PURL, SAT 31DEC2011 MOR

Location: North O-Side

Crew: Rick & Francis

Time: 0815-1045

Conditions: light fog, offshore then switched to onshore, 4-5 ft, mid tide, inconsistent.

Yesterday morning at Manhattan Beach. Too much fog.

 

Pre Blog:

     I didn’t surf yesterday, but I wanted to. I sent a text out to Khang and Rick with no reply. I headed to Porto anyway to see if I’d bump into anybody. Rick was there, but said, according to everyone else, that the shape wasn’t so good. You see, the fog was so thick that you couldn’t see past the shore. I was skeptical because I really wanted to catch some waves. We ran into Whiffleboy who said the same—not much shape out there. Rick went home, and I went to 26^th to face the same visibility issues. Not worth it, I guess. Later that morning Khang sent me a text. He said it was fun. Bad call on my part.

The Plan:

     Rick was hellbent on traveling for surf this weekend. He, like many others, has to go back to work next week, so this is has last chance to surf before going back to the weekend warrior schedule. North Oceanside was the call. With one more slot open in my car, I sent an invite to Francis who gladly accepted. 

     It’s 0500. I can’t believe it’s this early already. I just went to bed around midnight. I hit the snooze button, and it’s now 0511. I contemplate on five more minutes, but I have so much shit that I have to prep. Officially, I wake up. Francis is right on time, and I meet him downstairs to load up our gear. Rick’s a little behind schedule, but we’re on the road by 0545. We’re all hoping for some good surf. I tell Francis that our O-side spot is always a gamble, I’ve never caught it good, and I’ve been skunked my last couple times down there. Of course, Rick has caught it when it’s firing, barreling, double-overhead, you name it. Also, this is a chance to escape this thick South Bay fog.

The Trip:

     The fog clears once we pass Carson. We’ve made it. We can see the purple horizon; things are lookin’ up. As soon as we enter Costa Mesa the fog is even denser than El Segundo. I’m in the slow lane doing 55 because I can barely make out the tail lights in front of me. As we approach Trestles the fog clears again. The celebration repeats itself. Lowers and Churches looks fun, most important is that the water’s glassy; there’s no south wind. So far things are lookin’ good; we might score. 

     Rick’s friend Michaelson is meeting us in O-Side, and Rick calls to tell him that the fog has cleared up, but as soon as we leave the San Onofre area we drive into another blanket. We tell eachother that we celebrated too soon, but just as we reach our surf destination we’ve reached the end of the patch, and the sun is just about to rise over the mountains. 

     We can’t see the waves from the parking lot, but as soon as we hit the sand we see fast, five-foot, scattered peaks all along the beach. The lefts off the jetty are working too. In an instant I start getting the caffeine jitters from my anticipation to paddle out. I’m jogging in place and so is Francis. There are only two guys out, and a hollow, right-hander barrels right in front of us unridden. 

     The only problem is that we must backtrack to lead Michaelson to our spot. By the time we gather the rest of our party and suit up, the size and consistency has gone down just a hair. Michaelson’s not too stoked, Rick’s changing, but Francis and I can’t wait any longer, so we paddle out to the closest peak. It’s 0815, and the tide has bottomed out. Francis and I catch a couple waves, but they closeout towards the inside. The current’s pulling south, and by the time Rick joins us we’ve already drifted to the jetty. We see a big left A-frame and peel away unridden; it’s fast and lumpy, but it has an open shoulder. The water refracting off the rocks makes the surface unstable. Rick’s the one to draw first blood. He gets one of the set waves all the way to shore. I’m in position for another pitchy A-frame, but it has so much speed that as I slide down, my nose gets caught in the face. It’s a healthy wipeout. Now it’s Francis’ turn. Instead of paddling for the shoulder he heads for the peak, turns around, nearly air drops, almost falls backwards as he sticks the landing, regains his composure, and he makes the section. Looking behind the wave I see his toss of water over the back. 

     Unfortunately for me, my wipeout sets the tone for my session. The lulls are long, but when the waves come they’re big, fast, technical bastards. Over and over again, I watch Francis and Rick put on a clinic. Rick makes the call that Francis is getting the waves of the day. I look for waves that line-up, but they closeout towards the inside. On the fast A-frames, I just can’t survive the pitch and keep purling. It’s frustrating because I’m blowing good, long rides. I see the faces opening as my nose goes under and propels me forward. I wear my emotions on my sleeve; it’s obvious that I’m frustrated. Francis even sits off to the side to give me priority. Rick says, “You got the next one, Matt!” I hate charity, but my pissy attitude is causing it; I just know I can do better, and I want a monster ride like these guys have been getting. 

     Eventually I get some rides that I don’t purl on, but they are so fast that I struggle to stand on my board. The G’s keep me stuck in a crouched position, hand in the face, and being more careful than manueverable. The water’s refraction makes the take-offs bumpy and the sections a little wonky. My main concern is distance more-so than carving. 

     My best wave is my worst wave. I make two sections that seem like they’re going to close, but I take the highline on the lips and get momentum as they come down. The third section stands; it’s vertical. Instead of pulling in I straighten out, missing the barrel. A guy sitting on the shoulder goes for it and gets the remaining half of the ride. I’m just not on it today. I don’t have much experience here, I’m not as good as my two counterparts, and my surfer reflexes can’t keep up with the speed; I literally feel like a Barney, the fetal stages of surfing when you’re on the wave but don’t know what to do. I just had an awesome session on my birthday, but I resign to the fact that not every session can be a good one, and just like how I scored last week while Khang didn’t, it’s my turn to take the back seat while my buddies are in the zone. 

     I have the peak all to myself after Rick and Francis leave the area. There’s a new crew taking over the lineup, but I’m at the top of the wave. I know what the water’s doing, and I bolt for the horizon at the first signs of the next set. I’m in front of the peak but behind the shoulder as the wave jacks up. The guy on my outside sees me going, so he pulls out. I feel a little deep as I pop-up and slide, and then . . . purl. I resurface after the destruction. The other guys are looking at me. It’s the path of a surfer. Some moments are triumphant, others are embarrassing and humiliating. This is the latter. 

     Back on the sand I can feel how much the wind changed, it’s now onshore. Rick sips on a beer, pats me on the back, and tells me that I should ride a thicker board. It’s the lecture that I’ve heard from him ever since I started riding a shortboard. I know he means well. He has the right to make the suggestion, as he constantly defies the odds of paddling into waves that look unmakeable. Once we’re all taking a hot shower, I begin to mellow out. I’m not perfect, no surfer is perfect, and I can’t expect to have a breakthrough session every time I surf. Rick scored, and Francis caught the morning’s best waves on his first trip here; their stoke is my stoke.

Fuel:

     Rick suggests a Mexican market in San Clemente. At first I’m skeptical. When he says “market” I’m expecting that we have to stand on the corner and eat our food. The restaurant’s called La Tiendita. I order the machaca plate for $5.95, and it’s even better than Café Del Sol. The portions are bigger, and they have a better selection of tacos under two bucks. Rick treats me to coffee for the drive home, and I barely keep my eyes open for the last stretch back to The Gundo.

     It’s the last surf session for 2011, but I’m not even thinking about tonight. I feel unsettled, and I hope to redeem myself tomorrow morning.

BIRTHDAY GIFT, THU 29DEC2011 MOR

Crew: Rick

Time: 0745-1030

Conditions: Sunny, glassy, four feet, mid-high tide, semi consistent.

Pre Blog:

     Life has been pretty damn simple since my winter break started. Lauren’s finally been given time off of work, and we’ve been able to spend quality time together to bring some balance back to our relationship. Other than surfing and a few family get-togethers, I’ve been a homebody. Instead of waking at the crack of dawn I’ve been sleeping in. After my morning sessions I work my way back home, eat until I’m full, lounge around in my Forever Lazy, wait for dinner, and end the night with some alcohol and video games. 

     It’s almost too simple. I’ve had time to think about my life. Is this the way to live? I’ve been invited out to do different things, but all I want to do is move at my own pace, go with the flow, and surf at every opportunity I have. I can only justify it by thinking about how busy I was during my last month of school or also by the thought of school starting again next month. But the fact that I’m questioning my free time makes me feel like something’s missing. Perhaps I should step out of my surfing world and see some old friends I haven’t seen in a while. Maybe that’s it; I’ve been isolating away from things that don’t fit my surf schedule.

Happy Birthday to me:

     It’s 0549 when I get my first text from Rick. I’m so tired. He’s asking me if I’m awake. I can see him now stirring about in his kitchen, sipping on coffee, checking out the forecast on his computer with all of his gear staged and ready to go. I’m so warm . . . so very warm in my bed. After a couple more punches on the snooze button I finally text him back at 0635. He suggests that we stay local. In twenty minutes he’s downstairs ready to go. 

     We swap vehicles and roll in the wagon. It’s just too damn frosty out there. I got seat heaters which catches Rick by surprise. I throw on some old school punk from GBH. “Cool,” Rick says. “That’s what I used to listen to back in my days.” I do this on purpose expecting to hear some old Dog Town stories from the late 70s or 80s and his childhood days in Venice. You can always count on Rick to keep a conversation going. 

     We first pull into the El Porto lot. I haven’t surfed here in ages. There’s size, at least a solid four feet and a little bigger on some sets, but it looks closed out. He lets his brother Manny know the report, and I text CC and Khang to suggest coming out during the higher tide. “We can go to HB?” I say. I got my parking pass, and I’m really not in the mood for closeouts. Not to sound picky, but I know for sure that over half of my sessions this winter have been wall-dodgers. 

     “Let’s check out the jetty,” he says. Ahhhh, the jetty, the spot where I caught my first wave. I haven’t surfed it since my brother left to Bali. It was where I got my biggest wave for 2010, a wave which my brother only labeled at six feet when I swear it was over one story. Since then I’ve severely trimmed down my estimates. 

     On the way to the Grand lot we see a nice right line up off of it; there are about four guys out. “This may be the only place with shape,” he says. Me . . . I’m kind of skeptical. It’s not crowded, but even with less than six guys it can be hard to share one wave. 

     Parking’s only three bucks. A local guy that Rick knows pulls up in a truck. His name is Yoman (sounds like “yo, mon!” reggae style). He’s an older dude from Bali. I chit chat with him a little and tell him that these waves must be too small for him. He replies, “No . . . too cold!” 

     Hammerlands isn’t working because the tide’s too high. It’s been a while since I’ve taken the “Grand walk.” Looking at the Jetty it’s hard to tell if it’s promising or not. A set rolls through which brings a sweeping wall, leaving the only makeable section just short of the smoke stacks. “I’m paddling out over there,” I say as I head south. 

     “No, we’re going to paddle out right against the rocks.”

     Hmmm, I don’t agree with this. If a wave comes I’m thinking that, not only will we be in the way of surfers, we might get slammed against the rocks. “Yeah, this is the easy way out,” he says as we start to paddle. The white wash is surprisingly mellow by the rocks. “You know, back in the day I used to swim right under the pier . . . it used to suck me right out. You feel it pulling us right now?” He’s right, and my anxiety dissipates. “If the swell’s coming from the northwest we’re protected.” We even get to the top of the wave faster than the guy walking on the jetty to jump off. If I tune in and listen I could learn a thing or two. 

     I don’t know any of the four other guys sitting at the point. It's quiet, and I feel that negative energy that says, “Great, more fuckin’ dicks just showed up to our spot.” I’m not used to catching waves next to piers or rocks; it always feels dangerous like one wrong pop-up could land you with a broken skull. Rick catches his first wave which doesn’t materialize; he ends up on the inside behind. I take a similar wave which does the same. Hating crowds, I paddle a little south and sit away from the pack. It’s pretty much what I do when trying to get scraps at Lowers. On the plus-sized sets, everyone paddles way in front of the jetty and actually takes off on the Hammers side. I swear that one guy is on a collision course for the rocks, but he narrowly miss them, and the wave opens up for a long ride just short of the smoke stacks. Again . . . long ride. We all look back to see the tosses of water, the occasional silhouette of the black-suited figure skyline over the lip then reenter, all the way until he’s just a little figuring somewhere by the shallows. It’s envy. . . . 

     I’ve caught a couple closeouts over here at my spot. Rick paddles by to ask if I’ve caught anything. Just as I’m about to let out my usual, pessimistic reply, a huge peak starts to form; it swings wide and misses the jetty completely. My mouth is still open, half-caught in dialogue, when he says, “Paddle for it, Matt!” Of course, he’s trying to go for it too, but I’m the only one sitting for enough to get the forming shoulder. Another guy is right on the peak, but he’s too deep and duckdives it. Gawd damn . . . the wave’s mooshy, but it’s big. I feel the lift as I’m just sliding into to it. The drop is so gradual; it’s like Trestles on a big day because this wave is so clean. The guy that just got the long ride is in my way, so I can’t do a deep bottom turn, but he’s watching me before he duckdives. I take the highline to avoid a collision, do a light cutback, set up my bottom-turn, and connect three solid carves all the way to shore. It’s classic. For a wave to break this big and this clean at Porto is unbelievable, slopy but rippable because of the size. Trestles at Porto, at least on this wave it is. 

     I’m just so fuckin’ lucky, I don’t know what else to think or say, but my crooked ass teeth are all that’s visible as I paddle back with my shit-eating grin. Rick throws me a thumbs-up from the top of the wave. I paddle nearby. The other guys aren’t saying anything, but they look antsy, waiting for the next bomb that doesn’t exist in the lull. “You got your birthday gift, huh?” Rick says.

     I paddle back to my spot. That’s me . . . the scavenger, a vulture of waves digging for leftovers, but right now it’s working. I watch the show, guys barely escaping with their asses; sometimes it looks like they’re surfing over the rocks—nuts. My next best wave is so walled that the guys by the jetty can’t make the section. I look to my left and see a guy straighten out; again, my distance from the pack has me on the shoulder. It’s a four-turn wave. I can’t even remember the last time I got four turns, but I can tell you that it’s only happened a couple of times, and for sure they were at Trestles. It has the in-between shape: not too vertical that you purl on reentry and not so slopy that you bog out; it’s perfect. Each turn feels more familiar every time I pull one off, top to bottom with speed, crouching low then extending as I climb. I can see why surfing good waves enhances one’s abilities. Unfortunately, for most of us they are few and far between.  

     I score for the first hour and a half. It’s not wave buffet status, but the waits are reasonable and the rides worth waiting for. The second half of the sessions gets inconsistent. My spot turns off, and most of my waves are closing out. Even the guys at the point are now all sitting towards the inside. I go to the top of the wave hoping I can end it on a phenomenal, long ride, but it never happens. I catch a bogger next to the rocks and meet Rick on the sand. Back at the car I run into Whiffleboy. I give him my morning report as he shakes my hand with his polar-bear death grip. Afterwards, Rick treats Lauren and I out to breakfast at Good Stuff. I return home to find a gift waiting for me; it’s Modern Warfare 3 for PS3, so I know what I’m doing tonight.

     I know it sounds cliché, but I’m so fortunate to have scored good waves on my birthday. If it wasn’t for Rick, I wouldn’t have made the effort to walk from the Grand lot. I would’ve just drove by for a peek as usual and complained about paying for parking. 

     I don’t really go all-out on my birthdays: no Vegas, big dinners, bars, or clubs. But the gift I was given couldn’t have been bought or planned; it just happened. Good waves that came specifically to me for my picking. Topped off by a homemade meal, video games, and champagne with my girlfriend, well . . . I can’t say that I’d want to be anywhere else. 

ONLY A FOOL, TUE 27DEC2011 MOR

Crew: CC

Time: 0715-1000

Conditions: Cold, offshore, mid to high tide, 5 ft, angry closeouts which improved with rising tide.

     Okay, so today was the day I was supposed to take a break . . . but Francis hit me up last night and said he’d be surfing at first light. Again, I’m a sucker for invites, so. . . .

     It’s 0630, and I’ve already hit the snooze button twice. I’ve been saying that my body needs rest, but today I’m one-hundred percent sure that I really, really need the rest. I’m just worried about my shoulder. I’m fine now, but I can feel the strain that I’ve been putting it under. The last thing I want is a relapse, and I’m sure that one full day out of the water can make a world of difference. I take my time getting mission-ready, and then I’m out the door. It’s another cold one, as I can see my breath on the way to my car. Street cleaning is today in Manhattan Beach. I don’t expect any free parking, but I score at the top of the hill. Francis hasn’t returned my text, so I assume he’s already in the water. Counting from my parking spot, I only see two guys out. Rick’s already text’d me. He said he’s paddling out at El Porto, and that there are big, thumping closeouts. Looking at the waves it’s similar to Christmas day but a little gnarlier. The inside is nothing but roaring white, and the set that I just saw come through was nothing but long, shapeless lines. Regardless, I’m here and Francis is probably out there. I get my shit right and head to the sand. 

     The morning coffee crew is checking out the surf from the walk path, seeing if this morning is worth it or not. Only one other guy joins me on the sand to warm up, it’s a kid who’s got a body board. Other than him, there are only two guys in the whole lineup and two guys further north by 33^rd . . . that’s it. It’s not even that early. I can understand if it’s first light, but it’s not. The ocean’s a ghost town, it’s eerie, and it’s fucking with me. One of the guys looks like Francis, but it’s hard to tell. It’s a long paddle to the lineup, but it looks like him. I start to wave, do a quick warm up, and make my way out. There’s a lull, so I’m rushing before the place turns on. The kid on the body board paddles next to me. About half way out is when the set comes. To me, this is the worst part about surfing—getting caught on the inside. I know that this isn’t Pipeline, but I don’t care. The South Bay can get heavy, and when it’s dumpy it’s powerful. There’s nothing like seeing that wall coming down right on top of you. You duckdive and brace only to get violently thrashed while your board’s ripped away by something so powerful that the only way out is to give-in. And then there’s the next wave, and the next, and then the loss of breath, until finally Mother Ocean lets you crawl on through, only after you’ve paid your fee. It’s what I hate the most, but worst of all is when you’re out alone. In this case, two paddling out and two in the lineup, that’s still pretty grim. 

     Despite my anxiety, I don’t lose my board, but I get dragged back and washed around a bit. The next one breaks farther out which is exactly what I don’t want. The body boarder moves past me. After the third wave I’m huffing and puffing, and my right shoulder’s feeling weak too. Francis is looking back at me, but the only problem is that he’s not Francis. It’s a look-a-alike, another dark dude with long black hair. I was waiving to him on the sand, and he’s giving me that look that says, “Do I know you?”

     The waves back off. With these earplugs I can hear my own heartbeat pulsate through my temples as well as my rapid breathing. The body boarder just makes it out; I passed him somewhere on the inside. The guy that looks like Francis is now on the shore heading home. So there’s just us three, but the two guys up north paddle close enough for me to see their faces. It’s sketchy. On the next set I paddle into position, but all of the waves are closeouts. Some rogue sets break further outside, but not so far that I can’t paddle past them. The body boarder catches a closeout. Minutes later he’s taking the exit on the sand. In my immediate area it’s just that one other guy. He’s got the whole NorCal get-up: hood, gloves, and booties; he looks like a gingerbread ninja. 

     I’m being especially picky. For one, if I get caught on the inside I want it to be worth it. It really sucks to knowingly catch a closeout only to resurface in the impact zone and find that the rest of the set has your name on it. Nope, not me. I need something better than a closeout if I’m gonna pay that ticket. 

     I play with my position for the first twenty minutes before sliding into my first wave. There are closeouts, but the rising tide takes keeps the waves from being completely round. You know there’s some size when you only see the top of the wave when looking down the line. You actually have to look somewhere else to see where you’re going. It’s a steep, fast drop, but this is different, there’s a chance to make it. I draw a high line to make the section faster and then slide down with the lip as it crumbles. The shape gets better towards the inside, but I’m surfing over marbleized white-wash which means I should be kicking out now. The other guy is paddle back out behind me. It feels good to show him that he’s not the only nut out here, and that I’m catching waves as well. 

     For the first hour the scene is still desolate. I see more guys watching from the metered lots now, at least four of them just standing, gauging. And we . . . we’re their test monkeys. Within the first hour a couple more guys paddle out, catch a single wave, and leave. It makes me wonder why the hell I wanna be out here. Francis isn’t here, none of my boys are, but yet I remain. My surfer soul, I think to myself. That’s what I’m doing; I’m feeding it. Ninety-nine percent of us aren’t pro, amateur, or anything remotely close to that. And if we don’t have anyone to prove anything to then we’re out there being our worst critics. How the fuck could I go home now? I’m here. Yeah, it’s eerie and empty, but I need to at least try to catch something. Even if I get beaten up on the inside, I’d be a coward not to paddle to exhaustion before going home. Coward . . . is that why we have something to prove? I could be out here because I’m a coward. 

     Like yesterday, the higher tide is making things better. A couple more waves come through that are makeable. Any wave that looks like it has a chance of having a shoulder, I’m paddling for it. The morning started off slow, but now I’m getting rides. On my next left I manage two sloppy turns. They are sloppy because I really don’t want to eat shit and get caught on the next wave; everything I do is calculated. I kick-out, stoked because I didn’t fall and stoked because I can make it back to the lineup safely. My backside is just as ugly, but at least I’m out here riding what no one else wants. It’s about 0900 when a small crowd starts to show. Don, the king of 26^th St., paddles by after his wave. He says something, but I can’t hear shit because of my earplugs. I reply with a general statement, “At least it’s empty!” hoping that it’s a universal answer to whatever he just said. 

     “There’s a couple fun ones out here,” he says. 

     A couple new faces are in the water. One of the guys paddles up to me and says, “Aloha.” 

     What seemed to be a session of doom becomes a fruitful morning. Only one grom is out, and I take off on a wave that he passes on. I feel like I’m doing something right. My best wave is a right. The aloha guy takes off on a closeout, but he leaves a bigger and nicer wave out the back; now it’s all mine. I’m right on the shoulder, and he hoots me onto it as I drop in. The face is so smooth, concave, and vertical that it feels as if I’m entirely on my rail, but it gives me more speed. I loosen up my arms on the bottom turn and set myself up. The sun gleams off the shoulder turning it into a light green with little pits on the surface from the offshore. My top turn is still sloppy, but this wave is treating me like an ugly chick in a nice dress; I’m gonna look “all right” no matter what. 

     By 0930 there are about a dozen guys out. It’s a thin crowd by local standards but thick enough to be annoying. The stand-out spot’s been identified, and everyone’s sitting on it. Another familiar face paddles up to me and says, “Plenty guys out today, yeah?” I’m surprised that he chose me to address this to and that I wasn’t just one of those “other guys.” This spot is special, there are a lot of regulars out here, and within those regulars there are the elites too. I guess it helps to have etiquette. I don’t ever drop-in on those guys, so I’d like to think that I’m welcomed to my small share. 

     I don’t mean for the session to go over two hours, but it does. It’s hard to leave because the shape has become softer and cleaner. I’ve seen the waves turn from horrid to fun. I see CC stretching on the sand. She paddles out on a gold-railed Zippy Fish. Our chit chat is interrupted by the consistent surf, so our conversation is broken up into increments. She says she’s trying out the board and that she’s just getting a feel for it. 

     I blow my next two rights for no reason. I can’t stick the top turns and fall on the reentries; I’m tired. Whenever I surf over two hours I start making silly mistakes. I tell CC that I’m catching my last one in. It’s a close out, but I’m just looking for a ride to the sand.

     Later at home Rick calls to let me know he’s refueling for his second sesh. He says that Porto is firing. I believe him. About two hours later he calls me back to tell me that his favorite fish got buckled in half while duckdiving a big wave. He says there are a lot of cameras and photographers there; he got a tube ride but got pinched. I’m glad that I’m not crazy; it must’ve been a little gnarly today. The best thing about the sesh was being out there for over an hour with just a couple guys. Maybe the guys from the lot thought we were stupid, or maybe it was just too cold and eerie to go out that early. Maybe everyone’s bed was too warm and cozy to get out of. I was out there because I wanted to be out there—drive. That can’t be a bad thing? 

     Okay, but I honestly wouldn’t have gone out if I didn’t think Francis was there. I wonder if I’ll be able to rest tomorrow.