THE RELEASE PT.10, TUE 15MAY2012 MOR

Location: Churches to Middles

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 3-5 FT, light onshore, consistent, warm, sunny.

     I notice the light outside, so I take a look at my watch—0600. Though this morning is not like yesterday morning. The light outside is gray and overcast by the clouds. Something stinks. Is it my sleeping bag or my damp towels? Is the smell coming from the same shorts and tank top that I’ve been wearing since Thursday, or could it be from the underwear that I haven’t changed as well. Everything in my wagon smells like a sock with rotten shrimp in it.

     When I open the door, I’m met with onshore wind. It’s cold. The water has texture on it, good for an evening session, but bad for the morning. There’s no need to rush. I go to the same porta potty I’ve been using since Thursday, but it’s filled. I see someone else’s turd that they dropped. I want to take a picture, but I left my camera in the car. The turd is orange, but the very tip of it is a hardened, dark brown. Amazing. Yes . . . God does exist.

     I didn’t let my wetsuit dry thoroughly, so I struggle with getting all the kinks out. I can’t believe that I’ve never owned a 4/3 wetsuit. This winter, for sure I’m buying one.

     This is a premature ending to this whole surf journey, to end it with poor conditions. I sit at the bottom of the wave, arriving at the same time the San O crowd does. Just then, a set breaks at the top of the wave, and then some waves swing wide by us. Holy shit . . . there’s surf! I duckdive since I’m out of position, and I go to the middle of the wave.

     The top of the wave is crowded, so I stay away from there. Some guys are on the bottom, and only a few stragglers sit in the middle, unsure where the next gem will sprout. When the set comes, it’s breaking so far out that I have to shoot to the horizon to beat it. It’s a church bombing all over again. I scratch into the last wave of the set and go right. The best part about all these Churches’ waves during this trip is the drop, that’s it. The first section is rippable, but after that the wave goes too long and walled, and the shoulder forms at the inside point. So it’s very early on my ride that I try my turns. I get one backside carve well under the lip, and then I have to watch for traffic in the whitewash.

     After another ride, I’m caught on the inside. Again, I’m getting pounded. My shoulder muscles are toast, just done after surfing so much. On the next set, I get a lined-up right. Finally, I know that I can make the section if I bottom turn right, right . . . OH FUCK! There’s this old man on a fun board paddling out, but he’s in my line, critical. He’s exactly where I need to be, but there’s no avoiding him and no escape; I’m heading right for him just after the drop when I’m flying. He slides off of his board, and I jump over him. It’s ugly. From shore this must look horrible. Even though there’s the rest of the set approaching, I resurface and ask him if he’s all right.

     “Sorry,” he says, as he remounts his board.

     “But are you okay?”

     “Yeah, I’m all right.”

     “All right.”

     I’m embarrassed, but . . . I’m not sure if I should be. I think it’s no one’s fault. He was in a bad place; I was in a crucial spot. Oh well. I paddle to the top of the wave to escape the negative energy.

     I’m surrounded by Longboarders, there’s no way I’m competing with them. I move all the way to north Churches where the lefts break, but there are already two guys sitting there. They give me a scowl. I know what they’re thinking. They’ve been getting this spot to themselves, and here I am invading their territory. I sit outside of them and catch a left. One of them drops in, sees me behind, and pulls out.

ONCE UPON A TIME AT A BATTLE POSITION:

     I’m sitting in front of the cliffs looking at Lowers. It’s working again, but I’m not going there. No way. There are so many heads, and it doesn’t look like anything’s breaking wide. Oh well. I’m not going back to Churches either. Time to make-do.

     North Middles does have waves though, but they’re walled and not lining up. I’m lucky if I get a turn on them. There are six other guys here all faring the same.

#

     The battle position remains in its crumbled, cobblestone glory. There was a time when this was the spot, right here in front of the BP. There was a time when Middles used to fire giving nice, long rights. Sure, a foot smaller than Lowers, but they were stress free waves without the hassle of dozens. This place used to work.

#

     I paddle towards the BP just as a peak forms on the outside. I turn and go. Popping up, I see a clean, three-foot face before me. I set up a little top-turn and reentry that sets me up for the next section. It stands up providing a clean canvas before the closeout. I climb the face, down-turn, and put as much mustard on the tail as a draw a tight arc. The nose of my board points at nine o’clock, but I fall and don’t recover. Either way, it still feels good, like I did something critical. I didn’t stick it, but I get the sensation of a nice gouge. I need to learn how to layback or at least try it when the section does this.

     Everyone else is gone. There’s a guy with a Magnum P.I. mustache on a red fish. He scratches out and yells, “Fuuuck!”

     I’ve been there. Just then, the sun comes out at full blaze. The clouds disintegrate, and the wind dies. Not only that, but there’s another set on the way.

#

     Could it be the sun or the wind? I have no idea, but Middles has just turned on to three-feet and clean. It might also be from the tide. Right now it’s dropping, and it’s at mid level.

     BP’s usually doesn’t have lefts, but they’re coming in. Over and over on little three-foot faces, I’m pumping down the line, doing soft carves, and paddling back out. Even on the rights, I manage my cleanest top-turns the whole trip. Not violent and gouging turns, but just fluid. All this on the DMS, the board that’s not supposed to work, the board that’s on its last leg and is supposed to be a piece of shit. Ahhhhhh, I love you, my DMS, you, you, reliable motherfucker you.

     I sell the last wave to a couple guys on the shore, and now there are four of us. I see the mustache guy paddle by me. “It turned on didn’t it?” I say.

     “Yeah, it’s real fun right now!”

#

     It’s 1030. I’ve been in the water for four hours. I’m starving, hungry. My stomach hurts on each stroke because it’s so empty. My brother taught me to surf only two hours tops, come out and take a break to snack, and then go back out. He said you make mistakes when you surf tired and create start bad habits. I wouldn’t mind a break, but this window is so good, and I don’t want it to close without me being here.

     The tide drops below mid level, and the surf goes inconsistent again. I walk out exhausted, yelling at the rocks as I flail and stumble. What was a gloomy morning is now a scorching, hot summer day. I peel my wetsuit down to my hips and pass some guys on the path. They are bone dry. They smile, but I don’t smile back. I’m too tired. I’m like a salty veteran returning from the Nam, walking off the C-130 and onto the tarmac for some R&R. These guys, they’re Cherries. For now, my battle’s over.

     I hit that part of the path before the Trestles map. A light breeze hits my face. The bushes rustle all round me. I walk slower and absorb the moment. There’s nothing but the wind in my ears, the dirt, the tracks, and the peeling sound that a welcoming ocean makes. I want to frolic in the bushes. I want to climb the dirt mound and feel the base of the tracks, feeling stones fill and fall from my hands and fingers. It’s my last day here. I’m gonna miss it. 

     After my last shower I put on some deodorant and a clean set of clothes that have been hiding in my duffle bag. It’s the cleanest I’ve felt since I left my house on Thursday morning.

     Sebastian gives me a call before I leave and suggests we meet for lunch. I drive to his house in Mission Viejo. “What do you wanna eat?” he says.

     “I’m so tired of fast food. No Mexican, that’s for sure.”

     “Yeah, I just had Mexican yesterday. . . .”

     “I need rice.”

     He takes me to this spot called Aloha Barbecue by his house. It’s a different country in this part of Orange County. Two old White guys stare at me as I enter. I’m completely beached, browned and well done from the sun’s bidding. My hair is so fuzzy I look like an evil monkey with slanted, red eyes. I order the saimin and chicken katsu plate, expecting that the portions are gonna be small, but there is actually so much that Sebastian helps me eat it all. He leaves some white rice untouched. “You not gonna eat that?” I say. He scoops it up. Never will I let a grain of rice go uneaten. Not on my watch.

     I make the rest of the drive home in one piece. 

#

     It’s Thursday, May 17^th, and I’ve driven my ass all the way to HB in hopes to score. Surfline was off. The south wind is a little strong, knocking down the waves and putting a blanket of chop all over the ocean. My sunglasses tuck my face away in my hooded sweater. I go back to my car, drive out for some breakfast, come back, sleep in the back for an hour, wake up, and take another look. The wind is even worse now. My face is expressionless as I look over the sand and onto the ocean. 

     Walking back to my car, I remember how good it was a couple days ago, to just wake up and have rideable surf right there in front of me. Today I’ll be a dry walker. I didn’t even shower last night because I thought I’d be getting wet. I turn the key and leave the state lot. The itch for another surf trip overcomes me.