A WEEKEND WITH DONNY DUCKBUTTER: PART I, SUN 22JAN2012 MOR

Loc: Upper Trestles

Crew: Al and Kevin

Ran into: Khang, Dais, and DK

Time: 0700-0945

Conditions: Initially started as an offshore, glassy, clean, high-tide morning but turned side shore and choppy.

21JAN2012:

     It’s just past midnight on Saturday morning when I finally lie down. It’s a mixture of emotions. First, I’m bummed that Lauren will be gone the whole weekend because she’s going to the 49ers game with her coworkers, especially since she never has time to do anything with me anymore. We’ve almost been together for three years, and I’m afraid she’s hit that wall where she’d rather spend her free time wherever I’m not. It sucks, but this is reality, and my relationship is failing. Her boyfriend’s a surf bum, and maybe she’s having an epiphany about that. I guess it’s understandable. Women want security, a guy with a plan. Me? I go with the flow—a full time student, surf lover, on the verge of graduating and applying for graduate school. Can I blame her for being turned-off and losing interest? 

     Second, Al is on his way. We have a full roster for tomorrow’s surf. Not only am I excited that my battle buddy’s coming down, but he’s going to meet my whole crew. It’s going to be a good day.

Los Desperados:

     It’s exactly 0552 when I’m awoken by a text message. It’s Klaude, and he wrote, “Man, that’s some rain coming down.” 

     What the fuck? No. I know he’s not saying what I think he’s saying, but that’s just the SS talking. I know exactly what’s going on here. I stumble out of my bedroom, in my blue Forever Lazy, through the living room and pull apart the blinds. Rain . . . motherfuckin’ rain. Al won’t be here until about 0700, but that doesn’t matter. I lie back down and hope for the best. 

     I get a call from Klaude a little later. He says, “I’m at Porto right now, and there’s not one guy out.”

     “Is there size?” I ask.

     “Yeah . . . there’s size, but . . . it’s really stormy.” 

 

     Al arrives a little after 0800. He’s been on the road since 0200 and says that there were accidents on the freeway the whole drive down. I let him know the situation’s not looking good for surf. Just as we’re planning breakfast, Klaude calls and says he’s checking out 26^th with Khang.

     So here we are at the 26^th St. lot with only a couple other cars parked here. I introduce everyone to Al; if we’re all not surfing together we’ve at least met up for the morning patrol. Khang says he’s down to surf Trestles tomorrow, so I hand off my state parking pass and agree to meet. 

     There’s still the issue of breakfast, and even though the DRC has a strong “earn your breakfast” policy, we make the exception because Al’s here. We three head off to Metro Café to get him acquainted with the best pancakes in town. Klaude’s an OG here; this is his spot. Ron’s working, and he also knows our waitress and just about everyone else. Al’s surprised at how well we’re treated when we walk through the door. Even without the surf, the energy here starts Al’s trip on a good note. We try to convince Klaude to come to Trestles tomorrow, but he has to stay local to tend to pressing matters.

The Hunt for Chupacabra

     We drop Klaude off at his van, unsure if we’ll surf together this weekend. The onshore wind’s still howling, and my initial instincts say to just go home and wait it out. Al says, “Matt, we need to get wet today.” I don’t understand how he’s doing it, but for being awake as long as he has, we have to at least try. 

     We’re back on Vista Del Mar passing Dockweiler; it’s still really windy. We drive through Porto and pass Parks again, and it’s all the same. Either way, we have a lot to talk about. If there’s anything that soldiers are good at, it’s bullshitting. We spent nearly a year in Iraq staring at each other’s crusty faces as roommates, so this drive is nothing. We cruise past Redondo and stop at Torrance Beach which is still windy. Seeing PV in the distance, I have a feeling that the conditions there aren’t much better. 

     We discover a Pagoda that overlooks Haggerty’s and a paved walkway that leads down to it. “Look, look at that peak right there,” says Al. Hmmmmm, I see it; it’s a little left, but the wind is still so brutal. We don’t see anyone catch any rides. I can see it in his eyes. He’ll do it; he’ll suit up and paddle out right now.

     “Let's check out The Cove,” I say. This view is always breathtaking. Our shoes get caked in mud as we approach the cliff. There are surfers down there, but the conditions are just so unwelcoming. We drive to the trail, walk half way down, and take a look. The wind produces scattered peaks everywhere. White wash covers the entire length of the long paddle out. We’re both over it. Defeated and dry, I suggest we go back to the house and check again later.

Surf Bums On-call:

     I throw in Lauren’s surf movie Year Zero, and it only makes things worse. We watch the Hobgoods get deep, slashing carves on insane lefts and Dion Agius go for broke on his airs. 

     Rick calls and asks to swing by. I’ve told Al a lot about Rick, my surf mentor, so it’s great seeing them meet each other. Sometimes Rick can be longwinded, but I’m happy for the interaction today. He shows us his favorite surf forecast sites, what to look for, and what we can be expecting for tomorrow. 

     It’s past four o’clock, so we tell Rick we have to go out for an evening patrol.

     Back at the Porto lot it’s a gorgeous evening. The sun’s low, the sky is clear, and the horizon’s turning into a dark orange. Everything’s fine except the fact that the wind has barely died, and the waves are still stormy. We watch one guy paddle out and catch a right. The current is so strong that he’s drifting all the way to Rosecrans. It still looks rideable. 

     We watch a guy play with a professional kite. Instead of a reel it has handle bars, and the thing is gigantic. The wind is so strong that the kite drags him on the sand until he’s forced to let go. He eats shit a couple times until the lifeguards tell him to stop. “Let’s just wait for tomorrow,” says Al. I pause in silence. I hate letting this day go to waste. We had so many expectations. I never wanted day one of Al’s trip to end this way. We drive off and stay dry to surf another day.

Hermosa:

     Being in a serious relationship, my days of going out and clubbing and bar-hopping have been over for a long time. My penis has been decommissioned, docked, and only remains in operation to occupy one port. However, since Al took me out in Santa Cruz, it’s only right to show him a good time. 

     Our first stop is Sharkeez in Hermosa. If we can’t surf, I’d at least like to show Al some ass. Unfortunately, all the tables are taken, so we have to sit at the bar where the only ass is the guy bartender’s. Two people sitting next to Al leave, and then two huge Mexican chicks sit next to him—wooly mammoth status. The one sitting next to Al turns and starts staring at him, but Al keeps his gaze straight forward. I know him, and I can feel his uneasiness. The chick says it’s her birthday, and she high-fives both of us. She says, “You guys look like Jean Claude Van Damme and Jackie Chan!”

     Al puts his hand over his mouth, turns to me, and says, “Ohhhhh noooooo, duuuude! You got downgraded, bro!”

     Sadly, I’m not surprised at hearing this. It’s not the first ignorant or insensitive comment I’ve heard about my slanted eyes. She’s a fat whore anyway, so who gives a shit. “Really?” I ask her. “Jackie Chan? You gotta at least give me Bruce Lee. Jackie Chan’s not that hot.” I can tell she’s into Al, so I say, “Hey, this guy has a sexy six pack. Here, take a look!” I reach for Al’s shirt, but he shoves my hand away. Unaware, he’s caught by surprise when the chick tries to lift up his shirt too. I grab his package and tell the girl to go for it. When she reaches, Al jumps out of his chair and says he has to go to the bathroom. I follow him up there and say, “Dude, what happened?”

     “Matt, oh my god. You’re a fucking asshole. We’re getting out of here through the back.”

     I convince him that they won’t see us leaving out the front, but I tap the girl on the shoulder on the way out, and she harasses Al, asking him to stay.

     The next stop is at the Watermans a couple bars down. It’s not as crowded with plenty of chicks to look at. We’re a lot mellower here. Al orders us a round of beers. I’m a serious lightweight nowadays, and on my third beer I’ve already reached “I love you, man” status. We laugh about the chicks at Sharkeez, plan tomorrow’s surf, and talk about last weekend in Santa Cruz. I turn around and notice the table full of White girls behind us is checking out Al. Fuckin’ guy. I look at the waitresses waiting for their drinks, and they’re looking at Al too. Too bad for them Al’s penis is decommissioned . . . just like mine.

Chinese New Year:

     Randomly, our friend Dan—who also served with us in Iraq—calls and invites us over his parent’s house for dinner. We head on the 105E towards Gardena and have dinner with Dan’s parents and some older Chinese people. Despite the lack of surf, this day has turned out well-balanced. Al met my friends, he met Rick, I got to show him around, we grabbed a couple beers, he almost had his junk grabbed by a fat Mexican chick, and now we’re here eating home cooking at Dan’s. It’s obvious that we’re a little buzzed, but we blend in well with the other guests; there’s no holding back our energy, even though we’re probably talking too much. 

     Back at the apartment we plan for the next day. His cousin Kevin is visiting a friend in Westchester, so we’re planning to pick him up by 0500. From there we’re going to Uppers to meet his surf mentor John. Rick said it might not be that big there, but we’re hoping for the best.

21JAN2012:

     I have a hard time sleeping. Lauren and I had a texting argument back and forth. I called to say goodnight, but she said she’s at a formal dinner and that it would be too rude to pick up the phone. I’m pissed. It might sound archaic, but from the friends I grew up with and man-culture I’ve been around, if your lady can’t pick up the phone then something’s wrong. 

     I don’t fall asleep until around 0100, but I still manage to wake up at 0400. I eat a banana and brew some coffee. Al’s a little slow too, but we’re both on schedule with packing our gear and heading out. We scoop up Kevin and hit the road right at 0500. I wonder if we’re making the right call. Rick’s finding’s yesterday showed a forecast that downgraded the size in Churches. Also, the south wind is a risk. It’s supposed to be very light, but it’s still a gamble. 

     We drive through the military gate at 0600. Al’s surprised that it only took us an hour. It’s still dark as night when we park in front of Churches, but I start changing anyway. A hint of pink permeates the sky over the hills at San Onofre, and I can finally see the Churches lineup. It’s high tide, but clean, three-footers roll through on the sets. It’s not big, but it looks fun. The wind is offshore, and the water’s still glassy. 

     We’d probably already be in the water, but Kevin is missing the middle fin for his thruster, so Al hesitantly lets him use his sweet potato. Middles isn’t working, and Lowers looks small; that’s usually a bad sign. The Lowers pack is sitting towards the inside. “Maybe it will get better when the tide drops,” I say. John’s already in the lineup when we reach Uppers. There are only a handful of guys out. Al gets to catch up with his mentor that he hasn’t seen since August, so the trip is worth it regardless. The waves are about four-feet but mooshy and fast. I get a couple rights but can’t get any turns. I look at my board, and the GoPro mount bothers me. 

     Al paddles into a wave, and the guy on his outside yells at him. I’m a bit confused because Al had priority. The guy turns to John and says, “Hey, tell your friend he can’t do that! He can’t back-paddle like that!” I’m not sure if he’s using the word correctly, but I think he’s upset because Al just caught a wave, came back, paddled around him, and caught another wave even though the guy was already at the peak. 

     John talks to Al when he comes back. “I’m not even going to say anything,” says Al. I’m feeling tense in the water, and there’s bad energy now, but then I remind myself that it’s Al we’re talking about. He’s beat guys into submission before; he can handle himself. 

     Kevin gets the longest ride of the day on the sweet potato, and everyone else has a high wave count. I’m not having a good session. I’m still distraught over the bad communication with Lauren last night. It’s affecting my surf. 

     John leaves to go to Church at 0915, and he takes the conditions with him. As soon as he’s gone, the winds swing south and create texture all over the water. The once-clean waves are knocked down and spilling. We’re over it. Al and I talked last night about the conditions being better in the South Bay.

     Walking on the sand, Al spots a chick by Lowers that just walked out of the porta-potty. “Hey, check that out,” he says. The chick’s board looks familiar. . . . It’s Dais. 

     I introduce Dais to everyone and say, “Hey, Al thought you were a chick.”   

     “Yeah, I turn straight guys gay,” he says. 

     He said he had to take a shit, and it couldn’t wait. He points out Khang and DK in the lineup. We wave. Lowers looks rideable, just not clean. We’ve been out since 0700, so I tell him we’re heading back.

Grub:

Slow down with that Tapatio!

     Al’s a picky eater, but I take him to La Tiendita in San Clemente, my new Mexican Food spot for down south. I stick with the machaca while they order tacos and burritos. Kevin’s just as handsome as Al but younger and buffer, so he orders a side of carne asada nachos as well. Al, being a picky bitch, doesn’t like the quality of the meat, so Kevin and I are left to tackle the nachos. After we eat, we drop off Kevin at his house in Orange.

     Back at The Gundo we take an hour long nap, planning to check the surf in the evening. It’s 1400, I barely slept, did a lot of driving, and I’m beat. My warm, soft bed doesn’t care that I’m salty. I wistfully fade into a coma.