NOT MEANT TO BE, SUN 29APRIL2012 MOR

Location: 26th

Crew: Solo

Time: 0630-0800

Conditions: 2-3 FT, clean, sunny, clear, soft, mooshy, and only breaking on shore.

     I’m dripping sweat in my mom’s second floor apartment. I’m staring at her gigantic sofa and the small doorway which leads to a flight of stairs. How the FUCK did we get that thing IN here in the first place?! My phone goes off. It’s a text from Klaude.

     “It’s Firing,” he says.

     Fuck my life. What I would give to be in the ocean. I snap out of my fantasy. My mom needs help. That’s what families do, they help each other. She can’t move this couch and the hundreds of other little doo-dads into the U-Haul herself. . . .

#

     It’s 2230. I’m on 210W heading towards the valley. It’s the “last leg” of the Vegas drive which is still deceivingly long. . . . I look over at Chelsea. She’s knocked out. Even torturing me with Selena Gomez, Taylor Swift, and Justin Bieber songs isn’t enough to keep her awake.

     We make it back to my house a little before midnight. At 0930 we all plan to begin the process of unloading all of my mom’s stuff, but before that . . . I MUST SURF.

#

     It’s 0530. My alarm goes off. I hit the snooze. It goes off again at 0545. I wonder just how bad I want to surf, but then I think about the boys being in the water without me. It’s firing out there right now. The thought of carves on some juicy lefts is too much to pass up. Tired and sore, I scoop myself up and jump in the wagon. 

#

     I’m parked at the top of 26^th, and it doesn’t seem like there isn’t a sign of surf life around. I can see the waves. They look small, but . . . it’s clean. Since I’m pretty far I can’t tell for sure.

     Once I’m on the sand, I see that there’s a small group of longboarders perched in front of the lifeguard tower. Don and his crew of bandits occupy their “new territory,” but nothing is really breaking. On the next set, the waves break on the outside but reform immediately and break on shore. I have a bad feeling similar to Friday. SKUNK!

#

     I’m having a sarcastic conversation with myself in the lineup which is a bad sign as far as surf and stoke is concerned. I drift north next to one of the locals.

     “Whoa!” he says, “Gotta watch the inside. It’s shallow!”

     I smile. “I heard it was good yesterday. My friend said he was going for the barrels.”

     “Yeah . . . I saw some waves that were doing it. It was definitely possible.”

     I tighten up and grip my board at the site of a wave, but it doesn’t break. I release.

     “If I knew it was gonna be like this,” he says, “I would’ve brought my other board.”

     A longboarder scratches into an outside wave and rides it in to shore. Fuck it, I’m thinking. I catch the next wave that jacks up to three feet, but it’s sending me towards the sand. The wave is standing up about to go hollow. I look down. I’m over inches of ocean. Cradling my head, I spring forward and brace for impact. Feeling the sand under me and in the wash of the shore pound, I stand back up within seconds. The longboarder nods and walks off. He was watching the whole time.

     I catch another similar wave like this but kick out early; it’s not worth it.

     I drift even further to Don’s peak, where I watch another local guy actually catch one on the outside. It’s a right, and he’s setting up for a turn, but he moves too fast out of the critical zone and bogs out. He wears a playful facial expression as he flops off of his board. I paddle there.

     Avoiding Don’s crew, I sit further south. This is their spot, and I just want a little peanut from their shit. One of those outside waves breaks towards me, and I catch it. I’m setting up for a backside hack until I see the guy who flopped off of his wave earlier. He’s in my direct line. He tries to duckdive, but it’s too late, and I have to steer out clear.

     “Sorry,” he says, “I couldn’t get out of your way.”

     “No worries. It’s cool.” I waive off his apology. There’s no need.

     My “last wave” never comes. Just when it seems like things are getting better, they don’t. I paddle in, careful not to break my ass in the shore pound. The boys never show up, and . . . I can’t blame them.

#

     My family gets a late start moving my mom out. She lives in a shitty ass area in the valley, but at least her apartment’s nice. Chelsea and I head back to L.A., and we go back to the mall to find her some shoes.

     I help her carry her stuff to her dorm, and I feel like an ancient relic in this place. It’s a wonder how I’m in college, around chicks my cousin’s age—weird. I’m an old fuck.

     I have two more weeks of school left, and I look forward to a solid, stoked summer of surf.