DAMN SURFLINE, WED 18APRIL2012 MOR

Crew: Rick and Francis

Time: 0630-0900

Conditions: High tide, 3-4 FT, inconsistent, south wind, choppy.

     Rick and Francis were pumped up for today, maybe even the whole South Bay. Surfline rated today to be the biggest this week with a fair rating. Perhaps I shouldn’t blame Surfline. I mean, it wasn’t a “good” rating, just fair, but I think the expectation of a 3-4 FT fair rating just raises expectations. Rick suggested hitting it up at first light yesterday. I agreed. It made sense to catch things before the high tide.

     It’s 0620, and I’m driving down Vista Del Mar. I can see that the water has a lot of texture and chop; it doesn’t look clean at all. I spot Rick in the lot and park next to him. When I step out, he’s already giving me the disclaimer: “Matt, it doesn’t look as good as expected.” I take a look out. Fuck . . . there’s a south wind, and it’s making the waves crumbly. It’s the same . . . it’s been the same here for a while. Whatever. We decide to make the best of things and paddle out. Rick runs off while I’m changing, and then Francis arrives.

     We paddle out to the same damn spot which is anywhere between 42^nd and the sandwich shack. As I’m making my way out, I see Rick on his yellow, Zamora fish going left. He draws a high line but falls. Even though the inside is churning from the tide, I paddle all the way to the lineup without getting my hair wet. This may be considered a stupid feat, but I’m proud. I wait for Rick to acknowledge how I still have the same bed head from the parking lot, but he’s not impressed.

     It’s another cluster fuck. I can’t stand crowds; I never could, but at Porto it’s always expected. Once upon a time, that’s what The Smoke Stacks and The Tanks were for: to escape. Now, we all must suffer together. 

     Rick’s competing for waves, backing out and getting some, always a good amount. I get a couple, but they moosh out towards the inside. Francis sits in the middle, like a genius, where it’s more consistent. 

TWO!:

     Fuckin’ A. I’m sitting in the lineup, right . . . next to two other guys. A mooshy peak bumps up right in front of us. I’m in between both of them, but they fail to react quick enough. I turn-and-go as the wave’s about to break. TRIUMPH! I hug the face sliding down, but unlike last night’s wipeout, I maintain my balance. As far as hugging the face goes, I feel like I make the sections easier, and I move faster than if I go straight and then bottom turn. I stay on my rail hard with the standing face right next to me. I top turn off the shoulder and do a novice-level cutback that brings me to the foam pocket. I stay there and wait for the section to stand up again. When it does, I pump and crank another turn off the top. Fuck, I love lefts. Finally, two god damn turns. As I’m setting up my third turn, there’s a guy paddling into the line I want to draw. To avoid slicing him, I stall my reentry and end up bogging out. We resurface next to each other. I’m pissed, but . . . well . . . fuck it. It’s not worth being mad about. I shake off the negativity and paddle back, stoked. Rick looks at me, and I throw him a shaka. “Ahhh, man!” I tell him. “I got a pretty good one.”

     “I know, I saw that one.” He tosses some water into the air. “I saw you get a little bit of spray.”

     I don’t know if this is sad or not, but should I be ashamed of being so stoked off of one wave sessions? Well, it doesn’t matter. I am fucking stoked.

    

     I can’t get another good one to save my life. As the tide raises higher, the waves moosh out even more. The crowd now focuses towards the middle, and there’s less on the outside. Rick and Francis go in to feed the meters while I have to paddle in since I can’t catch a last wave. 

     Rick has to leave but suggests that Francis and I stay a little longer. 

     Francis looks at me and says, “What do you say, Matt? Another hour?”

     I look out at the small, gutless peaks and say, “Ehhhhhhhhh. Ehhhhhhhhhh.” I think about how I left early last time when Rick said it got better. Apparently, everyone said it got better around nine. “Okay, sure. Another hour.”

     We paddle south of the sandwich shack where there’s a little left, but the mooshy waves lack power. Francis suggests we go back to the same peak as this morning. He gets more rides than me which is expected, while I catch a couple boggers. I’m frustrated. A guy next to me scratches out and yells, “FUUUCK!”

     I face the ocean and give an awkward smile to the empty sky; I’m uncomfortable next to him. 

     He continues, “FUCK, I HATE THIS PLACE!”

     “Yep, yep,” I say to myself. Yeah, I feel his pain, but . . . there’s no sense getting that upset about it. I mean, it’s Mother Nature. What can you do? Surfing a different spot might work, especially if you’re that upset about it. I paddle back to Francis, and we’re both laughing about the guy’s breakdown. 

     Back at the showers, the guy is there rinsing off. “Surfline was off,” he says. “They said high tide was at eight, but it was actually mid tide.”

     It’s awkward conversation. Francis and I nod our heads and say, “Yeah, yeah . . . Oh!” 

     “Yeah, but Porto sucks anyway,” the guy says before he storms off. 

     Francis looks at me and says, “Maybe he should longboard?”

     I go home, rinse off my wetsuit, and Smokey starts to drink from the house as I fill my rinsing tub. I spend the whole morning catching up on my surf writing that I’ve fallen way behind on. My shoulders ache from all the surfing. Rick just text me and said that Porto looks fun again. Despite my recent complaints, I might have to check it out. God, what a drug!