A WEEKEND AT TRESTLES 2012 (Part I): When there’s no surf, there’s always beer, FRI 23MAR2012

Location: Churches

Crew: Al, Rick, Francis, Sebastian

Conditions: Sunny, onshore, low tide, tiny.

Pre-blog:

     I’m trying to make it an annual ritual to host a campsite at San Onofre. Exactly this time last year, we had a DRC camp trip and scored on some good surf. Unfortunately, upon reserving this camp site two-and-a-half weeks in advance, the forecast for swell and weather did not look good. It would be a gamble on the surf, and a challenge to see how the weather would affect our stoke. 

Day 1:

     It’s 0530. We were supposed to wake up a half an hour ago, but we were up late loading up the wagon. On top of that, Al, my roommate from Iraq, had a grueling drive from Sunnyvale to El Segundo, so he needs more rest. 

     Rain pelts the window as soon as we get on 405S. Tail lights from the early morning commuters race in the same direction. “Al,” I say. “I’m sorry if the surf is gonna suck this weekend.”

     “Dude . . . it’s mother nature. C’mon.”

     We catch up on our lives, what’s new, what we’ve missed, and our personal struggles. The conversation stays strong until we arrive at Churches. The wind is strong offshore, creating some chop, but worst of all . . . it’s flat. One lone surfer walks towards Middles with his longboard. “Al, we’re going to O-side.” 

    

     It’s a gloomy morning, but dry. The wind makes it even colder. The overall ambience is unappetizing. We arrive at North Oceanside and step out for a look. There are some scattered peaks, and the two-footers look good enough to change into our wetsuits. “Look at that one,” I say.

     Al is silent.

     “What do you think?” I ask.

     “Pfff. I don’t know.” He stares out, trying to morph the conditions into more than what they are.

     “Hot showers?” I nudge him with my elbow.

     “Yeah, hot shower. Definitely, that’s the deal breaker right there.” He laughs. “Why are we rushing? Let’s just go grab some breakfast and let the tide fill in?”

     I’m an anal son-of-a-bitch. I need my surf like a patient needs medication, but I’m suppressing it. This isn’t a one-man trip. I learned from Klaude: the homies need to have a say in it too. Breakfast . . . I oblige.

    

    We cruise through the harbor and pier. I can see the potential here. Even this scant swell is producing some lines on the horizon, but the waves are too small. There must be a good reason why my brother listed this place as his favorite Cali surf spot. 

     Oceanside is a god damn ghost town. I’m so used to Manhattan Beach where the Yoga MILFS and early morning fitness nuts litter the sidewalks, but here . . . it’s desolate. We find ourselves in Longboard Café. It looks more like a sushi bar with their black and white colored tableware. Small flat screen TVs are mounted along the walls. Fuel TV’s Red Bull Mentawais plays above us, showing Michel Bourez’ aggressive barrel riding. I order the egg sandwich, he gets the country fried steak, and we each get a stack of pancakes. I take a mental note to come back here. 

     It’s 0942, and we’re staring at Churches again. Al says, “Fuck, it was bigger this morning.”

     “Well . . . maybe we can check-in early?”

     The camp attendant is nice enough to give us the site, despite the official 1300 check-in time. I can’t stop moving, trying to unpack until Al says, “What are you setting up for?”

     I shrug, falling victim to my anal retentive instincts to keep the ball rolling.

     “Dude,” he says as he hands me a beer. “Just chill out. You said Seba’s coming with the trailer. We don’t NEED the tent. Just chill out and relax.”

     Two dudes under an umbrella in camper chairs, red cups in hand . . . we’re looking like a gay couple. You see, Al and I are used to this. In Iraq we shared a room the size of a walk-in closet. What I’m trying to say is, we are fucking pros at bullshit bantering. About two hours fly by with us talking shit to each other and laughing without purpose. “Let’s have a competition,” says Al. “Let’s measure our dicks and see whose is bigger.” 

     “Okay, how about this? Let’s sit in the tent back-to-back, jack off, THEN turn around and compare.” 

     He’s quiet. Fuckin’ Al. He has a big dick. He already knows that his dick’s bigger than mine. There’s always that guy with the big dick that can’t shut up about it and wants to let the whole world know. I can’t compete with eight-plus inches—no way. I have a homeboy named Boris AKA The Blade. He’s HUGE, but he never talks about it. Instead he lets “others” talk about it. That’s the way it should be done, not by self advertising. It’s a worse travesty than giving yourself your own nickname. You have to earn it. 

     I drunk dial Francis. He’s about ten minutes away. Rick calls. “I’m at the PX,” he says. “What kind of beer you guys want?”

     When they arrive the sun comes out, and now this two-man gay party is an official sausage fest. I’m already buzzing pretty hard; the both of us are. We hand Francis a beer, and when Rick shows up we’re ready for more.

    

     

     Rick makes us load up and drive in front of Churches so we can drink and watch the waves. It’s a good call. The four of us have never been together in one spot before. I’m stoked. Rick hands Al his new yellow fish. They hold out the board and pour over the dimensions. Rick hands me one of his boards to try out, and then we all paddle out at Churches. 

     It’s about 1445, the wind is light onshore, but it’s still choppy and small. The beer buzz has me feeling good, and the sun on my face, accompanied with my buddies, outweighs the conditions; I’m happy to be here. Rick gets the longest rides out of all of us; Francis comes in second, while Al and I barely get any distance. Al walks off to surf Middles by himself. I tell the guys that I can’t let him go alone, so I start to trail after him. He’s a small figure in the distance, skipping Middles and moving on to Lowers. I don’t like the idea of splitting our group up. Even though he drove all the way from up north to be here, Rick and Francis took time out of their schedules too. I turn back around and return from where I just came.

     Al returns after we’re all showered and cleaned up. He says that Lowers was barely three-feet, but it was A-framing with only ten guys out. “It was working,” he says. 

     We make a food run, grab some carne asada, tortillas, cilantro, green onions, and black beans. I’m stressing out because Sebastian still isn’t here with the trailer, so we’re cooking in the dark. When he arrives, it’s a bitch to back his trailer in, but it’s close enough to government standards. Once inside, I cut up the meat and vegetables, lay out the food, and we all feast. I must say, having the trailer is a fucking luxury. I’m so used to tenting it and eating in the dark, but this shelter from the elements makes a huge difference.

     

     Rick decides to sleep in the tent because . . . he’s just hardcore like that. Thanks to Seba, the rest of us have our own sleeping quarters. It’s a night full of snoring and farting; the trailer smells like straight ass, a good start to any camp trip.