NO BUMP, SAT 19MAY2012 MOR

Crew: Dave T., Rick, Klaude & Whiffleboy

Conditions: 2-3 FT, mooshy, soft, inconsistent, crowded.

     Cheryl said she’d be surfing today, but that she’d be paddling out by 0900. That’s too late for me. I know Klaude loves 26^th. He suggested that we check it there first and to have Porto as our second option.

     It’s 0545 when I leave the house. I swing by 26^th, but . . . there isn’t a soul in the lineup. There are faint pulses coming in; it’s not working. I drive the lower road, peeking in between the houses before I call it quits, making a left on Rosecrans.

     Again with the locked gate. When they open it, I park in the very first stall to the right. From there I send out the bat signal via text that I’m surfing 45^th. Rick texts me at the same time. We didn’t plan it, but we’re here. When I step out of my car, I see Whiffleboy locking up his bike. “Whiffle!” I yell out.

     He waves back.

     We paddle out at the tower. The tide’s coming up, but surprisingly there’s a little shape. I sit towards the inside and get a couple lefts that line up to shore. I get some turns that are on the weaker side, but it’s better than nothing.

     I paddle up to Whiffleboy. He says he surfed yesterday too. We’re both struggling to catch more waves, when I see Klaude warming up on the sand. “Klaude!” I yell.

     He doesn’t respond, but he starts to enter the water. I waive my arms to no avail. He sits on the north side of the tanks where it’s even more crowded. I make my way towards him, where we get off of our boards and give each other man-hugs in the water. I introduce him to Whiffleboy. I’m surprised they’ve never met before. I also introduce Whiff to Dave T.

     Rick . . . now he’s another story. The lineup’s gotten even more crowded. I can’t get a wave to save the life of me, and when I do, it’s too mooshy to do anything. Rick is catching the waves breaking all the way on the outside, out-paddling the longboarders, and making all his sections by doing floaters.

     Whiffleboy looks at me and says, “Yep, I think I’m looking for my last one.”

     Klaude and I nod in agreement.

     But here comes Rick, smiling ear to ear paddling back to the outside. “Hey, Rick!” I say, “is it fun out here?”

     “YEAHHHHH.”

     We return a slight laugh. Slight because . . . we aren’t catching shit.

     Rick says, “I told you, you just need more board. Do you wanna trade boards?”

     “Nah, I’m cool.” But then I think about it. Maybe I do need a fish in my quiver, especially for these days.

     Whiffle’s long gone, and Klaude and I give our farewells before he leaves. At 0800, I head back in with Rick. He hands me his yellow Zamora fish. “Give it a try,” he says.

     “You gonna paddle back out?”

     “I might.”

     I put an hour in the meter. Walking over the sand, I see Rick changing. Yeah . . . he’s not coming out, but he sure got me to try his fish! Paddling out on that thing is weird, such a different feeling. I try to duckdive a small wave and can barely put that thing under; it’s a fucking cork!

#

     The last time I rode a fish was during a big evening session here at Porto. I was on Rick’s white Zippy and got pounded so hard that I had to rest on shore for a second try. I’ll never forget that day. I caught a big, green emerald of a wave. It was so dark and choppy that its surface had gem cuts all over it. All I had to do was stand, and that fish shot me down the line passed every section without even trying. That wave was six-foot plus, easy plus. Anyway . . . that was the last time I rode a fish, exactly December of 2012.

http://elportosurf.blogspot.com/2010/12/matthew-and-giant-emerald-mon-12062010.html

#

     This morning’s conditions are different. I sit too far on the outside and scratch out, either that or the waves are too mooshy. How the fuck does Rick do it? Finally when I have position, I catch some waves, but the shape is long gone, and I don’t have what it takes to make the most out of the little dribbles.

     On my only wave that shapes up to a good three feet, a red-headed kid drops in on me. I yell, “Wooooooo!”

     He turns around, sees me, and kicks out, but the wave’s already gone. He frowns and raises his hand at me, a gesture for an apology. I waive him off. It’s cool.

#

     I stop by Rick’s house to drop off his board. He insists that I keep it, but I insist back for him to take it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not anti fish, I just don’t like riding other people’s boards.

     Okay, let me take that back. . . . My brother would disown me, and I’m stuck in following my brother’s footsteps because deep inside he’ll always be my surf hero. He rides thrusters.

     I think boards hold a sentimental value, that’s why I love my DMS board so much and the JS. Both are linked to my brother, so I’ll cherish them until they buckle in half or can no longer be repaired. My surfer soul is connected with them.

#

     Now I’m sitting at home. It’s taken me almost a whole week to catch up with all these blogs. I could have easily kept everything at a paragraph, but I don’t. Even if no one reads them, they are special to me. One day when I’m an old fart, maybe I’ll be able to look at these. Maybe I’ll have kids to show them to, or my nieces or nephews will have kids. Or maybe one day I’ll be gone, and these little writings will be a testament to the way I lived. Anyway, I’m tired. I’ve been writing so much. I’m gonna eat and watch the Lakers get spanked in Oklahoma for the last time this season and then play some MW3 and then maybe I’ll whack off over the tub.

     “Matt, this is 2012 Matt speaking to future Matt. You were a sick motherfucker. You probably still are.”

     Until we surf again, Mates. Oiy. . . .