SOUTH BAY TOUR, WED 08FEB2012 MOR

Crew: Fransauce & Khang

Time: 0830-1000

Conditions: High tide, offshore, 5 ft, mooshy, inconsistent.

     This morning was supposed to be big, so I told the fellas that I’d be checking local first at about 0700 and that I would go to PV if it was closed-out here. They agreed to meet.

     I have a hard time falling asleep. My relationship is the worst it’s ever been. On top of that, I have school and military duty this weekend. It sucks, everything sucks. There’s nothing like trying to operate with a fake smile on your face when you have no peace of mind. I’ve had a rough time getting up early to surf lately, but I stumble out of bed by 0645. 

     First, I pull in to Porto. The inside is consistent whitewash. The sets are an easy six feet, and even though they are mostly walled, there are a few soft shoulders. I even step out to the rocks to watch it another ten minutes. It still looks pretty brutal. I think to myself how I’ve surfed my share of days like this; I have nothing to prove. All I really want is shape so I can practice my turns, and even though there are rides, they are mostly closeouts. 

     Khang texts me and says 26^th is legit. I head over there and park on the hill. Surprisingly, it’s nearly a foot smaller here and not as consistent. I watch it for another ten minutes, but I’m picky this morning. The shape is better on the inside. Khang texts me; he’s suiting up. I only realize that he parked right by me when I see him trotting down the hill. Even though surfing local is convenient, my mind won’t let me rest until I see what PV is doing. 

     I glance at the Manhattan Beach Pier, and it looks like the size tapered off more. My instincts tell me that the north part of the bay is bigger. Stubbornly, I work my way through the traffic lights: Hermosa, Redondo, and Torrance. When I stop to take a look at Hags, it’s empty. Fuck. I stop at The Cove. The waves are breaking more towards the inside because of the tide, and all I can see is Indicators. It’s working, but it doesn’t look that big. I drive further to where I’m sitting right on top of surf. There are a bunch of longboarders out, and the tide is making everything slow. These long, dick vein looking, lines start rolling in; it looks soft. Three other guys are by me watching it. They’re all grumbling.

     Driving back to Manhattan Beach, I contemplate on surfing El Porto or 26^th. I have a feeling that Porto is better, but my change tray only has a couple quarters. At 26^th I can’t see the boys anywhere. The conditions seem to have gotten better. Despite the high tide, some pulses break on the outside, and there is some shape in between the walls. On my DMS, I duckdive the waves easily. My first wave is a left, but it’s too racy. Right after that I see Khang. I wave at him, and he paddles up. “Man,” he says, “I just got dropped-in on in the worst way by some fucking eighty-year old guy.”

     “Fuck, did you say anything?”

     “No because he was of the local guys’ friends. I just read your blog too thinking about how Wagner was probably overreacting, but now . . . I can see why.”

     I tell him not to let it upset him. We all get dropped-in on from time to time. He also tells me about his weekend adventure down south. He scored at Cardiff and Del Mar. “It’s so good, but it’s fuckin’ crowded,” he says. He gets the next wave, and I get the one after him. It’s a really long peak, but I’m right on the shoulder. As I pop up, I’m surprised by the speed of my board; it feels different. I do a little check-turn on the lip and try to gather myself. Pumping down the line, I do an ugly carve on the open face. 

     When I paddle back out, I’m by Francis now. We talk for a little bit, and then I get a fast right. Again, I’m off balance; the speed is throwing me off. I hit the lip once but fail to regain my composure for another. Khang paddles up and says, “Duuuuuuude, I got fuckin’ skunked again!” My next wave is a right that I eat shit on. It happens so fast, I blow it but can’t remember how. 

     Francis leads the way back towards 26^th since we drifted to 33^rd. From there, I get my wave of the day. It’s another long peak, and I’m a little deep for the shoulder, but I go anyway. I’m pumping the whole time. I’m surprised at how much speed this potato chip has; I expected it to be slower than the JS. I beat three sections, surpassing the falling lips. I kick-out strong, still standing. It feels triumphant to exit a wave like that, to go from boning out to exiting all slick and shit. No turns, but it was a long ride. 

     The waves get really inconsistent after this. Even Francis puts both of his hands up, gesturing, where the fuck are the waves? When the waves come, I’m either too deep or too far out. Khang’s already on the shore. “Nicole’s on the sand,” says Francis. He catches a closeout in, and it takes another ten minutes before I get mine. It’s a closeout too, but halfway in, I do the funky chicken all the way to shore. 

     I had a feeling that I should’ve just paddled out at Porto this morning, but I couldn’t help it. I’ve scored at PV before, and I hoped it would provide again. I’m still glad I went to take a look. Now I know. Four-to-six feet with a six-foot high tide isn’t good for PV. I can make better judgments next time.