A WEEKEND WITH DONNY DUCKBUTTER: PART II, SUN 22JAN2012 EVE

Loc: Palos Verdes

Crew: Al

Time: 1630-1800

Conditions: Low tide, glassy, consistent, 6ft with occasional 7+.

    

     It’s 1500, but I hit the snooze button. I’m still tired. I get up, change, walk to the kitchen, and drink a glass of water. Al sits up on the couch and says, “I heard your alarm. . . . I was hoping you wouldn’t get up.” He squints and rubs his eyes. I grab my 3/2 Rip Curl wetsuit that I haven’t worn since August since it’s a warm day. On the way to El Porto he says, “I just found the sweet spot on my pillow when you woke me up.”

    

     Driving down 45^th St. we can see big lines moving in. “Holy shit. I’ve never seen Porto like this,” says Al. The parking lot is still empty with just a few people hanging out in their cars. I don’t know how the surf was this morning, but upon seeing this it had to be good. The wind’s onshore, but it’s light enough not mess up the waves. The ocean looks like a big, nonstop set, just one wave after the other rolls onto shore, but that’s the problem. The tide is too low. We watch it for a while. No one’s out there. 

     We drive to Rosecrans which held good shape on low tide when I surfed there on Thanksgiving, but that was just a four-foot day. These waves coming in are an easy six feet. I can make out the shoulders as the waves break over the shallows, but they’re too fast. It’s 1545, and we’re running out of time. PV, local, PV, local? Al’s not stoked. He’s standing next to me with his hands in his pockets. His face lacks expression. I turn to him and say, “All right, Al, check it out.”

     “What?”

     “I’m gonna make an OG call. We’re going somewhere else.”

     There’s a pause in the conversation as we’re standing there. I’m waiting for him to counter my suggestion, to say that we shouldn’t even bother. He reaches for the car door, opens it, and says, “All right, but we need to hurry up. It’s gonna be dark really fast.”

     We take the coastline to PV. I’m on a mission, raging, tapping my foot impatiently at the stop lights. It’s 1552, and we’re passing Hermosa. “It’s a long way,” says Al. In my heart I know it is. We shouldn’t have slept in so long, but we have to check it out. I’m so unsatisfied with the morning’s surf. Calling it a day is unacceptable. I’m hell-bent on paddling out. 

     Somehow we make it to PV fast. We walk off and check out the surf in different spots. Al’s scared of heights, so he looks through a fence next to someone’s house. I walk to the edge of the trail to check the surf. Daylight’s burning. I can make out about six guys in the lineup, but the surf doesn’t look so great. We are so far away that the waves look like whitewash, but we’ll only know for sure if we go down. I storm back to my wagon and open the rear hatch. I’m half way in my wetsuit when Al looks over and sees me. Even though he’s wearing his sunglasses I can see his eyebrows rise as if to say, “Are you fucking serious?” He walks up and says, “You’re joking right?” I give him an expressionless stare as I zip up my wetsuit. “Okay, we’ll go paddle out,” he says. 

     All I’m thinking about is the window. In a rush, I lock up the car and start jogging down. Evening pedestrians and hikers perch at the top of the cliff, enjoying the view. The rocks on the trail are sharp and hurt my feet. Fuck, should’ve took my slippers. Al has his booties on, so he leads the charge no problem. At the base of the cove I still can’t see the waves; they’re breaking far. All I can see is a little bit of face that turns into whitewash. The tide is dangerously low. Rocks are exposed all over the inside. I scout the water to see if I can find a deep channel we can get to. I tell Al to be careful as he trails behind. Once I’m in waist deep water I paddle carefully, extending my fingers on the bottom stroke to feel for any obstacles. Once I feel comfortable, I take my leash from my teeth and tie it to my ankle. Al’s much farther back taking his time. 

     I learned my lessons on duckdiving over reef in Bali. When the whitewash comes I let it roll over me. Making my way further out, I start to do shallow duckdives. Despite the long paddle I feel good. There’s already something special about this session. I don’t know if it’s because Al is with me or because there’s some underlying connection with the ocean where I just know it’s gonna be good. I see the first signs of shape once I’m half way to the lineup. A small four-foot left peels on the inside. The shoulder is gentle and slow—inviting. I paddle faster as I approach the bottom of the wave and turn around just in time to catch a five-foot left. The section builds fast, but I still pull a half-turn by stomping on the tail and rotating my torso clockwise. I see Al paddling over a wave as I kick-out. 

     This place is so deceiving. The waves looked horrible from the cliff, but in the lineup the conditions are pristine. This cove can be anywhere on any coast. The dark, shadowy cliff looms in contrast to the low lying sun’s orange beams. The glassy water reflects a red, soiled brown but turns yellow and gold when it’s traced out to sea. I look at Al, but I don’t say anything. I just smile. I’ll let him figure it out for himself. 

     He says, “Dude, I saw you catch that first one!” He doesn’t sit wide like me, but he immediately goes to the middle. He gets his first wave. It’s soft and slow, and he kicks-out unscathed. Just then, a set comes out the back. I paddle out to meet it, but it breaks too far out. The waves are unpredictable. The inside can be good, or it breaks so far that nobody gets it. I get the last wave of the set. I have to be honest; This is not the wave for turns, at least not for me. There is simply too much face to work with for a thin board. The wave’s an easy six feet, maybe just a bit bigger, and the whole time I’m trying to pump to make it to the shoulder, but it’s impossible. It turns into a game of “beat the section.” I race behind lips about to fold, as I take the highline just under them to get across. It’s not a fast wave, but the size creates speed, and I eject, full body flop, out of the wave. 

     On the “in between” waves, I watch Al paddle into a left. “Yeaaah, Al!” I yell, but I see him fall on the pop-up. When he resurfaces I say, “Noooooo, what happened?!” I point at the back of the wave, and it’s still peeling away. That would’ve been a long one. Al gives me that look. It’s a smile mixed with some “fuck my life.” This time Al paddles towards the top of the wave and gets the next monster. I can’t see him from the back, but he takes it all the way to the inside. 

     It is indeed a thin crowd of about eight surfers. For some reason, the other surfers paddle closer to Al and I. Twenty minutes ago we had the spot to ourselves. I recognize that one of the guys surfs Porto. I’ve named him The Rastafarian after all these years. I say, “Hey, what’s up, man? No shape at Porto huh?”

     “Noooo, not right now, but it was good this morning!”

     “Yeah, I see you at Porto a lot.”

     He says his name is Wagner. I introduce him to Al and tell him he’s from Santa Cruz. They both sit in the lineup and talk about Steamer Lane. I’m stoked that Al’s met a lot of mellow people on this trip. 

     For the remainder of the session the waves are nonstop. I even catch a right that Wagner backs out of. He hoots me on as I disappear below the lip, but it already starts to close before I can top turn. As I paddle back, Wagner’s throwing me shakas. 

     There are a couple set waves that I have to race for. When I turn-and-go at the last second, the drops are a little throaty. It doesn’t matter that this wave is soft, just the size and late drops alone clench your anus a little bit. Al’s with the big boys at the top of the wave; I see he’s confident entering the realm of strangers. I choose to gamble wide. 

     It’s almost 1800, and I realize that it’s just me, Al, and a grom towards the inside. “How do you like it?” I ask.

     “Ohhhhh, dude . . . it’s beautiful. We scored. I love this spot.” 

     “We should probably catch one in soon. It’s getting dark.” 

     What I really mean is that I’m getting a little freaked out. This spot is too remote for any passerby to see you in trouble, and after this evening’s score I think we shouldn’t press our luck too much. I notice that the grom is gone, and I see people walking back up the trail. The residential homes above the cove have their lights on, and our isolation makes everything seem darker. My nervousness causes bad decisions. I scratch-out on the small waves on the inside. I paddle out a little further but wipeout from going too late. I want to work my way closer to shore, but I see another macking set in the faint horizon—the finisher. I’m in the impact zone, duckdiving waves with barely any light. By the third duckdive I signal to Al that I’m done. There’s no need to be greedy; I’ve had my fair share. 

     We catch the whitewash in, barely able to make out the dark boulders that lurk underneath. It’s a painstaking task trekking over the rocks, but there’s something good within each sigh and each exhale. There’s positive residue after this session, but it just might be Al. “Dude,” he says as he puts up his fist. I put mine to his. “We fuck-ing scored!” He’s radiating in the dark, and honestly . . . he can’t shut up about the session for the rest of the night. He calls John on the drive back to Gundo, bragging about the giant lefts. Al tells me I’m an idiot for not making this my regular spot. “Matt, you need to come here so that they know your face. If I lived here, I’d be here every day; I wouldn’t even look at Porto.”

Dinner with the Germans:

     I’m not sure how much justice that nap did me earlier, but I’m fading fast. I want to go straight to the bar for a beer, but Al insists that he freshens up first. I guess. . . . I like to wear my saltiness like a badge of honor, like my ridiculous neck tan. I take pride in tough, crusty hair, bloodshot eyes from being in the water all day, ashy skin that’s coated from the ocean, remnants of Vertra that never came off, and the same outfit for a week until it smells like a shrimp’s asshole. These are the things that I love about surfing. 

     We get caught up watching the 49ers lose when I get a call from Boris the Blade. He’s having a barbecue, and my Argentinean, childhood friend Sebastian is already there. Since Al’s from Ecuador, I’ve been meaning to introduce these guys. 

     I can barely keep my eyes open when we reach Boris’. I haven’t seen Seba since sushi night. Boris’ German neighbor Matthias joins us too. It’s a wonderful reunion, but what’s better is how Al is hitting it off with everyone. I really did show him a good time. Fuck the bars and Hermosa. Dan’s party and Boris’s barbecue randomly worked out in the mix. We sat at the dinner table eating and exchanging stories for about two hours, laughing our asses off to random tales about dirtbike riding and Iraq. Al brought up how the AC was on my side of the room. Every time he’d fart, I’d smell it before he did because the AC kept blowing and recirculating it on me. I tried to get him back by shitting in a Pringles can. I uncapped the lid when he came in the room, but the AC still gave me the worst of the brunt. We then switched to childhood stories and how in third grade I was already spray painting penis art in the alley. Leaving Boris’, Seba makes the promise to Al that he’ll be surfing the next time they meet. 

     As we drive off, Al says he misses this style of life. “That’s how it was in Ecuador,” he says. If you’re hungry you just go over your friends house and eat; open his fridge, like family. He helps me realize how lucky I am. Not only do I have an awesome surf circle, but I also have great people in my life outside of the water too. 

     We go to The Lighthouse in Hermosa, but what’s left of the Sunday crowd are a bunch of drunk scallywags; they must’ve been there all day watching football. Guys stumble, propping up on the bar, barely able to stand. A couple hogs feast on nachos on the tables outside. Two old Asian ladies have so much make-up on that they look twenty-one from far away. Once the karaoke and dancing starts, I tell Al that I need to get out of this place. 

     I throw in a Japanese surf porn that Dais gave me for Christmas. It’s almost midnight, and we’re eating warm brownies with ice cream on top. For Sunday, January 22^nd, 2012, this is the perfect way to end the day.

The Final Skunk:

     We planned to surf with Francis and Khang in the morning, but the weather’s gone awry again. I wake to the same scene as Saturday: wet streets and pouring rain. “We can still check it,” says Al. I make the call that it’s not meant to be. A three day vacation with only one day of surf, we accept this. I tell him that we need to at least grab some food before he goes. Dan calls and says he’s down to meet up. We drive to Gardena, and Pho’s one of the best things you can eat when it’s raining. Our chit-chat is low energy, and there’s a sense of finality in the comments made. We say by to Dan and Al loads his car for the drive home. One more serving of brownies and ice cream, and then it’s goodbye until the next time.