THE RELEASE PT.7, SUN 13MAY2012 EVE

Location: Lowers

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 3 FT, light onshore, consistent, sunny.

     The first thing I do is reorganize all of my surf junk in the back, pushing it to one side. I lay down the extra sleeping bag that I brought for Francis as some cushion, put down a pillow, and scoot my sleeping bag to the side. I’m tired. Even though I didn’t surf that long, the early wake up and beers have me in nappy-poo mode. The sky is a pervading blue outside my wagon. With a slight crack of the windows and cool shade from the branches above, I’m comfortable enough to fall asleep. It’s a scene I’m gonna have to get used to. 

     1800 is go time for the evening sesh. At this time of the year, it always is. It’s perfect because the wind starts to die, and there’s enough time for a solid two hours of surf. Also, you catch the sun going down and get to see the transition from day to night. Surfers leave the lineup as darkness grows, leaving only the surf fiends to themselves.

     I drive my car back to where I was parked earlier. What was a campsite filled with life and abundance is now desolate and empty. Even the family that the E-Z Up toppled onto is gone. I suit up and start my walk. I’m not too sure what this evening entails. Today’s afternoon wind is definitely stronger than yesterday’s. The strong onshores part my hair to the side as I walk the path. No one joins me on this walk to Lowers; I’m solo on this lone road. The possibility of leaving lingers in my mind. I could just go home tonight. It’s not the same being out here without Rick or Fransauce.

     Churches is crumbling because the wind is so strong. Clear across middles is nothing but chopped-up texture. The integrity of pure flatness is only disrupted be the bobbing black dots at Lowers. There are no A-frames, and everyone is just sitting. There aren’t any waves, I’m thinking. But then again, if there aren’t any, there wouldn’t be surfers there.

     I sit on the sand at the same spot where Francis and I sat a couple days ago before we paddled and surfed with Jordan. Looking out at the shore, I see a bird swimming over the inside whitewash, going over the marble humps. I think about perspectives, about what different people are doing right now and what they are seeing. Rick’s probably at home, looking at his living room, sitting on the couch, and relaxing in front of the TV. Francis is with Nicole, enjoying their time together in their apartment, probably making dinner or watching a movie. Everyone else is in their comfortable surroundings doing comfortable things. But I . . . I’m caked in Vertra, sitting in the sand, draped in my wetsuit with my board across my knees. I see cobblestones and a bird kicking across the water that knows this place better than I do. I see the horizon but can only feel the wind that beats against my face, making me cold. The sight of the choppy ocean makes me shiver, but just then, a set breaks at the top of Lowers with surfers going left and right. I guess it would be nice to be at home. I’d have a beer right next to me as I’d pound away on the PS3 controller, blasting fools online on Modern Warfare 3.

     I walk out over the medium tide and duckdive my first wave. The splash of the cold water is intense, but after a couple seconds it’s all the same. My rear delts burn as I paddle my stick through the choppy surf. The wind and the chop are no longer disturbing. I love it here. This is my perspective.

#

     The paddle to the lineup is taking longer than expected. I keep looking at the shore, trying to get in front of the porta-potties that serve as landmarks. The tail of my JS got cracked during yesterday’s session at Lowers, so now I’m on my backup board: the 6’1 potato chip DMS, the board that I only use on dumpy days when the surf is rounder. I feel that the loss of foam is affecting me, I could use an extra push.

     When I get to the peak, three Japanese guys are sitting at my outside spot, and then I realize that it’s because of the way the waves are breaking. Maybe it’s because of the wind, but the typical A-frame peak is breaking long, making two tight peaks with a saddle in between. Surfers must sit wide on both sides, if in the middle, they must make a couple sections to get to the face.

     I’m patient. I wonder if the wind will die, as it’s still strong, but the peaks push through the chop. The next set scatters the Japanese guys, and I paddle forward to take their place. The waves are unpredictable. They look like they’re gonna break late, but there’s that last second pitch where it’s steep enough to slide down. I’m too deep for the next wave. The spilling lip shoots me down so fast that I slide down the face on my belly, trying to recover in the flats. As soon as I pop-up, one of the Japanese dudes is right in front of me; he’s in my line. Stepping on my tail and shifting my weight to the right, I miss him by inches.

     Paddling back to the lineup, I’m prepared to get dirty looks. It’s an embarrassing way to make my entry.

     A couple people leave, so I do a quick headcount. “One, two, three . . . thirteen.” That’s not bad, not bad at all. Thirteen at Lowers when the peaks are wide is minimal.

     I move to the top of the wave in the midst of quiet, stone-faced, unwelcoming characters. I’ve learned to be patient, holding the trigger on the first set wave.

     Let the others scramble, let them get out of place, for there is never one, always two or three there are.

     I catch my first right within view of the Japanese guys on the shoulder. The different feel of the DMS has the balance off, but I do a bottom turn below the lip, recover, pump, and then kick out. On this evening, the lefts are working better than the rights.

     As the sun goes down, the Japanese crew leaves. There’s now half the crowd. I catch my first left, but it’s lined-up like I’ve never seen before. Instead of a building shoulder, the whole wave is set up like a three-foot quarter pipe; the lip of the wave draws a drooping laundry line all the way to the end. It throws me off a little. I’m pumping, but the lip doesn’t end. I push my tail into the top to disrupt the wave’s integrity, leaving little carves of displaced water. This quarter-pipe configuration is fast but fun.

     I’ve never been a top dog at Lowers, but with the fading light, only three of us are left. One of them is Brazilian. I only know this because he’s speaking in Portuguese, and I know he’s speaking Portuguese from all the Brazilian porn that I’ve watched over the last decade. The other guy has been scratching out the entire session. He’s on a fun board. On every set, he’s passive, not chasing down the waves, and not competing to get into place. He’s let other guys go and stayed in place or got worked on the inside, but still . . . he’s one of the “Last of the Low-hicans.” I admire his dedication. Surf stoke starts from somewhere, and this place and moment isn’t a bad start.

     The Brazilian guy catches his last wave in, and it’s just me and the Low-hican. Surfing in the dark makes me nervous. In the rare event of something catastrophic happening, you’d be fucked out here. I take a look at him floundering on his board. My life would depend on him. I turn, and catch a left to the inside. I’m glad I stayed.

#

     The campsites were packed over the weekend, but everyone’s gone. So many sites are vacant, and the hot water from my shower is the only noise in the bathroom. It would be nice to have a battle buddy. There’s no “beer with a hot shower” ritual tonight. I put on my dirty clothes in the cool night air and head to San Clemente in search of grub.

#

     One thing’s for sure: I don’t know this town. I go online and find a review for a Korean taco truck that’s in some parking lot five miles away. I drive there . . . nothing. I’m really not in the mood for Denny’s or Tommy’s, definitely not in the mood for KFC or anything fast food related. I pass a neon sign that says OPEN, and above it is a sign that reads 2 For 1 Pizza.

     I walk in ten minutes before they close. They have a pretty good deal: $7.00 for a two-topping medium pizza with a medium drink. How the fuck can anyone go wrong with that? When I open it, I’m disappointed. It reminds me of the cheap ass pizza I had in downtown Las Vegas. At the slightest tilt, the cheese and everything on it wants to slide off. There’s no firmness in the slices. They droop and bend at the lift. None-the-less, I’m so fucking hungry, and this piece of shit pizza is tasting goooooooood. 

     I park a couple shops down next to the pipe/bong shop and give Klaude a call. Klaude’s energy is always good. I have to touch bases with him at least a couple times a week to talk about life. I’m over the top, being loud, and cursing while grease and cheese drips down my chin. I put on too many red peppers, so I’m sweating bullets the whole time.    

     “Yeah,” he says, “the swell supposed to pick up. You might score tomorrow.”

#

     Back at the beach I save a slice for the morning and put up my towels to block out the lights from the outside. I brush, floss, hydrate, and set my bed as good as possible. It’s my first time being out here alone like this. If this isn’t a true surf bum experience, it’s the closest I’ve ever been to it, and . . . I think I like it.