SMILE NOW CRY LATER, SAT-SUN 25-26FEB2012

Loc: Encinitas

Crew: Cheryl, Nicole, Klaude, Khang, Dais, Francis, DK

     I was really hoping for the “Hail Mary” for Lauren to stay, but this ain’t the motherfuckin’ movies, and life ain’t no motherfuckin’ fairy tale either. The crew’s downstairs ready to leave. I have a long drive ahead of me with three other people in my ride, so I try not to make this an emotional goodbye. She had already started packing earlier, and my car was already pre-packed as well. I act like this isn’t a life changing event in both of our timelines, so I tell her I might see her when she comes back to get the rest of her things. We kiss, we hug, say “I love you,” and hold each other, delaying a little before letting go. She returns to packing, and I close the door. That’s three years that the door’s shutting on. My life will never be the same.

     I put on my best “happy face” in the DRC huddle. I snap a pick of everyone before we drive out. The love of my life is leaving me, but my friends are here to celebrate Francis’ birthday, and a surf trip of this magnitude is a rare occasion. 

     The mood’s light on the trip south. First, we stop at Lee’s in Westminster for some sandwiches. We all filter through the lines. My avocado smoothie takes forever, but while we’re waiting at the table Khang says, “Man, I’m so stoked for this trip, dawg!” He’s excited, and we’re on our way to ride an artificial barrel at the Wave House in Mission Beach. I’ve seen the footage on Youtube; I’m nervous. 

     We hop back in the whips, grubbing while driving, and make the second half of the trip. I haven’t been to Mission Beach in years. The last time I was here was with my old surf buddy Jon M. who gave up surfing for the married life which I will probably never wholeheartedly forgive him for. It’s just less than seventy degrees, but the breeze keeps the temp cool. “This place reminds me of Hermosa,” says Francis.

   “Yeah . . . Hermosa, but like ten times more crowded.” There are females in stretchy pants jogging all over the place. Parking is sparse at the Wave House parking lot, but we manage to find some. While Nicole fills out the paperwork, we all do a recon of the place. Francis and I read the sign in front of the artificial barrel. It has a name: Bruticus Maximus. 

     After we all sign waivers, removing the facility’s liabilities, we wait for our briefing. “Matt, you look nervous yo!” says Khang. He’s right. My feet can’t stop tapping. What was once a thin crowd of morning drinkers is starting to thicken. Groms approach the counter, trying to get some of Bruticus’ barrel, but Nicole already reserved the slot for an hour. I feel the pressure mounting.

Easy?

     We’re all in the hot-tub while our instructor gives us pointers on how to ride this wave. I listen intently, ready to absorb any information that might help, but once they turn on the jets I’m intimidated. A big whooshing rush of water hits the curved structure and produces a roaring, five-foot barrel. I’m not even thinking about the crowd any more. The wave has my attention. I just don’t want to fuck up.

     Francis is our sacrificial lamb, the birthday boy. He attempts to ride the stand-up board which resembles a skateboard deck without the wheels. Our trainer hands him a rope, and lets off slack as Francis enters the jet stream. A couple seconds later he falls. Okay, so wipe-out one is out the way. I forget who went after, but I distinctly remember grabbing the yellow body board. I jump into the shoulder on my belly, but the power from the stream shoots me back over into the wipeout pool. I’m embarrassed. I go again, but the wave just sucks me up and over. Even though I wipeout, it’s fun. One after the other, we’re all charging. Wipeout after hellacious wipeout, beating after beating, we’re moving fast in rotation. The crowd is huge now, but they only become a glimpse of faces to me. I don’t care. It’s Francis’ birthday, and we’re here to have fun.

     Khang leads the charge on the stand-up board, waiving off the trainer and going without the rope. He and Francis are the best at it, letting the stream take them to the face for a little while before losing it. I follow Khang’s lead, but my results are horrible. I slip off the board repeatedly; I have no control. I’m frustrated at every pass. The trainer tries to give me a tip: “Don’t try to ride the wave so much. Just let it take you out.” I must really suck if she’s giving me this instruction, and now the pressure’s on to do better. I stand on the board, and I maintain position on the small wake for three seconds until I eat shit AGAIN. 

     Most of us switch off between stand-up board and body board. I’m cold, so I need to jump in the Jacuzzi to get warm before trying again. I think my worst wipeouts are on the body board. I can’t control the fucking thing. Every time I’m in the pit, I keep getting power-bombed. I free fall so many times, landing on my upper back and neck. I shook off the pain for the first twenty minutes, but I’m slower at rotating after. 

Eating shit DRC style

     I’m ready to jump back in when I see Khang limping, center stage. Cheryl is touching his knee, Khang’s grimacing the whole time. I take another beating and walk up to him. The crowd is five times as huge now. Khang’s filling out some more paperwork, and the worker gets him a bag of ice. He says he fell straight down in a position to plant his feet, but his knees stayed together while his feet slipped apart.

     “It might be just your MCL,” says Cheryl. “ACL is the worst one, you may just have to let it heal.” 

     Khang is going through the stages. “Fuck! I’m so stupid!” he says.

     “Nah, man. It was an accident. You didn’t have any control over that. Shit happens.”

     “I’m out, bro . . . I can’t surf for the rest of this trip.”

     It’s easy for me or anyone else to say “don’t worry about it” or “it’s just gonna take some time,” but nothing can take away his initial shock, his initial realization that he’ll be out of the water for quite some time. I feel for him, but I can’t find the words or actions to help.

     In the midst of our casualty, our rotation slows to a dribble. Klaude’s in the hot tub too, opting out of Bruticus’ ass beating. I don’t blame him. I try . . . I tell myself that I need to get this down before our hour’s up. Francis gets pulled into the barrel but sucked out the back. By then, the jets turn off, and it’s the new crew’s turn. 

     The Wave House employee says, “You guys can still hang out here in the Jacuzzi.” 

     I’m so happy at these words because I don’t feel like facing the crowd, not yet at least. The first guy in rotation in the next group slides in with ease. He moves to the barrel and stands there, hand in the face, mouth wide open, prepping his maneuver. With quickness, he comes out of the barrel and hits the shoulder for a lay-back snap. The crowd gives a resounding, “Ooooooooooh!” and “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!” Mr. Ripper goes for another carve, high off the shoulder, and sprays all the other prospects waiting their turn. He falls the third time on a missed air attempt. Fuck my motherfuckn’ life, I’m thinking. Not only did we eat shit for a whole fucking hour, but now we are completely put in our place by this guy. “FUCK!” I say. “I fucking cannot believe it.” Everyone looks at me while Khang has to sit outside to elevate his knee. “I can’t believe how much I fucking sucked at this. I couldn’t figure this out for shit!”

     “You took some hard ones,” says Francis. 

     “It looked like you fell on your head on one of them,” says Klaude.

     I want to be vent and cry, bitch about my own performance, but I see Khang who’s behind me, in pain to even sit down. His whole weekend, and possible months ahead, are at stake. I do my best to come back to reality. 

     Poor Khang can’t even walk unsupported. Still, he can’t let go; he’s blaming himself. The door guy watches us as we assist Khang in the parking lot. He raises his eyebrows and inhales through his teeth at the aftermath.

    

    

      The plan was to surf an evening session, but it’s getting close to sun down, and we’re all hungry as shit. After cruising for a bit, we end up at the Beachside Bar & Grill in Encinitas. I joke with Dais how we’re the only minorities in this whole town. Despite my paranoia, we get good seating, and our lovely host gives us excellent service. To spark the mood, I give a little spiel about how we’re here to celebrate Francis’ birthday. I tell a little story about the first time I met him. He came over my apartment on surf-porn night, and I led him to the bathroom to take a piss. I shut the door, but he didn’t know I was still inside the bathroom as he whipped out his cock. He turned around shocked and surprised to see me in the corner, smiling and wiping the drool from my mouth. 

     Khang’s doing a little better, and we’re able to laugh about the events. We’re fortunate to have Francis, who’s an EMT, and Cheryl, who’s a physical therapist, as part of our crew. DK puts me to shame by ordering two main entrees, thus officially taking away my title as “The Bottomless Pit” until we can set a date for an eating match. 

     Our hotel rooms are next to each other. Francis lies down next to me and says, “I feel it in my neck, I can’t raise my head!” before racking out. Cheryl and Nicole pass out too, so I go next door to hang with the fellas. I put on a little fisting, granny, and fatty porn to entertain the guys. Klaude’s furthest away, but he squints, trying to see how that woman is getting so deep up to her elbows in vagina. DK says it’s disgusting, but he can’t stop watching. C’mon, guy, you know you’re just as sick as the rest of us.  

     When it’s time for me to lie down, I’m kept awake by the creaking and pounding upstairs. It’s not an orgy; there’s something strange going on up there.

Surf:

     Someone’s knocking at the door. I stumble in the darkness in my Forever Lazy. I open it and see Klaude’s face.

     “You awake?” he says.

     “Yeah, man. I’m getting up now.”

     “Okay.”

     I look at the clock. It’s just passing 0700. We planned on getting up at 0600. My whole body aches with each step. Mostly my neck hurts, but even my abs are sore every time I tighten. It’s the same story all around. One-by-one as we wake, everyone’s pointing out where the pain is.

     Khang’s swelling got worse over night, and he can barely get up to take a piss. Cheryl checks on him, and the new prognosis is that it might be his ACL which involves surgery and lots and lots of time. It’s not the best news that anyone would want to wake up to. “This definitely feels like something I should go to the hospital for,” says Khang. We try to best situate him before surfing, leaving him with lube, good porn, and a box of Kleenex. Actually, we grab him some cereal and surf mags before heading out. 

     I’ve never surfed Encinitas before, but Dais shows us where he and Khang surfed last time. Right as we look over the railing, we see empty peaks going unridden. “Okay, I’m parking,” I say. It’s all I need to see. Nicole’s freezing and chooses to pull camera duty, so I give her my FCS towel and jacket.

     I’m the first one suited and waxed up, so I go down by myself and paddle out first. Klaude strongly suggested that I bring out my brother’s 5’8 Lost board, so I’m not used to the way it feels. The main break is filled with local surfers but not as thick as the South Bay. I’m south of the main pack with only a couple people in my area. I scratch out on the first couple waves, unable to get the slide. When I do catch my first right, the section’s too fast, so I’m forced to do a premature top-turn. Even when the DRC makes it to the lineup, we all struggle to get good rides. 

     Cheryl may have gotten the wave of the day. I miss it, but Klaude and she are talking about it in the lineup. “I got a couple trims,” she says. “It was a pretty long ride.”

     Francis and Klaude are inching towards the main crowd, so I slowly work my way there. I catch two rights that I get dropped-in on. I pump to catch-up to the culprits, but I can’t make it to the shoulder anyway. I paddle all the way past the main pack and sit to their north. Right here, I get a four-foot left all to myself. As I’m popping up, there’s a guy on my outside who’s turning around for the wave; he wants to go. I damn near run him over, but he stays put and doesn’t snake. I don’t know the sweet spots on this board yet, and I feel like it’s too small. I still pump through the highline and beat the collapsing lip, getting good distance. After that I don’t get shit.

     I meet everyone on the sand. It wasn’t a wave buffet, but we saw the potential here. It was clean and still fun, even though it could have used more swell.

     

     Back at the room we pack up and check out. Swami’s Café is the decision for breakfast, but the place is packed nut-to-butt. It takes forever, but Klaude pays for all our meals, and we eat in the parking lot. 

     On the way home, we stop for Vietnamese sandwiches again, where Cheryl’s Silverton meets us for a quick chat. We rendezvous back in El Segundo, cross load vehicles, and say our goodbyes for now. I’m not looking forward to walking upstairs. When I open the door, I see a few things are out of place. Lauren’s books are off the shelf. I walk in the kitchen. She took all the things that I placed out for her. Her family-size container of Twizzlers is in the trash. I go to the bedroom. The bed is gone along with her dressers and the small TV. Where her pile of clothes and vanity used to be is now a vast and barren, blue carpet. The closet is deserted with just a few things lingering. I’m doing fine, but it hits me when I enter the bathroom. In our shower, all her little face washes and numerous bottles of shampoos and conditioners are gone. Three racks are empty, leaving only my belongings in one. Just like the apartment, I now feel half-empty as well. I walk back out to the living room clutching my head when my best friend calls. 

     “Matt,” he says. “I really need you right now, bro.” 

     My main homeboy’s wife moved out, coincidentally paralleling Lauren’s departure.

     “Sure, where you at?”

     “I’m at the Petco by the house. I need you to go over there, Matt, and tell me if they’re gone yet.”

     “Okay, I’m on the way.”

     I’m driving down Aviation Blvd. on my way to console my best friend, but I’m already failing. I struggle to hold in my tears. I think about the times Lauren and I spent on our couch, snuggling in our Forever Lazies. I think about the dinners on our coffee table, sitting on the floor next to each other. I think about her tiny body moving ever so vigorously through the kitchen. I won’t be waking up next to her or coming home to her anymore. I’m right by the Petco, but I stop short to compose myself. When I see him, his eyes are red too. Once I do the recon, we both enter his home. “Fuck, they took the fridge,” he says. “Fuck, they took the bed too. This is fucking terrible.” We’re like two testicles without the shaft. Balls are usually uneven. In this case, he’d be the bigger ball. My relationship ended short of three years, his was just over seven. 

     After a whole evening of pissing in each other’s ears, I find myself back in my apartment. Everything is still hard for me to fathom. I’ve never spent the night on my couch before, but my bedroom is so dark and empty that I quarantine it off. I spread my sleeping bag over the couch and lie, staring at the ceiling. Small cracks of light creep through the blinds. My router and modem give off a subtle glow of green and blue dots. I’m cold, so I zip up my sleeping bag all the way up, finding comfort in the darkness it provides to escape the darkness of the living room.