Location:
Churches
Crew: Jordan
Conditions:
2 FT+, light onshore, textured, inconsistent, sunny.
I intended to wake up at 0530, but I stumble
out of my tent by about 0600. Rick’s already awake, cooking some hard boiled
eggs. I join him by the stove and take a look over the ocean. It’s clean like
yesterday, and it’s also small like yesterday. A couple of longboarders are
sitting at the top of the wave, but north Churches is already filling with
groms who are practicing before their contest. Jordan will also be competing
this morning in the WSA event, her last event of the year. She’s in second
place, and a good result today might put her in first.
I really want to surf, but looking at the
conditions, I don’t want to go through the same thing as yesterday morning,
especially after coming off of an evening session at Lowers. Rick makes some
hot water for cocoa and coffee, giving me something to sip while I spend the
majority of the morning watching the tiny waves.
#
It’s 0800, and Rick’s family has joined
Jordan’s family to watch her compete. Her heat’s about to start in twenty
seconds.
“Hurry up and get out there,” her mom says.
Jordan’s sisters run up to her to relay the message. Her three competitors are now
walking in deeper water.
Jordan passes us and says in an unconcerned
tone, “Don’t worry, I don’t have to rush.”
As soon as her feet touch the water, the
other three chicks are already paddling out. The first set comes, and all three
of them get some points. Meanwhile, Jordan just starts to paddle. It’s a missed
opportunity.
The twenty minute heat goes fast. Jordan
forces a right. She’s behind the section, but she climbs the face for an
attempted floater. She falls. We gasp at this. If she would’ve pulled it off,
it would’ve been a good score. Even though she’s far away in the lineup, I can
read her expressions: frustration, anger, anxiousness. She paddles towards the
inside and gets a fizzler of a left. Just then, the next set approaches and
starts to break on the outside. She misses it.
The announcer says, “Four, three, two,
one!” and the blare of the horns follow.
Jordan paddles with her head down back to
the cobblestones. I feel bad for her.
Most of my friends started surfing a little
later in their lives, like I. Actually, most of the DRC has a head start on me.
I caught my first legit wave when I was twenty-three. I’m a surf geek, surf nut,
surf collector, and a surf enthusiast. Innersections plays on my TV more than
anything else. Even when I intend for it to be just background noise, I always
end up watching everything from Joel Parkinson to Mikala Jones before I become
unglued. If there’s an ASP Tour event on the web, you can guarantee that I’m
glued to that as well. What I’m saying is, most of the people I know wished
they surfed more as a kid. It’s the “hoop dream” for surfing, to have competed
at a young age, get a sponsorship, and even though the chances are slim maybe
even make the tour. Dreams, all dreams.
If I or any of my friends had a heat of any
sorts, we would’ve been out there sitting in the water twenty minutes before
our heat. Instead, we’re a bunch of old novices (except Rick and Francis)
blowing a load over something as simple as spray from a carve. We have no legit
barrel stories and may never catch air in our lives. We accept this.
The drama’s too much for me to handle.
Jordan’s an awesome kid, and her surfing is so much more advanced than my
imitation grown man surfing. I know she’s upset, but I’m not the right person
to find the right words for her. “Rick,” I say, “I’m gonna go suit up.”
#
The event site has the best waves, so I
paddle just south of it to be closer to the energy. Two groms are on the
inside, and some girl’s dad sits close by. The morning’s glassy conditions are
deteriorating, and the onshore wind picks up, creating texture over the
surface. I catch a handful of rights, but the wave is so small and weak that I
can only walk the nose and trim.
Jordan’s walking towards the campsite with
her towel draped over her. She sits on the picnic table cradling her head. When
she paddles out by me, she says, “I lost.”
“Yeah . . . you’re heat was mostly a lull.”
“I lost my second place. I’m fourth now.”
I pause . . . searching. “Just don’t be
hard on yourself. You don’t have control over the waves. That’s still really
good for you to place that high.”
She looks at me in acknowledgement and
turns her attention back to the horizon, paddling towards the possibility of a
ride. She doesn’t complain or want any pity. I admire her resilience at such a
young age.
#
By noon, only Rick and I are left. He’s
still packing up his van, but he sets up his Hurley umbrella, hands me a couple
beers and says, “Just hang out here for a little while, Matt.”
I’m buzzed wearing my hooded sweater and
sunglasses. The winds have gotten stronger in the last couple hours. A blast of
wind sends the umbrella flying down the beach, heading straight for two kids
lying on a towel. I should be jumping out of my seat, charging the sand, and
diving to grab its pole. Instead, I hold my beer in my hand, wondering where the
umbrella will stop. The kids’ father lunges out of his beach chair and grabs
it. I get up and apologize. It’s embarrassing, and I’m an asshole. I’m an
asshole because I had zero sense of urgency and because I’m thinking this is
Rick’s umbrella, not mine. When Rick comes back, I tell him what happened.
Minutes later another strong gust blasts
the side of my head. I drink my beer in the sunlight and look to my left. Where
the fuck is the E-Z Up? The family that was lying down, sunbathing in the sand
is now under a white canopy with poles sticking up. It hits me then. The fuckin’
E-Z Up flipped over and landed on the family. A teenage kid with pale white
skin and red hair pulls it away. I scan for Rick and see him talking to a guy
with an RV. “RICK!” I yell. No response. “RICK!” When the E-Z Up gets pulled away,
there’s a woman holding her head, and the rest of her family is tending to her.
“Sorry,” I say to the kid, as he brings the canopy my way.
“You need help putting this away?” he says.
“No, no, that’s fine. Is she all right?”
“Yeah.”
If I was embarrassed earlier, I’m beyond
that now. I bring the shelter within the confines of the fence and track Rick
down. He goes over and apologizes. The adults in their family shoot cold glares
in my direction as I pack up my chair and cooler.
#
When Rick leaves, I drive towards San
Onofre and park under a tree. A decision has to be made. I miss my bed. I miss
playing my PS3. I also miss clean underwear, but I know that it’s all about the
south swell right now. I could go home, surf HB tomorrow and come back to
Trestles on Tuesday when the swell peaks. But do I really want to sleep in my
wagon? And gas, do I really want to burn all those miles driving back? An OG
call has to be made. How bad do I wanna surf? . . .
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