing, but he turns and sits right where I’m dropping in. He lets out a worrisome, “Whooooa!” because I’m about to drive into him. I have to slide off my board. “Which way were you going?” he asks.

            “Right,” I say with a pissed off look on my face. He says something after, but I don’t comprehend. He takes the situation like it’s no big deal. I carry this negative energy with me for about a half-hour. I want to kill him, but I want to give him the benefit of the doubt. It ruins my energy in the lineup. I remain quiet for a while. I’m not a tough guy, but I can see myself just taking him to the sand. And for what, I think to myself. I don’t want that bad karma. I think about my life and all the good things in it. I let it go as the next pulse comes by which leads to more rides. 

            It’s play time again. I watch Khang on a left. Dais paddles into it too but falls. When he’s next to me he says, “My hair got in the way when I popped up!” He mimics the motion with his hand, indicating his hair was between his palm and board.

“It’s a small price to pay for looking sexy,” I say. No sooner than we complain about the conditions, another pulse comes to eradicate it. Small, fun, and enough to say that today was worth it, we finally leave around 1030. 

            We stop in Fountain Valley for some Vietnamese food. I order the chicken pho which is only a whopping $3.50. I want to eat more, but I’m ashamed to say that I have no cash, and I don’t want to make splitting the bill difficult. If I had more cash I would have easily ate at least $15 worth of food. Klaude rides back with me because he parked by my apartment. Klaude says that Dave’s in town tomorrow, and he wants to surf. We don’t commit but say we’ll talk about it later. By tomorrow the swell will taper off even more to the point of an all out “lay day” for most surfers. Good things don’t last long. Bring on the next swell, please.

DEDICATION, FRI 28OCT2011 MOR

Location: South Huntington

Crew: Francis

Time: 0640-0940, 3 hrs

Conditions: Clean, windless, clear skies, 3-4 feet, crowded.

            There are two types of people in this world. Those who surf and those who don’t.

            I wish I could surf on Thursdays, but I have school, and there is a need for some kind of balance to do the other things in my life that are necessary. Everything can’t be about surfing; I’m learning that. Sometimes I obsess about surfing so much that I hate everything else that occupies my time as if I’m losing my sense of agency. I’ve been down that road. It leads to late nights doing assignments that are due in a couple hours. Also, I haven’t been exercising much. I don’t want to be buff, but my body has worn down to a scant set of twigs, steadily losing muscle since Bali. I couple pounds less, and I’ll be back at basic training weight, Fort Knox style. I haven’t been this light in years. I feel lost in class; I can’t relate to anyone. My neck tan is ridiculous.

            I don’t have class on Fridays, and I’ve been itching to immerse myself in this swell before it makes its way out. I hit up Khang on Thursday night, but he opts to hit the gym instead. Once again, balance. Francis asks me if I’m surfing, but I tell him that I’m heading to HB at O-dark-thirty. It’s imperative because of the high tide. I make the suggestion that he might be able to get a quick session there and still make it to work. He says he’ll meet me at my house to convoy south.

            It’s 0500 when I hit the snooze button. I’m tired. A couple more minutes. A couple seconds later I’m awakened by Francis’s phone call. “Hey, what time were you going to leave?” he asks.

            “Ummmmm.” I scratch my head in discombobulation. I look at the clock. “About five-forty-five, no later than.”

            “Oh, okay. I’m already packed.”

            “Okay, yeah, just come down.” 

            I thrust myself out of bed, rush to grab my gear, make some coffee, and head out the door. To my surprise, Francis is already parked and waiting. This catches me off guard. I hate waiting on people, so you can imagine how much I hate myself when others wait on me. “Hey, I’m gonna run to my car. Follow me!” I say. I run up the hill and lead the way. It’s just past 0530, and I’m still wiping away eye boogers as I try to drive straight. Once we reach HB, I get a call from Manny (Rick’s bro) asking if I’m surfing HB. “I’m already here,” I say.

            “What, you’re already there? Man, I’m just leaving. I won’t be there until seven.” 

            Manny gives me intel on where to find good parking, and we agree to meet north of the river jetties. As soon as I park, I move in my car, sloth-like, putting together my essentials. When I step out and open my rear hatch, Francis shows up already dressed in his wetsuit, board in hand. What the fuck!? This guy’s making me look really bad at this point. “Sorry, bro,” I say. “Fuck, you already have your wetsuit on, huh?”

            “Yeah. No worries. Just take your time.”

            He warms up while I fumble with my sunblock, board, keys, and then we finally begin our trek. I’ve never parked here before, and there are already surfers leaving and returning to their cars to see the surf. It’s a cold morning, somewhere in the mid to high fifties, and the sun is still way below the horizon. The sand’s so cold it hurts our feet. “My feet are numb,” says Francis. He’s right. Our feet are beyond pain at this point. At the first river mouth we wade through it, but it gets too deep, and we have to paddle. We are now jogging. Actually . . . the energy this morning is soooo rushed. I have no idea why. There’s just something in the air, and the funny thing is that it’s not just us. Surfers are going in every direction, passing each other on their way to their picks of the morning. We have to paddle across the second jetty. A crowd of groms look out at the surf. The river jetties are really consistent at this dark hour, and guys are already in the lineup. Our jog slows to a trot and then to a power walk as we escape the main body. After Wednesday’s wind, this morning is a godsend. There’s not one hint of breeze, and the water surface is only jostled by the breaking waves. We choose our spot. Francis leads the way, as he should since he doesn’t have much time. “Look, there’s a right!” he says as we duck dive a wave. There’s only one other guy by us. I’ve never surfed this far south in HB, so I’m not sure where to sit. The anticipation is killing us. Here we are, the conditions we’ve been waiting for are here, but this lull that’s only been seconds feels like an eternity; we need waves now! 

            Today has to be good. I know it, Francis knows it, we feel it in our surroundings. To our north, Dolphins play in the breaking waves, jumping towards shore. A small trace of clouds that look more like smoke are over the horizon. The hidden sun gives a deep orange glow over the skyline. At this very moment, this sunrise easily substitutes as a significant sunset, captivating and breathtaking in view. The cool water and light hum of the early morning gives a certain feeling: it’s so rare to be out here, in the ocean with the waves on so beautiful a day; thank God we’re alive. 

            Anxious as ever, we watch the river jetties and waves breaking to our north. Some waves come, but the shape isn’t at the morning’s potential. I want first blood so bad, but Francis, well deserved, gets a clean three-foot right to start things off. I see his wet, black hair over the lip going the distance. Good for him. The orange eye gives its first peek as I paddle into my first left. Yes, LEFTS, thank you! The tide is actually on the lower side, so the rides aren’t long but still clean and rippable. It’s not a wave buffet; it’s paced with short lulls. I don’t have a standout wave to describe, but I can say that I had a full morning of practicing my frontside turns. Lovely and fast, I gain enough speed to build up some energy. I connect my bottom turns with solid top turns after. None of my waves exceed two turns, but it’s exactly what I need, this form of repetition to make the action stable and concrete into second hand nature . . . eventually it will. I just love the feeling of speed, going up the face over the shoulder, shifting my weight to the tail, and then getting that nice sweeping arch; Oh my god, I live for this. Over and over as much as I can until the tide and crowd increases.

            If I’m stoked, then I can only imagine how Francis feels. He’s my role model of the morning, getting more rides than I. We’re greedy; we can’t help it. Why the hell are we paddling for the same waves, damn near calf to calf?  It’s playful, we kids, at least this morning we are during this grip of excitement. Some of the four foot waves are on the walled side. I watch Francis go on this closeout going left. Backside, he grabs rail and tucks inside the pocket while he’s dropping in. It’s so graceful. With a camera shot at the right moment, it would look legit before the wall comes down. 

            Now the sun is up and the word must be out, for surfers keep lining the beaches and entering the ocean. Every time I catch a right, I’m blinded by the sun. The water’s so calm that it’s like one huge mirror reflecting silverish gold. I get one right that I think is closing but is actually holding. I can’t see shit, so I look towards the shore and get two top turns based on feeling. A wonderful inconvenience perhaps? It’s harder to catch waves now with the crowds. It’s almost eight, and Francis says, “In about ten minutes I’m gonna go in.”

I hate to admit that my personality is that of an accommodator. I really want him to end his session on a good note especially since he went out of his way to come out before work. A good bump forms in the distance. It’s peaky, and I know it’s gonna be good. I turn around to Francis who’s more on the inside. “Francis,” I say, motioning towards the forming wave.

“You don’t want it?”

“It’s yours.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Go.”

I have prime position. Some other guys towards the shoulder want it, but Francis turns and gains priority. In my book, it’s the wave of the day. Just this gorgeous, open, four foot face, peaky and lined up all the way to shore. I’m glad he scored. 

Minutes later, from the inside, he signals that he’s out. I throw him a goodbye shaka and surf the rest of the session with strangers. I try to find Manny in the crowd, but the black suits and wet heads look indistinguishable as far as I can see. A guy next to me says, “It was better yesterday. Bigger, and half the crowd compared to today. That’s why everyone’s out here.” It makes sense. Despite the rising tide and mid morning there’s still no wind, and HB is still pumping out waves. I paddle further north to a working sandbar among new strangers. I try to stay to their outside, but I actually catch waves at the peak, thus eliminating their chances to get rides. I only do this for about twenty minutes, as I feel guilty for having an effect on their wave count. It’s just past 0900 when I paddle to an empty spot. It’s not breaking, but the early session is taking its toll; I’m fuckin’ tired. 

My trek back takes a while. I walk PCH because I don’t feel like paddling through the river mouths again especially with the higher tide. I catch myself falling asleep at the wheel during my drive home. I’m so hungry that I want to pull over and eat or grab a coffee, but I’m such a cheap bastard. As soon as I get home I cook up some ground meat, cook some black beans, chop some cilantro and onions, and devour eight tacos while watching TV. Exhausted on my couch, I’m enjoying this lazy Friday. It’s the session I’ve been waiting for.

AT TIDE’S MERCY, WED 26OCT2011 MOR

Location: Newport
Crew: Khang, Francis

Time: 0700-1100, 4 hrs

Conditions: sideshore wind, high tide, 4-5 ft, less consistency as tide rose.

            I believe every surfer does the same: keep a close eye on the surf forecasts during a flat spell. On this occasion, Wednesday brings in the new swell from the SSW. Obviously, surfing in the South Bay is out of the question. Tuesday night is filled with calls and texts back and forth with Francis and Khang, figuring out which call to make. I haven’t surfed Trestles in a while, and HB sounds like a guarantee. Finally, we settle on Huntington. Stirring things up, I get a phone call from Cosmic John. He tells me he’s driving from San Fran to the OC tomorrow, and we should meet for lunch. Because of this I motion towards surfing in Newport because Cosmic will be in the area. Another major factor affecting this swell is the huge tidal swings. Low tide is around 0200, and high tide in the morning will be over six feet around 0900. Surfline warns its viewers of things being drowned out early, but I have the day off, and I haven’t surfed since Friday, so I’m optimistic that this risk is worth it.

            I wake up at 0500 and put on my wetsuit. I used to do this a while ago, and it’s a habit that I’m trying to pick up again; it saves time but sucks if you get skunked or have to take a shit before leaving the house. I load up the whip, and Francis shows up right at 0515. After crossloading his stuff, I get a text from Khang saying that he’s a little late. It’s no matter. The dark atmosphere lets me know that we have a lot of time before sunrise. 

            We’re on the road at about 0530. With only one board each, all of our equipment fits with room to spare. Usually a drive like this is drowsy, but our sense of energy and stoke for this dawn patrol keeps us awake and aware. We reach Newport in no time and find parking with ease. As soon as I step outside of my car I feel the wind blowing hard—bad sign. Francis has to piss, so I follow him to shore for a look at the water. I can’t make out the waves, but the ocean is definitely alive. I can make out the whitewater, and it sounds fast. The wind isn’t quite onshore but more sideshore from the north. So far for clean conditions. 

            Once we start our walk on the sand, the sun is giving signs of light behind the horizon. There is decent size, easy 4-5 ft. Unfortunately, the tide is already too high. I don’t know this spot well, but the first break we see has two big waves breaking on each side of the jetty, and its waves are breaking close to shore. Moving towards the next break, the shape isn’t holding at all. We are forced to surf where the crowd is. Surfers occupy both jetties, so we sit in the middle with a couple stragglers. Surfline’s right about the swell, but the early morning window just sucks from the tide. I let a couple waves go after they just explode on the sand. The smaller waves hold the shape a little better. I catch a couple closeouts to start things off. My first decent wave is a fast right. It’s walled, but holds shape before it crashes down. I try to do a critical top turn on the lip that’s folding, but by the time I stick the landing I’m over shallow water. I’m forced to bail; waves like these are dangerous. We’re all going through the same thing while watching both jetties. In particular, I keep watching the left. The set waves are refracting off the reef. The guys paddling into them either scratch out or can’t make the sections, but there are shoulders at the end that should be makeable somehow. On a smaller wave, I catch my first left. I have to pump on the low line to escape the crumbling section and make it to the shoulder. Once I do, I’m able to get one turn with a little tail slide to end the ride (Barney tail slide). I’ve been working hard on my frontside turns, and the feeling of arching my tail down with speed is still an unfamiliar but exciting sensation that I strive for every time. 

            The tide’s only getting worse, but the conditions are still manageable. Khang takes off to surf the right-hander off the jetty. Only one surfer remains by the left at the south jetty. Francis says, “I’m gonna check it out,” as he paddles away. I sit in the middle sharing waves with a couple groms. It’s almost 0900, and I wonder why these kids aren’t in school yet. 

            I join Francis at the left, and the other guy there leaves a little after I show up. The waves off the jetty aren’t that clean. It’s all about the refraction. The wave’s disagreement is evident, as the take off seems very fast with a section that already has a head start. I’ve always been uneasy surfing right next to piers or big rocks; it’s eerie to me. Also, the sight of the sets forming in the open ocean approaching the rocks gives me a sense of feeling trapped. In this case, I paddle out to the very tip and catch a set wave. It’s so fast. The refraction causes a great deal of white wash, and I’m almost submerged in foam while feeling for my board. Once I make it to my feet it’s a wild ride: the speed, the momentum, the sound of the crashing water all around me, and yet there’s still the open face that I’m trying to get to. I now know the challenges of the other guys I watched in the morning. I manage to draw a good line to avoid the spilling water, but I’m already near the shore before I can reach the shoulder. So these waves at the jetty are too fast for turns (especially for this Barney), but they’re still really fun. Khang paddles over and says, “I need to get in on some of this.” He says that the right at the other jetty was fast. 

            So for about an hour we have this left all to ourselves. A grom on a funboard joins us, but there are enough waves to keep the rotation flowing. I have to give the kid credit. He was probably only in middle school, and yet I know some grown ass adults that would opt to sit this one out. It’s about 1000 when a fresh crew of three surfers invades our area. Hmmmmm, the spot has waves, but I don’t really feel like competing for them. I tell the guys that I’m paddling back towards the middle, in which they follow my lead. “We milked that left for what it was worth,” says Khang. I concur. 

            Unfortunately, the next half hour is the tide’s max in height. The waves are breaking too close to shore. There are three groms cranking out some nice turns on the right, but we don’t want to invade their fun zone. I paddle around the north jetty to the next break, and the waves there are even worse. The fellas shift over to where I am, and then we end up walking back to our original break. Now it’s about 1100, and the tide is draining back out causing some very choppy conditions. Khang and Francis get their last waves while I struggle to get one that explodes on the sand. I can’t say that we’re exhausted. We hoped to score, but the conditions weren’t prime. However, we did make the best of it, so much that we invested four hours despite the backwash. We milked it, and it was worth it. 

            Back at the car I have a missed call. Cosmic John is in the area. He just got here literally as we were ending the session. I give him a ring, and he tells us to meet him at the café around the corner. Khang spots him first. He’s wearing a straw hat, shorts, t-shirts, some awesome shades, and he’s barefooted. I yell out at him, and he gives an enthusiastic double shaka and says, “Heeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyy!” We shake hands through the car, do a rough greeting, and introduce Francis while a couple cars have to drive around us. Cosmic introduces us to his young apprentice Jordan who’s come along on his drive from San Fran. We turn the car around to park while they have to walk the remainder. The scene is truly that of Master and apprentice. Despite the red light at the intersection, Cosmic John walks across paying no mind to the street. Meanwhile, Jordan stops abruptly, furiously hits the walk button then finally shuffles along to catch up with the Polarity Therapist. 

            In the café we congregate by the entrance to do proper greetings. I try to ensure that Cosmic gets a good intro with Francis, but that appears to be happening on its own will. I end up talking to Jordan a bit which somehow leads to a conversation about PC gaming and Battlefield 3. The two old Asian ladies at the register keep asking if we’re going to buy something, and it’s obvious that they’re perturbed. After we buy our sandwiches, we all sit and engage in some morning conversation. Cosmic gives me the details of his Philippines fundraiser event that’s happening next month in San Fran. I tell him that Lauren and I will be there, and he’s delighted to hear it. He says that Clay Marzo, Jamie Sterling, and Rusty Long will be there. He also tells us about some of the things to be raffled off like surfboards, a GoPro camera, and even two tickets to Fiji. I ask him about the area because I’d like to take Lauren out somewhere nice to eat, and he says, “Don’t worry, you’ll be eating with us.” His reply actually makes me nervous. I don’t do well around celebrities, but . . . if I never get out of my comfort zone I’ll never learn anything. 

            Breakfast ends with a positive vibe. Cosmic’s goodbyes are with hugs, firm handshakes, and huge smiles, embracing all of us as if he’s known us for years. Once the three of us are in the car to take off, Cosmic returns to drop off a little something from up north. His kindness and generosity blows our minds. He didn’t have to turn around, come back, and do that.

            During the drive home, Khang and Francis talk about trying to get the days off to make it to the fundraiser event. Cosmic’s energy is so positive it’s contagious. I’m happy to have a free spirit like that in my life and happy about how the day’s events lined up. If we surfed somewhere else the day would have ended on a different note.  I’m glad it ended on this one.

LIKE CUMMING DUST, FRI 21OCT2011 MOR

BAJA VIDEO

Crew: Solo

Time: 0700-0845, 1hr & 45 min

Conditions: Gloomy, onshore wind, 1-2 foot surf, weak, and crumbly. 

            This weekend I am obligated to take a trip to the Ocotillo desert with my childhood friends. Unfortunately, none of them surf. It’s actually quite the opposite: they love dirtbikes. I have been up to my nose in midterms, papers, readings, and homework to the point that I haven’t surfed since Sunday. I know for “normie nine-to-fivers” a surf schedule like this is normal. Perhaps I’m spoiled, but for me that’s a long time. Finally, it’s Friday, and I’ve done all my homework for the weekend in advance to free me up for this trip. It pains me to leave the ocean, so I must, at all costs, get some kind of surf in my veins to hold me over for the weekend. Driving to Porto, I already see that it’s blowing onshore a little. Even though surfline forecasts the surf to be minuscule, I can’t help but be optimistic. After all, it’s been four days since I’ve even seen the water, so the image in my head is ideal. I score the last free spot on 45^th and take a look at the surf. It’s gray, overcast, and the waves are looking more like ripples. Any other day I would turn around and go home, but surprisingly I am so surf deprived that I’m already dawning my Jedi robe to change-out. I know it’s small. . . . Fuck it. 

            Vans and cars pass me on their way to the lot. I wonder if they think I’m wasting my time. The goal is to catch anything rideable. Getting one turn would be considered a miracle. The lot’s pretty sparse, indicative that people pulled up and left no sooner than they could give the sigh of disappointment that we all know so very well. Once again, fuck it, I’m here. It’s kind of hard to write this session because I feel like I can sum it up in a paragraph. There are mostly longboarders out, but there are a couple guys on thrusters too. I sit and let small waves go by until I accept the fact that this is all I’m gonna get. Waves that look like lefts and rights end up being fizzlers that have me going straight. I feel like a fool in my disco wetsuit, for these are not the conditions for an ocean disco. I get a couple waves that have shape, but they are so weak that I can only go down the line. If I pump too hard I stall, so I lightly trim until the spilling water hinders my progress; it’s one of those small days. I surf until 0845, just in time to escape being sodomized by the few, the brave, the Manhattan Beach parking enforcement. 

The Trip:

 

            My best friend Manolo is the most unorganized person I know. He doesn’t think; he acts and cleans up the mess after. Basically, he’s my polar opposite. It figures that we’ve been best friends since sixth grade, and since second grade we hated each other. He’s at the dealership getting an oil change on his truck. The plan is to meet up and have breakfast to kill some time. I take him to Bob’s Hawaiian Restaurant in Gardena, where Klaude and I ate last weekend. It’s still gloomy in Gardena, and this Friday morning brings an empty atmosphere.

            A table of Gardena city employees eat their breakfast; three of them look local (Hawaiian). An old Japanese man enters by himself, sits in the corner, and orders scrambled eggs, spam, and two scoops of rice. Manolo’s grateful that I’ve taken him here, and coincidentally our table has a map of Maui under the glass. I take a look at my beloved Napili until the waitress places my plate on top of it. Manolo orders the machaca which I’m surprised is even on the menu. The waitress easily passes as a local chick; this restaurant really resembles a hole-in-the wall local spot. We talk shit and go over the daily plans. 

            Afterwards, I drop him off and am ready by 1100. He’s lagging. I call to see what’s going on. He says he’s still packing but to come over anyway. When I show up, he’s throwing shit in his cab and truck bed. No folding, no placing items appropriately where they fit, he’s just chucking shit here and there. He looks at my two items, a duffle bag and gear bag, and says, “Damn, Matt! You were in the military. I can’t pack that light!” 

He goes back into his house while I try to make room for my things. “Really, Three comforters?” I say to myself. He spends the next hour trying to rearrange Smokey’s dog cage, two dirtbikes, and some other camping supplies. I grit my teeth, holding myself back to tell him this absolutely can’t be done. Finally, he sacrifices the dog cage and extra bike. 

The next stop is at the motorcycle shop to get some tie-downs, and from there we pick up my dirtbike from our other friend Boris’ house; he’s meeting us on Saturday night. By the time we’re on the road, it’s 1600. We reach Mission Viejo to meet our other childhood friend Sebastian. He’s an amateur dirtbike racer, the grease monkey of the group, and the organizer of this whole getaway. 

Numerous problems occur on the way to Ocotillo. One, Seba’s truck constantly needs to be jump started. Two, they fuck up our order at Carl’s Jr. which results in us going back and acting like assholes. At 2200 we finally reach Ocotillo Wells where we encounter our last problem of the night; Manolo’s truck gets stuck. The sand is so powdery, fine and soft. Also, not having two-wheel drive doesn’t help. Going into the weekend I justified this trip in my mind. These are my best friends in the whole world, and trips like these are necessary. All three of us are on our hands and knees digging out the truck with firewood, the closest thing we have to a shovel. 

 

It’s 2345, and we’ve finally reached camp. It’s hot. Fall weather? I don’t think so. Even with the sun down, the earth radiates energy like a boulder that’s been smoldering in fire. It’s Smokey’s first camping trip. Manolo got Smokey days before his execution date at the pound. Sure, he slobbers all over the place and is so hyper it’s annoying. However, he’s loyal to us and barks or growls at anything foreign; he’s one of us. Seba’s on the phone until we fall asleep. His friend Mike is lost and can’t find the camp. 

It’s about 0730 when I wake. I’m dirt-tired, but the sun’s rays are putting a hurtin’ on our tent; it’s more like an oven now. It’s so early and already so hot. I turn over and see Manolo sleeping butt-ass naked. Stretch marks on the side of his ass are visible. Hmmmm, nothing spells out “close friends” better than tent nudity. He scratches his balls as I unzip the tent. I damn near trip over Smokey who’s spent the night at the entrance. 

The heat constipates our progress. Mike finally arrives, and by the look of his tattoos, weird gums, and ear rings, I figure that he’s a filthy animal like the rest of us; a pirate. Manolo’s in charge of breakfast which . . . to me is a big mistake. I fight my control-freak tendencies and let him do his thing. Copious amounts of Rachael Ray cooking oil get poured onto the pan. He cuts the potatoes on the dirty ass table that’s been exposed to the dust all night. There’s no sanitizing here; this is some straight-up man shit. Bacon, eggs, grease-soaked toast, and potatoes . . . gawd damn it’s good, but it’s so oily that I feel a light headache coming on.

We gear up, warm up the bikes, and head out. Seba always takes the lead, as we would be lost in this vast land of dust, hills, and sand. Unfortunately, Mike misses our cue and darts away from us. We wait . . . we wait . . . and then we wait some more. The fucking guy is gone. This is against dirtbike riding protocol. We always leave together and stay put if we get lost, but he’s drawn his own line and gone rogue. After riding around for an hour looking for him, we decide to go back and rehydrate. 

 

When Mike finally comes back to camp, he says he assumed we were behind him. Oh well. So here we go, our official riding can officially begin. I’ve never been a motor head. I had a phase in my younger days when I upgraded the turbo in my Ford Mustang which led to $$$$$$$ in racing parts that I’m ashamed to admit. Thank god that’s over. I’m no better on a dirtbike. When I ride I ride to survive and return uninjured. Manolo likes to take ridiculous risks. Years ago he ended up down the side of a mountain. Seba and I were sipping our beers waiting for him when we heard his cry for help. He wasn’t seriously hurt, and it actually ended up being fuckin’ funny seeing Seba recover his bike in the bushes and seeing Manolo with all that dirt and grass in his helmet. Good times. Seba’s a pro in my book. He would be a contender in the pro circuit if he had some kind of sponsorship and more resources. Jumps, hill climbs, he can do all that shit. 

So here we are following Seba. The cloud of dust is so thick that I have to hang quite a ways back. I’m always last, and I’m approaching a little hill. Once I’m over it I realize that there’s nothing under me. I’m catching air on what appears to be at least a six foot drop straight down. What should I be doing? From my time on the bike, I’ve learned that I should be hitting the throttle to raise my front tire, but . . .  all I see is the ground below, my handle bars and wheel getting closer to it, and I’m struggling to keep my feet on the pegs. When I land, in that fraction of a second, I’m thinking, Yes, I fucking made it! But what really happens is my front wheel gets buried, my grip is ripped from the handle bars, and my head feels like it crashes into a wall as it hits the sand. All I hear are engines. Dust and sand are in the air, and I slowly . . . slowly get up to raise my bike. I see Mike yards in front of me. He’s standing, but he’s slumped over his bike and holding his chin. Once I start it and join everyone else, I learn the outcome. Seba accidentally led us over a razorback. Manolo followed, and the king of spills miraculously made the landing. Mike’s chin slammed into his handle bars. His back is tweaked, but he never fell off his bike. Blood drips down his chin and onto his shirt. It’s hard to assess the damage because of his beard, but he downplays it and motions to continue. 

We ride the sandwashes, check out the geological sites, and watch Seba practice his jumps. We stop at the Blue Inn for cold drinks and ice cream. The cashier sees Mike and offers a wet rag for his chin.

We’ve been on the saddle for over four hours. Seba is pushing us to the limit. Manolo lets his frustrations be known. I do my best not to throw in the towel and let Seba know I’m tired. We’re dehydrated, Mike’s legs are cramping to the point that he can’t kick start his bike without resting. We’re all out of water. After Seba’s last couple jumps, we enter the dry river bed which is a straight shot to our camp and Smokey. We’re all fifth gear pinned at good intervals. I approach a cloud of dust and see one of our riders on the dirt. I think it’s Mike, but it turns out that Mike is standing over Seba. Gawd damn . . . it just doesn’t stop. 

 

Poor Seba. He’s a good rider, but he’s not completely in sync with the differences with his two-stroke from his four-stroke. He popped a wheelie at fifty-five mph. With a four-stroke, letting off the throttle would drop the front wheel, but not with his two-stroke. The horse broke loose which flipped and rolled him over the hard, compact dirt. “That must’ve hurt!” Manolo says. “I ain’t never seen Seba that fucked up.” My childhood friend, 6’3”, the same guy I saw knock out the neighborhood gangbanger when we were kids, disrobes all his gear down to his bare chest and lies down. His pants are ripped, and he has two raw road-rash marks behind his shoulders that look like strawberries. 

He pulls out his cell phone, calls Boris, and leaves a message: “Guy, we’ve encountered some difficulties. I’m pretty fucked up, the bike’s fucked up. It’s better if you stay home, guy.” He gently places the phone on his chest and rests another fifteen minutes before heading to camp.

Vicodin and beer rescues the wounded. Mike comes out of the darkness near the camp fire and says, “Look, it’s like a vagina.” He spreads his chin apart to reveal a deep, fleshy wound. I cringe, Manolo cringes, and we can’t believe he functioned like that throughout the day. After verification that none of us know how to stitch, he opts to see the doctor during the week. 

The rest of the night is buffoonery. We eat so much that we require Smokey’s services to kill everything off. A couple gunshots later and a propane tank nearly misses Manolo’s head as a mushroom cloud of a fireball erupts in the sky. Seba puts a cardboard barrel over the fire without telling us that he’s soaked the inside with two-stroke fuel and gasoline. When it catches, everything around us turns to a bright orange followed by immense heat over our exposed skin. Everyone, including the dog, gets up to run away from the heat. 

In the morning it’s another splurge fest. We pack up, hit the road, and say goodbye to Mike at the gas station. Mike ends up being a really nice guy. Manolo and I give Seba our approval for him to be part of the crew. We follow Seba home to make sure his truck doesn’t die, and by 1700 on Sunday I’m home. 

I missed the surf, and this whole weekend, on its surface, looks like one big debacle. But now, looking back, I appreciate this weekend so much. We’re not kids anymore, and with our own agendas (like surfing) it’s so rare that we get to see each other. I love seeing my best friend, the disaster that he is, live his life on improvisation. No matter how messy and ugly, he manages to get from point A to B every time; isn’t that all that matters? Seba, with the appearance of a beastly man possesses a forever giving heart. He’s been persistent over the years until we give-in to make these trips happen. So selfless that he’s taught me how to ride and maintains my bike without request of reimbursement. Days later, we call or text to see if we’re all right. Who am I to be so selfish with my time. More than family, these guys are my blood. Good friends are hard to find.