FRUITION, SAT 21APRIL2012 MOR

Location: HB

Crew: Francis

Time: 0630-0930

Conditions: 4 FT+, foggy, glassy, clean, fast, hollow with low tide, rippable at medium tide.

Pre Blog:

     The surfer himself is guaranteed. If motivated, he will wake up in the dark hours of the dawn, grab the necessary equipment, and head out the door with board in hand. He will show up to the beach, step out, take a look, smirk, scratch his chin, pull out his phone, text his friends to spread the word, or look at other reports to explore his options, and then a decision will be made. If the surf is good, then he’s already on the sand. If the surf is bad? Well . . . he’ll decide how much he really wants to surf. 

     The waves themselves are the opposite. The surfer is at the mercy of both the waves and conditions. Dry spells of failed expectations and anticlimactic sessions are a must. They are the dues that we all pay, and we wear them like badges of honor: 

     “Yup, yup . . . skunked again. *sighhhhhhhhhh*” 

     We have it on our faces in the lineup. Unforgivable lulls keep surfers stagnant like crocodiles in a muddy pond. A surfer paddles through the lineup, expressionless without a sound, gazing at an empty spot to sit where nothing comes, but . . . like how all good things come to an end, bad things come to an end too. Eventually things change. The surf can’t suck forever, and when it gets good . . . you better make sure you packed some lube because anuses will be tapped. 

The Call:

     I was supposed to hang out with my cousin Chelsea this weekend. She’s a freshman at Cal State Fullerton. With everything going on in my life, I’ve failed my promises to hang out. I also got an invite to go snowboarding with my military friends on Sunday, the last day of the snowboarding season. I tried to fit both of them in. When I told Chelsea that I would have to drop her off on Saturday, she said that she’d rather hang out on a weekend when I’m not busy, so that left me with Saturday free to surf. 

     That night Francis called and asked what the plan was. I told him that there was no way I was surfing local again, and that I had to gamble on HB.

     “What time?” he asked.

     “Early . . . we gotta leave here no later than 0530.” We had to leave early because I’ve been skunked hard on high tide, especially if this swell is barely three feet; we need a good window when the tide is low.

     “Okay,” said Francis. “See you tomorrow.”

     I extended the invite to Klaude and Christina, but they both couldn’t make it. I played PS3 until 0100. As I lay in my bed, I thought about the surf. I didn’t expect much.

Something in the Fog:

     Francis shows up right on time. Smokey is crying, running back and forth, whimpering, and waiting for Francis to acknowledge him. I’m surprised at this. Smokey’s never this happy to see me. 

     We load up and hit 405S by 0540. It’s a dark drive. I’m thinking that I’ll be stoked if it’s glassy with little two to three foot lumps, something that I can scratch into, pump, and at least get one little turn on the inside. 

     Again, it’s a morning without any signs of surf life. There are no cars rushing it and no surfers making their way to the sand. It’s also a foggy, undesirable morning—a morning meant for slapping the snooze button repeatedly and sleeping in. We park at the usual spot, where a truck and two vans are. There’s an old guy in a wetsuit talking to two women. He looks at us, and continues to prep his board. 

     We sit in the wagon for a good thirty seconds before stirring. There’s no need to take a first look, but the wagon’s so warm compared to the moist atmosphere that awaits. We open our doors which make a peeling noise, officially breaking the seal open on the morning session. With custodian-like energy, we change into our wetsuits. I wax my board like how a security guard, who never fires his weapon, loads his gun. It’s in the air and the atmosphere: pure skunk.

     We take the familiar walk over the paved, key-shaped walkway, gazing at the fog with blank faces. At first, we see the inside waves through the mist. The tide’s drained out, receding back further than usual. There are two guys in the water already, just north of us. “Look over there,” I say. A right breaks to our north. It’s a little fast. 

     “Over there,” says Francis. To our south, fast left breaks towards the inside. 

     “Okay, it looks like there’s something out here.” The rides don’t look long, but what the SS is telling me is: “The tide will rise, and the conditions will improve.” 

     We warm up and make our way to the shallows. Just then, a wave breaks on the outside, A-framing but fast. “Whoa!” we both say.

     “Okay, Francis. We gotta make this official.” Reminiscent of the surf flick High 5 and also something that Klaude and I used to do, I tell Francis that we gotta do a jumping high five to start things off. It’s homo, but we do it. I even kick my feet up in the hair behind me on my little jump.

     We fail to notice a couple surfers behind us who saw the whole thing. I have a feeling they understand.

Pull in:

     During the paddle out, I can finally tell that the water is glassy. It’s a longer paddle than usual. Francis leads, and then I pass him up. I duck dive a couple inside waves with crashing lips, still able to punch through efficiently. I sit too far on the inside, missing a wave that breaks right in front of me. It’s classic HB. The wave looks moundy, but it hits the sandbar and morphs. I catch the next wave which is so fast that I have to go straight. On the paddle back out, Francis tries to position himself for the next wave, but he’s too deep. The wave stands and forms a perfect four-foot barrel. Francis sits on the shoulder and raises his arms as it passes. The wave is hollow. I think to myself, Oh . . . it’s gonna be one of ‘those’ mornings.

     At the lineup, Francis turns to me and says, “It’s definitely ‘next level’ over here.” 

     Next level indeed. After surfing Porto slop for over a week, it’s different seeing round waves that jack up and pitch.

     “We’re the third and fourth guys out here,” he says.

     I look around. “Yeah, it’ll get crowded. But at least we’ll have it to ourselves for a while.

    

     I’m still not completely sold. The waves are so fast that every time I pop-up, the section runs away. Even the shoulders are fast. Francis manages to crank out some gouging spray going right. When he resurfaces, I throw some water in the air in acknowledgement. 

     A guy to our south paddles in at the peak and gets a washy barrel. It’s not flawless, but he makes it out. I realize that I’ve been catching these waves wrong. No turns right now, it’s too fast for that. I think about Bali, and how I barrel-hunted really hard my first session back to LA, but since then something changed. During a couple big South Bay swells in the winter, I failed to pull-in. Being completely honest with myself, I was scared. I still am. I have a natural tendency to bail out early or straighten out when the wave’s going vertical. It’s something that I’m not used to. 

     I try. It’s not an easy morning. I catch a wave late and purl, slamming into the flats on my way down, but I’m churned-up and out the back so fast like it never happened. Francis too, I see him get sucked over the falls on a pitchy lip—a rare sight. I get pitched too on the next one, chucking my board to the left as I air-drop off to the side.

     A random wave breaks on the outside. It’s not like Porto’s long peak with the little section at the end, no. These peaks are defined. Not Lower’s defined but still good. Like the other guy, another surfer paddles in at the peak, hugs the face, and gets a washy barrel, completely disappearing and coming out. It’s messy, but it counts. On cue, I paddle exactly where he caught that wave. Five minutes later, another one comes. It’s a beauty, another peaky A-frame, but I’m in position for the left. I hear viscous paddling disturb the water towards the inside, but I already know that this wave is mine. I paddle-in just in front of the peak for a fast drop. I bottom turn, and climb the face for a carve, but I end up trimming it because the wave is too vertical to turn on. It’s the moment of truth; I know this isn’t a wave for turns. I stay close to the face and set my line. The wave stands up even more, and the lip starts to go over my head, giving a view of curling water. I fight my instinct to penetrate out the back; I hold my line. The pocket gets a little foamy, my board feels squirrely, but I’m still in it. I lose my board at the very end, but unlike my other barrel attempts, I don’t get sucked under into complete blackness. I can see the brightness of the blue water and gray sky, and I emerge instantaneously near the surface. I almost made it out. It wasn’t a legit barrel, but I got some cover-up, or what Klaude would call: “shampoo.”

    

     I haven’t smiled like this in a while. The guy who got barreled before me is looking at me, saying something to his friends. They’re strangers, but I still can’t stop smiling in front of them. “You got a good one,” he says.

     “Yeahhh. I saw you made it out on yours. I almost made it.”

     “It was still a good one. Good job.”

     “Thanks!” I paddle past. “I’m so stoked!”

Tide for Turns:

     About halfway through our session, the tide rises to midlevel. Even though there’s more of a crowd, there are still enough waves for everyone. I get one of my first decent rights in weeks, getting one turn off the lip before it closes. Francis does the same as I did earlier, throwing up a small toss of water. Even though there are rights, the south swell is making the lefts line up better. The consistency slows down a little, but random bumps still move through the fog, making us paddle hard for position every time.    

     I get this stand out, peaky left. It’s steep which gives me good speed. For the first time, I feel my frontside bottom turn progressing. I crouch, fade out, and rebound up face so fast that it feels like I bounced off the bottom. My first top turn is a little slow, but I still hold a complete, grinding arc, able to redirect again for a second turn. I’m not concerned about my frontside spray, I’m just happy that I’m learning. 

     I told my brother about my recent developments. He told me to be patient. “It will come,” he said.

     

High Tide:

     It’s been a while since I’ve looked at my watch when it was 0930 and said, “I’m fucking tired,” but that’s exactly what happes. We’re drained despite how early it is. The surf delivered so much that we have to end it after three hours, and it’s not even 1000. 

     Our peak slows down, but the river jetties are still going off. It’s more crowded but so consistent over there. We see two wipeouts in a row on one set. Guys that are just too deep, but to see them in that succession, paddling and free falling gives such “awe.” It’s that kind of morning. It’s that good. We paddle closer to the action for our last waves, but the tide has the inside too mooshy. The initial drop is fun, but there aren’t many turns after. 

     Heading to Bob’s Hawaiian Restaurant in the surf wagon, we talk about how we scored, how calling a 0530 start time was good jusdgement. We comment on the guys just paddling out as we were leaving. They missed the window, the good window; we caught the best one. We’re wiped and speechless, with only lounge music filtering through the speakers. It’s been a while since I felt this good.

     I order Da Big Hawaiian, and Francis orders the banana pancakes and something else. We throw a shaka to the live duo playing on stage. “Where you guys from?” the lead singer asks. 

      

   

      

     After he talks to Francis, I tell him that I’m from Napili and that I used to pick pineapples. 

     “Oh,” he says, “you used to pick pine?”

     “Yeah, yeah.” I smile.

     “So you know how, yeah, fo’ grab’m and snap da crown off?”

     I nod in return. I know exactly what he’s talking about. Back in those days, to show off, some of us would snatch the fruit up so fast and tweak it so that the crown snapped right off. I haven’t thought about that in years. 

     I plead with Francis to slow down, as he’s already halfway through his main course while I just barely tapped into my pancakes. The energy’s good. I turn to Francis and say, “It doesn’t get any better than this.

     We head back and unload our gear. I meet with my military buddies and snowboard on Sunday. Only in California.