BOBBER, THU 22MAR2012 MOR

Location: HB

Crew: Solo

Time: 0745-0945

Conditions: Sunny, offshore, high tide, swampy.

     I’ve been trying to surf HB before school on Tuesdays and Thursdays. This makes sense to save money on gas, seeing as how it’s so damn expensive nowadays. I do my best to wake up early, but it’s not early enough. Even though I leave the house before 0700, I still hit traffic around the 605 interchange. Still, I reach my favorite surf spot in HB well before 0800, which means I can surf for about two hours. 

     I can see the exploding sprays of whitewash from the parking lot. This is good. I start screaming to myself in the car, “WOOHOO! OHHH YEAH!” as I drive past the few cars in this vast, empty lot. As I’m suiting up, a car full of groms pull up. They’re standing on top of their SUV, checking to surf too. I’m surprised at how there’s barely anyone here yet, but I’m just thinking about the score: out there . . . there are waves, and I’m gonna have them . . . all to MYSELF!

     I start my trot over the sand, passing a dawn patroller walking back to his car. Once I see the ocean it has a severe case of morning sickness. The tide is on the high side, making the inside swampy. The sand bar where I usually surf wants to break, but the waves roll through and break towards the inside. It’s still a clean morning, and I’m hoping that this dropping tide window will help.

     You know that there’s a severe chance of getting skunked when you’re the only one out there. A few guys to my north paddle in. At the river jetties, I see no one. The city truck patrols the sand behind me while I paddle south to where I think I see a wave. This is not happening. . . .

     I decide to sit on the inside where I catch a closeout. Occasional waves break on the outside, but they do not line up. The groms I saw earlier join my misery and mimic my frustrations. A couple other guys join me; one of them actually gets one hit off the lip. Wow, it’s more than what I can say for myself.

     

     It’s a little past 0900, I’ve been here for well over an hour, and still, I spend more time bobbing like an orange turd in a river than catching waves. Dropping tide my ass—nothing. That’s it . . . that’s the end of the story. Fucking nothing. I can’t remember the last good day of surf that I scored. And then again, I haven’t been paddling out as much. I’m long overdue for some good waves. I think about Klaude and G of the OC. They’d rather be out here getting skunked than sitting behind a desk. I feel them. However, it’s hard to be one with your surfing identity when you leave the beach without that sensation of riding a wave.

     I arrive at my 1100 class, salty and browned, but surf stoked I am not.