Location: North Oceanside
Crew: Rick & Francis
Conditions: Gloomy, offshore, low tide, tiny.
Last night, Rick suggested that we check out O-side in the morning. I know Rick, and if anyone’s a master of dawn patrolling, it’s him. I wake up at 0600 in the fart cabin. Someone turned off the heater in the middle of the night thank goodness; I was roasting in my fart sack. I open up the trailer door to a cool, offshore morning. Rick’s already boiling some eggs on his Coleman stovetop. “Matt, you want an egg?” he asks.
“No thanks. I ate a lot last night.”
“You know, Matt, they say it’s not good to eat so much in one sitting. It’s not good for your stomach.”
I know he means well, but I still wave off the egg. I grab my wetsuit, and Al walks up as I’m about to change.
“I don’t think I’m gonna join you guys,” he says.
“Of course you’re not!” My reply is a little snappy.
Al looks at me in silence, I sense that he’s feeling guilty.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s a gamble. It might not be that great. Besides, Seba’s in there too. I’ll let you know what it looks like.” I return to the picnic table and find three hard boiled eggs in the pot.
Francis takes one and says, “You gonna eat?”
I know the other one’s for me even though I told Rick I didn’t want one. I grab it and start peeling it, delighted to find how soft and warm the yoke is.
Once we’re on the road, Rick retells his tales about surfing down south when he was younger. I’ve heard these tales a million times, and for Francis this has to be his second. O-side’s just as gloomy, but the offshore wind is much lighter. Only two guys are out surfing. We watch until we see an outside set just under three-feet peel through. It’s small, but it looks good.
“Well, that’s all I need to see,” says Francis.
We change and head back to the sand. We follow Rick’s lead and try to pick the right sand bar. Another peak A-frames and gives some nice, lined-up faces. “Oh my god!,” I say. Now I’m high stepping, making silly faces at Francis, and laughing. “If I can get one turn this morning I’ll be happy!"
I’m the first to hit the water, freezing in my 3/2. I paddle out, way out. I turn around and see my other two battle buddies, but they stop short.
“I think you’re too far out,” says Rick.
We’re stoked, waiting for the set. So we wait. And wait. And wait some more. I have no idea what happened. Those nice peaks that we saw earlier are nowhere to be found. Every time a bump surfaces, we all call it out and paddle for it. We scratch, and then it breaks past us towards the inside. Rick is the first to get a good ride. He catches one going left all the way to shore.
When he resurfaces I hear him call out, “I got a little barrel!” Again, from the inside he catches another left and gets one hit off the lip.
Rick and Francis trade off a few rides here and there, but I’m struggling. Every time I pop up, the wave is already running away, so I mostly go straight. Still though, the wind’s off shore and the conditions are clean, the only problem is the lack of swell.
The nice, outside waves break too far away from us. We point them out at the Jetty and to our north. Rogue, three-foot lefts peel where we can’t reach, a joke from Mother Ocean.
The best part about this session is the showers. They are empty, and the water’s piping hot. Rick brings his cooler over and hands me and Francis a beer. The three of us are posted in there like it’s a sauna, letting the spray of water sting us with post-surf Budweisers in hand. We stay in there so long that Francis’ wetsuit fills to the point that it looks like he’s wearing bell-bottoms.
Rick offers to take us to one of his favorite spots in O-Side for coffee. According to him, this is another low-key spot that must remain nameless at all costs, so I’ll keep it that way in his honor. In front of this coffee shop we can see the surf, and Rick is right about keeping this place off the radar. Despite the lack of swell in North O-side and San Onofre, clean, three-foot peaks A-frame and line up with smooth, open faces. We can’t believe how good it is here, and it’s not even crowded. For shits and giggles I take a couple photos and text them to Al, writing: Firing the whole time, too tired to keep going.
Rick wants to continue the grand tour and check out a local surf shop, but I tell him that I’d like to return to our guests, especially since Cheryl and Silverton are on their way.
When I see Al back at camp, he says, “How was it?”
“Dude. . . .” I shake my head and fake my tiredness. “It wasn’t like, big, but it was an easy three feet. Just consistent, down the line.”
He looks like he’s listening attentively and says, “Cool,” and walks away.
I wait another ten minutes before telling him that the pic was from somewhere else, and then he spends the next five minutes telling me how much of an asshole I am.
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