THE RELEASE PT.9 (double sesh), MON 14MAY2012 EVE

Location: Churches

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 4-5 FT+, strong onshore, inconsistent, choppy, sunny.

     I wake from my nap at 1630, debating on what to do. I circle around the decision back and forth. I tell myself to start writing, catch the evening session at Lowers, and just watch game 2 on Wednesday. Then I tell myself, enjoy the full experience of being out here. I can both surf and catch the game. The thought of having a cold beer in town while watching Kobe ball on the Thunder does sound appealing. The wind is so strong that it looks like “victory at sea” conditions, but if I want to catch the game, the second session must happen now.

CHURCH BOMBING:

    

     Only few are willing to brave the conditions. Brave or stupid, choose one. I sit at the bottom of the wave with a couple guys. I saw some shoulders here earlier, but the lull is hindering that. Again, I’m at the top of the wave. The bumps rolling through look like they’ll break but they roll past and break on the inside. I expect nothing on this session. This paddle out is more so I don’t hate myself later for not paddling out. Just when I think that things are going dead, my heart drops as I catch the site of the oncoming set over the horizon. It’s a thin crowd. Thin . . . and we’re all fucked. We paddle towards the outside. I duckdive the first. The wind is so strong that it knocks the wave down in a fashion that leaves a long, trailing rapid of white wash. I go under the violent wall that approaches, get washed around, and lose my board. I struggle with the second one as well. I’m still padding as hard as I can, getting close but not close enough. All I can do is watch the waves build and prepare for darkness. By the fifth duckdive I’m worn out. One more wave, and I’m panting on the outside, sitting by myself. Everyone else is taking their last beatings. It’s funny how things look so dismal from the shore, but it’s a whole other story in the lineup. I learn my lesson: patiently wait on the outside for the set.

     Unfortunately, the sections are too long, so the waves don’t line up all the way to the inside like they should during aclassic Churches’ day, but still, the drops are fast and good enough for a couple turns. Regardless, I kick-out before the rides end because the paddle is far.

     I can’t remember any significant rides. I go left on some waves that are short lived. The rights are better, but this whole trip hasn’t had carves in abundance. At 1800, I head in to clean up for the game.

I had a hard time catching the sets for the pics, but there's a surfer going right for a sense of scale.

There's a longboarder about to hit the lip if you look closely.

     Someone in Camp Pendleton told me to go to Humphrey’s Sandwiches in San Clemente because they have TVs, and it’s mellow. I drive there and order the prime rib sandwich which is fucking delicious. I’m the only one in there. The two young guys that work there look like male models or the wolf guys from Twilight, but they’re cool as fuck. The manager there is smoking hot. She has long, curly brown hair tied into a pony tail. She bends over, moving stuff from the cabinets. Her butt is so round in her black, stretchy pants. Every time she turns around, I turn back to the game without getting caught. Only if she knew that every guy is a pervert. At least I am, and you . . . you sitting at home reading this. You too are sick.  

     The place shuts down at 2000, so I call my buddy Sebastian, who suggests that I go to Dukes to watch the rest of the game. It’s an empty night, and the bartender is a petite brunette with gigantic boobs. When it’s obvious that the Lakers are gonna get blown out, I head to Jack in the Box for churros, chicken nuggets, and a java shake. I’m not even hungry, but I like to eat crap when I drink. I can’t help it. Somehow, alcohol = junkfood.

     Back at the beach, I force myself to eat everything. I go to sleep buzzed and full. Fuckin’ Lakers. . . .