ROMANTICISM VS REALISM, THU 05JAN2012 MOR

Crew: Solo

Time: 0830-1030

Conditions: 3-4 ft +, sunny, warm, clean, mid-low tide, pounding closeouts, north current with rip current.

     Yesterday’s adventures have me tired. Francis’ text at 0630 wakes me; he says Manhattan Beach is breaking decent. There’s no way; I can’t. I wake up again to a loud crashing noise at 0730. My neighbor skipped the curb, plowed through some trashcans, hit the side of his building, and wrecked the front of his van. Poor guy, he seems like a cool dude. I see his family exiting the van. At least no one’s hurt. Five minutes later one El Segundo police car comes across the scene. I see him use his radio, and he calls the whole force: fire engine, paramedics, two other patrol cars, and even their motorcycle cop—unnecessary. 

     Francis texts me again as I’m parking; he’s leaving. “Have fun,” he says. I don’t mind the solo session. Every once in a while it’s nice just to get away and reflect on your own thoughts, and these earplugs make my world more internal. As I’m walking on the sand I take note of my surroundings, possible residue from yesterday’s PV mission. Looking at everything from the ocean, the sky, the beautiful homes behind me, PV in the distance, and Santa Monica in the background to my north, I tell myself to be grateful for where I am. 

     I see some right and left-hand shoulders peel away from the scattered peaks in front of me while I stretch; I’m happy. Easy session is what I’m thinking: go in, catch a couple rides, paddle around a little bit, and go home with a smile on my face. 

     The crowd’s pretty thin where I’m at, and I get a left right away. It’s not a long ride, but it’s good for a pump or two before it closes out. My next wave is a right which doubles up towards the inside. My body gets air as I kick out. Again, no turns, but I reemerge smiling and laughing to myself. I’m having too much fun. It’s another day of the ideal surfer life, enjoying the gifts of nature that only a surfer would understand. Today I can do no wrong. 

     A couple more guys sit in my area, and then I realize that the current has taken me further south. On my next wave I get dropped-in on, but I can’t make the section anyway, so it doesn’t matter. While on that wave I watched the surfer in front of me get some frontside carves, clean and fast. Envy starts to build. I need to get me one of those. My next couple waves are closeouts, and meanwhile that other surfer’s friends are ripping on their waves; I just can’t seem to pick off a good one. Before I know it I’m sitting way on the outside—rip current. A couple other guys and I paddle towards 26^th while trying to get closer to shore. What was initially an easy morning turns into a paddle battle. I’m getting tired, and the rip current makes it seem impossible to get to 26^th. 

     With the tide going from mid to low, the waves begin to stand up. For a couple waves in a row I get pitched. I catch a couple closeouts only to get caught on the inside. Talk about transformation, the waves turn into dumpsters and get punchy. In the impact zone, I lose my board on multiple duckdives. Meanwhile, I watch the same guy from earlier get some spray from a cutback and more spray from the rebound off the shoulder. I keep getting caught on the inside, and I’m ashamed to admit that I ditched my board at least three times; there was no use. I just couldn’t get under the waves. I can’t be a complete pussy. I see a different surfer catch a closeout and then reemerge holding onto half of his surfboard. It’s strong enough to break boards out here. I’m getting worked. I’m past my hour and a half mark, but I’m stubborn; there’s no way I’m ending my session like this. I turn back towards the lineup and make my way out again. The set hasn’t stopped, and again, I’m in the impact zone. I gather speed as the wave stands; I tell myself that I’m going to make this one. I push my board and go as deep as I can. Underwater, there’s this eerie moment of silence before the wave crashes. I feel the pressure build on my earplugs and hear a momentary “squeak,” and then my board’s yanked out of my hands. Fighting my way back to the inside, I notice bees hovering over the white wash, barely getting out of the way before the next wall comes roaring by. Why the fuck are there bees out here? My last wave is a straight shot. I go back to my car defeated and unfulfilled. It makes me realize that there is no true romanticism in surfing. If it happens it just happens by chance. Either you score or get skunked, you catch the wave or you wipeout; there is no fairy tale. Any moment that seems ideal is just a “moment,” a fleeting one. We all know what surfing should be like, but this is what it really is.: eating shit and getting pounded on a beautiful day. And tomorrow . . . it might be something else.