THE RELEASE PT.2, FRI 11MAY2012 MOR

Location: Lowers

Crew: Francis & Jordan

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, sunny, hot, light south wind, textured, inconsistent.

     It’s a rough night sleeping in the back of my wagon. Back at the house, my military inflatable pad is somewhere in my closet collecting dust, unused. I wake up constantly, turning over on my side, meeting shoulder bone to hard surface. Still, despite the rough night I wake up feeling rested.

     Light from the overcast morning illuminates my cabin. I look at my watch: 0530. Shit, I’m late. I push open the door and swivel onto the sand barefooted. An onshore breeze hits me in the face. There are only a couple guys out. I had hoped for a clean morning of surf. Fuck the size. I’m stoked if it’s at least three feet and clean; you can’t ask for too much. The waves are crumbly again, weak, choppy, and 2-3 FT. The low tide exposes the rocks for a long walk to deep water. I turn around and see Francis’ truck door already open. Rick’s already up too. As much as we all want to surf, we wait for a better window, maybe when the tide comes up some.

#

CHURCHES:

     It’s 0900 and still . . . the conditions have only improved by a fraction, but we’re all prepping our gear like soldiers before battle. Rick, Jimmy, Jantzen, Francis, and Jordan are all changing and putting wax on their boards. This camping trip isn’t supposed to be like this. There is supposed to be swell, at least good shape and good conditions. But nothing is guaranteed. Every session is like a spin at the roulette table despite Surfline and Magic Sea Weed.

     The Church sesh is uneventful. At best, I get a couple rights where I walk it out and ride the nose like a longboarder. Jordan does the best out of all of us, pumping all the way to shore or in this case the rocks. She’s pretty ballsy to do that because I’m too worried about dinging my board to go that far. Jordan leaves after an hour.

     A half hour later the sun comes out. Francis turns to me, squinting from the rays and says, “You like go Lowers?”

     I don’t respond right away. With these dismal conditions, I’m not sure if it’s even worth it. If it’s anything like this, the crowd slapped on top of it will make for a perfect shit sandwich. “You really wanna go huh?”

     “Yeah.”

     “Yeah, fuck it. One more.”

     We catch our last meager rides, leaving Jantzen, Jimmy, and Rick behind. I want to tell them that we’re going, but I’d hate to make them go all the way there if it’s not good.

#

Lowers:

     We spot Jordan at the main peak when we’re half way through Middles. We perch on the sand a little south from the outhouses, bicycles, and people filming. We’re a little unsure at first, but after we watch a 3-4 FT set roll in, we do the cobblestone dance and paddle out.

     I sit a little wide as usual, hoping that something swings my way, but there’s no luck. There’s a long lull, but every time a set comes, it’s an easy four or five waves. The wind even dies a little.

     My surfing inactivity catches up. I either scratch out, or I can’t make the sections to get down the line. Waiting for waves to swing wide works sometimes but not today. I have to paddle into the lineup if I want some.

     Francis paddles up to me and says, “I think that’s Kolohe Andino.”

     “Who?” I turn around.

     “The guy in the red wetsuit. Every wave he gets is an air, and he sticks everything.”

     We spot the guy in the red O’Neill wetsuit disappear behind the peak and then fly up over the wave, disappearing again on his landing. “And I think that guy’s Nate Yeomans,” says Francis. He motions towards the peak.

     Nate’s wearing a black and white wetsuit. I know for sure that it’s him. He’s talking to a couple people at the peak, going for both lefts and rights. Every time he goes left he makes the sections and sets up for a full arcing carve. He attempts a backside air going right, but doesn’t stick the landing.

     “Oh wait,” says Francis. “That can’t be Kolohe. He’s in Brazil right now.” We laugh, but we still don’t know who the grom ripper is.

#

     Francis and I are sitting out far enough to be in place for the bombs. We do a headcount: eighteen. A big set breaks on the outside, and Francis gets position. He drops in with his eyes wide on a four-foot set wave, going right. His single fin is fast. From behind, he reemerges and hits the lip on shoulder before sliding back down again. I see him catch a number of these.

     I’m stuck in my own world, misreading the crowd, pulling out of lefts when the guy on my inside goes right, which is followed by an internal rant of how fucking stupid I am. I hear my brother’s voice in my head, “Always go for it. You can always pull out later.”

     Francis and Jordan are having a conversation behind me. “Yeah, I can’t believe I landed that,” she says, “that was sick.”

     “Yeah, I saw that,” says Francis.

     They’re on another level.

#

     We’ve been in the water for three and a half hours. I’m weak, tired, and performing worse as the minutes pass. Jordan heads towards her scantily clad friends on the sand while Francis and I head back. Even though I didn’t perform well, I’m exhausted. I turn to Francis and say one word: SUSHI.

     He smiles. “Ho’, got me excited now.”

     “Man, you have no idea.” I shake my head. “Don’t even eat right now, bro. We gonna go in there STARVING to death. All you can eat!”

     I’m over the session. With the advent of uni and hamachi on deck, it’s a happy walk back to camp.

#

     We stay true to the ritual, drinking ice cold Coors Light in the showers. Back at the site, I tell Rick that I promised Francis a sushi run before he goes back to Oahu, and that we’ll be back tonight.

     I don’t take Francis to the well renowned Zenko Sushi because they shut down from 1430-1700, so I take him to Randy’s old spot, Hana Sushi in O-Side.

     I explain that I haven’t been there in a while, but I don’t tell him I’m worried that it might be out of business. Lucky for us, it’s still there. “Dude,” I say, “this place always has fuckin’ hot ass chicks.”

     As soon as we open the door, we’re greeted by the Asian hostess that looks like an import car model. She has dark, long black hair and wears it Charlie’s Angels style. Her skin is light, and her dark eyes are round, a Filipina maybe. Her C-cups are firm, showing a sculpted line between her blouse. “Welcome to Hanas,” she says. “All you can eat?”

     I puff up my chest and say, “Yes,” in my deepest voice possible.

     Even the other chicks that work there: Latina, white, fuckin’ SMOKING HOTT. I’m rubber-necking it the whole time, damn near turning in my seat to get the rear view. The cash register is behind us, and their asses are just a bite away. Francis and I look at each other. “Mmmhmmm. I told you. . . .” 

     There are a couple changes from the last time I ate here. First, there is now a two hour limit stated on the order sheet. The sushi orders are limited to five orders per item. However, some items are now added to the AYCE list: soda, ice cream, and fried banana. Despite the limits, we are consistent the whole two hours. 

     During the drive back, we only chuckle and let out a couple small laughs. Sushi always tastes best after a draining surf session.