IDEAL, WED 04JAN2012 EVE

Loc: PV

Crew: Fransauce & Nicole

Time: 1445-1600

Conditions: 4 ft with occasional 5, sunny, warm, clean, windless, glassy, low tide, consistent, mooshy, slow but FUN!

     It’s 0640; I’m early. There’s a lot of water moving around on the inside, and the waves are closing out. Three guys paddle out, only one makes it, and the other two are getting their asses handed to them. In front of 45^th there are two guys, and one of them catches a wave with nowhere to go. Yeah . . . I thought it would be like this. I shoot the text to Khang and Frans to let them know there’s an occasional shoulder, but it’s not looking good.

     Fifteen minutes later Khang and I are at 26^th. He brought donuts. I didn’t have to shit yet, and I’m sure this Long John’s gonna change all that. I can’t resist; I have another one. A guy paddles out by the tower. By the time he makes it to the lineup he’s almost by Marine. Only a couple regulars are looking at it too. “You going out?” I ask one of them.

     “Nah . . . better surf OC.”

     A couple guys converse with a guy who’s walking his dog: “You going?” one asks him.

     “I’m gonna wait for the report to see what PV’s doing.”

     Khang and I look at each other. I know he wants to do it, but our sense of adventure isn’t there. 

     It’s 0750; we’re back at the Porto lot. I told him the shape was better here. As we drove down 45^th the inside looked worse, much worse, pure violence, rows of whitewash, back-to-back, with colon-cleansers forming out the back. Sure, it was just the set, but it “set” the tone for the morning’s decision. “What are you gonna do?” he asks. 

     “I’m thinking about Churches.” Khang needs to be at work by noon, so I’d be making a solo trip. I sit in my car before leaving. I wanna do it; I feel like a chicken, just turning and going without even trying. I don’t know if other surfers put this pressure on themselves. No, I don’t rip; I know I don’t, but it gives me all the more reason to at least try, to get beaten up a little, maybe catch one wave in a couple hours, get worked, and earn the experience points, and then I can call it a day—easy.

     A garlic and onion omelet later, and I’m sitting in front of my laptop checking out Surfline. Francis called and said he’d check out Sunset with his girlfriend when the tide lowers; it sounds like a plan. My friends and I are doing sushi tonight, and it’s getting a little late to do Churches and come back; Sunset Blvd. is convenient. Before I can even click on the surfcam I get a call from Rick. He says, “What’s up, Matt. How was it?”

     “Closed out. I was thinking about surfing Sunset with Francis.”

     “No, it’s blue over there.” It takes a second for me to realize he’s talking about one of the swell models he’s looked at. “It’s small in the northern part of the bay. You might need to go north.” He names off a bunch of the little turn-offs on PCH that I’ve only passed and never surfed. I get nervous surfing new spots, and especially if I’m doing it alone. “I bet PV is going off now,” he says. He’s sat me down to stare at a map to show me where he’s surfed, but I failed to absorb; I’ve been spoiled with him showing me new spots in person, and I’ve always counted on him doing that eventually. 

     “Well . . . maybe I’ll just do some recon today. I’ll probably drive around PV to take a look, at least find out how to get there.” 

     Francis calls and asks about Sunset. “Nah,” I say. “I looked at the cams; it’s small right now. I think I’m gonna just go and check out PV.”

     “Oh. . . . Do you want me and Nicole to come with you?”

     Twenty minutes later my wagon is filled to the rim: cooler, wetsuit boxes, surf boards, towels, food, and water. I made it very clear: this is a RECON mission, no guarantee to surf, just checking it out, and gonna have a look-see. I stress a little about my company, not so much about their energy, but I know how I am. Unfortunately I’m a people-pleaser, an accommodator-masturbator. If we don’t strike gold, I’ll feel bad and start needlessly apologizing for shit that I have no control over. . . . I got issues. 

     We take the 405N to Hawthorne—mistake. I take a left turn somewhere in PV and start heading towards Pedro. It’s still an interesting journey—new. Francis says the scenery reminds him of Big Sur; it definitely doesn’t feel or look like L.A., except for the assholes tailgating me. 

     We pull off to our first cove wondering where the hell we are. A few bikers, joggers, and some sightseers are out enjoying their day. The sun’s so high; it’s so warm. Over my shades my forehead’s getting baked. One hell of a fuckin’ winter. Moving along, we stop at a couple more places. It’s a good thing I’m not solo. Nicole texts Klaude for directions, and Francis navigates us on his phone to get us on track. If I was alone this would’ve turned-out uneventful.

     We walk towards a steep cliff where we spot our first surfers, a good handful of them. How the hell do we get down? After inspection, we can see a dirt trail that disappears from our vantage point; it looks steep. About fifteen surfers are sitting at the point; we have no idea which break this is, but we’re guessing it’s Indicators, but this is still unconfirmed. There’s a concrete structure that looks like half an igloo, and a bunch of locals are hanging out there. Instantly, Rick’s stories come to mind, stories about locals throwing rocks at you, fucking with your car, and telling you to get out of the lineup. I could be blowing it out of proportion, but I can see how this setup could incite aggressive behavior. That igloo, it’s their spot. I’m damn sure all those guys hanging out in there all know each other, and a new face is all too obvious. We can see everything because we’re up so high, and the surfers look tiny on the right-handers that are breaking. “Whoa, look at that!” says Francis. He’s stoked. The waves are clean, the kelp makes the water look Saran Wrapped with just the shape moving under the film. Big, moundy waves roll through. A surfer gets barreled. He’s so far away, but he disappears momentarily then reemerges. Another guy does an air at the end of his ride. The whole time we watch, not one surfer wipes out; these are their waves. 

     You know me . . . I don’t like crowds. I assume Francis is thinking the same. “So what do you think?” I say with my tone that signals an exit.

     Without a second to ponder he says, “I’d love to go out there!” Should I be ashamed of myself? We’re just two different animals. He’s not only a good surfer, but he’s not concerned with all the negative connotations that I’ve conjured up in my mind; he’s ready. 

     “Really? Man . . . but it’s just one wave, a lot of competition to get one of those.” We watch the next set. “Look, nothing’s swinging wide; it’s just that one spot.”

     “Yeah . . . but I don’t know, I’d really love to just sit out there even for just an hour; it looks so good.”

     I lead the way back to the wagon, apologizing. I tell him I feel as if I’ve disappointed him, but I don’t think it’s the right day and place to show up to, what looks like, a localized spot and expect to take some off their plate. “I know I’m not gonna catch anything,” I say.

     “That’s okay. I’m definitely coming back!”

     We stop at a couple more places. The next one looks spooky. This big, jagged, square rock is sticking out of the water. No one’s there, but two surfers emerge by us from a hidden trail. This place looks too vertical for a trail. Where the fuck did THEY come from?  

    The second spot has a small handful of surfers sharing a left. It’s so unexpected. The break is literally hiding behind some houses and bushes but at a lower elevation at the base of the hill. We’re about to call it quits before we get to a huge lookout area where we can see the whole South Bay, Torrance to Santa Monica. “Well, let’s have a look,” I say. Francis and I approach the edge looking at another empty cove, but as we get closer to the edge we see about ten longboarders. “Whoa! How’s that?” I say. From our perspective, the incoming waves look like giant, walled-up ripples, but some guys are getting long rides. It’s a weird angle; we’re right on top of them so it’s hard to make out any depth or shape. A long dirt trail snakes around the point. 

     Nicole’s struggling with her booties. Good lord . . . I watch Francis wrestle with her foot, barely getting the neoprene past her heel. “I don’t want to break your ankle,” he says. It’s comical. I’m so anal that I’m usually antsy and quiet which means to hurry up, but today is different; this is a recon, no expectations, going with the flow, surf or no surf we are still accomplishing something. 

     How the hell can I have been in SoCal this long without making my way down this very trail. It’s not L.A., it’s not Porto, and it’s not like anything I usually surf. The vantage point looking over the ocean; the dark, shadowy rocks; the sharpness; the remoteness; the feeling of isolation; the smooth cobblestones that make-up the shore line; the towering, massive cliff that shoots up from the jagged point; the sun’s rays illuminating the moisture at the base of the cove. I hate to get corny and over-romanticize, but I was so close to not seeing this today. I think about the morning, how I didn’t paddle out. What if I did? I would’ve been at home on the PS3 while all this would’ve existed, would’ve been here, and I wouldn’t have cared one drop of ball-sweat. I, the surfer, the imitation traveler, assuming that I’ve surfed my fair share of what’s breath-taking and gorgeous would have been missing out on all of this. . . . I’m a fucking idiot. My walk turns into a jog over the hard, crumbly dirt. Nicole and Francis are way back there somewhere; I can’t even see them. And there isn’t much of a crowd, just a good handful of longboarders. I see a guy get a long left. Yes . . . lefts! I haven’t surfed an evening session in months, so the atmosphere’s inviting. Kelp, cobblestones, dead-wind, still water, the smell of salt and decay, I’m in heaven. I signal to Francis that I’m paddling out ahead of him. I follow another guy entering the water because I have zero local knowledge. The sun illuminates the moisture, causing a thick, peach-colored, mist to paddle through. Even the water looks peach, and the vegetation and dark red soil in the cliff above gives a majestic backdrop. Since the waves are breaking mooshy, the duckdives are easy. It’s almost questionable to be on a shortboard because everyone’s on logs, but I make it out just fine. Avoiding the main peak, I sit away from the crowd, hoping that something swings wide. I see a long, four-foot, wall forming in the distance, and forgive me for idealizing the moment, but I am thee only one near the shoulder; Motherfucker, I am the shoulder! Francis and Nicole are just making their way out, and I drop into a slopy, forgiving left that builds into a long, slow section that I pump down. My turns suck on my frontside, but I manage a half turn down the face before kicking out. Just the fact the wave was clean, and I had it all to myself makes me stoked beyond words. Also, it’s such a different wave from Manhattan, so refreshing. I’m in my own world . . . living, smiling. I see Francis paddling. He’s towing Nicole behind him. We smile and laugh, and then he drops her off just outside the crowd. 

     I catch a similar wave—glorious. The second wave of the set is heading straight for Nicole. I see her ditch her board. The third wave just breaks past her, and she’s off of her board holding on to it. When the third wave comes, she turns around and catches the whitewater in. As she passes I yell, “Nicooooooole!” She hasn’t surfed in a while. 

     Francis paddles up and asks what happened to her. The first forty-five minutes of the session is straight-up buffet status. No one else wants to sit wide. So many waves break late that even the longboarders scratch-out, and there I am, solo: napkin tucked in, fork in one hand, knife in the other, and ready to indulge. No breakthrough rides, just clean, long, slow, easy waves all to myself. Towards the second half of the session my spot turns off, and Francis turns on. The waves are breaking more towards the outside, and I watch Francis launch his backside attack, unleashing at least two buckets out the back on each wave. It’s a score; we both score. Sitting together, all we can do is glance at each other, smile, and shake our heads in approval. It seems meant-to-be; it feels like fiction; this shouldn’t be real. 

     We have to call-it at 1600 because I have to be in the OC in two hours. I’m quietly stoked as we make our exit, but I head up in front of the couple, solemnly reflecting on the day’s events with the setting sun beading on my neck and back. 

BALANCE:

     My energy changes; I’m rushed. I’m late for tonight’s sushi man-date. I drop off Nicole and Francis with quickness, and then I’m off to pick up Boris. From Boris, I pick up Dan in Gardena. From Gardena, I stop off at the Bella Terra in HB to pick up Tim. We show up to our famed sushi spot an hour late to meet Sebastian. Tim starts off with an order of twenty muscles. 

    The waitress is new; she doesn’t know us. “Twenty?” she asks. 

     “Yes,” says Tim.

     “Twenty? All now or later?”

     “Now.”

     We splurge. And oh, my word, there’s nothing like all you can eat sushi after a surf session. Plate after plate, we keep them coming. After the first hour they keep asking if we want the bill or still have an order coming. People filter out as new diners enter, and we still remain. Tim leans in and says, “They’re charging extra.”

     “What?”

     “A couple tables, they didn’t eat all their food.”

     How dare they desecrate the art of power-eating AYCE sushi. Amateurs. . . 

You don't wanna know. . . .

     Late Christmas gifts are exchanged. It’s been so long since we’ve all been together at once. And finally there’s the long drive home. It was an early morning with a local patrol, followed by a chance-score at a new spot, and then sushi with my closest friends that I consider my family. It’s been such a long day, so perfect and unbelievable. This is the way life should be.