TURNFEST 2012, TUE 22MAY2012 MOR

Location: Huntington Beach

Crew: Solo

Time: 0730-1030

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, gloomy, faint onshore, clean, consistent, fast, rippable.

     I couldn’t wake up yesterday. Blame it on the lack of rest as of late or blame it on the PS3. I played until 0100 in the morning and expected to get up at 0530. Yeah right. . . . I knew that HB had a good surf report, but I decided to sleep in, write, and go to the gym. After all, I thought my shoulders were beat from all the paddling. A lay day seemed like a good idea.

#

     Last night Shan tex’d me. “Are you traveling for surf?” he asked.

     “No,” I said, “nothing’s going on until Thursday.”

     “Really? There’s supposed to be surf down south tomorrow.”

     I looked at his text puzzled. I dropped the controller and took a look at the forecast. Wow, looks like that tale end of the swell is hitting HB still. Right there the decision is made. In bed by 0100, wake up 0530.

#

     I’ve hit the snooze button three times already. It goes off again. I look at it: 0615. I lie on my back staring at the ceiling, this time not letting my eyes close again. I get up, brush my teeth, and fill up two hot water jugs; grab my board, wetsuit, towel, wallet, phone, keys, and I’m out the door.

     Even though I’m running a little late, I know that low tide was somewhere around five in the morning, so I shouldn’t be missing much. The northbound lane on the 405 is bumper-to-bumper. I wonder where traffic will pick up for me. Somewhere around the 22 is where it gets thick, but I manage to work my way to the right lane and exit Magnolia.

     The South Bay had blue skies when I left, but the marine layer in HB is thick, making everything grey and gloomy. There’s an American flag near the intersection. When I’m at the red light I notice that it’s not moving.

#

     The state lot is desolate with just a couple cars at the first set of bathrooms. My designated parking spot only has one RV present. As soon as I step out of the car the RV takes off. I see one guy changing in the next lot over as I walk to the sand. We look at each other in awkward fashion, communicating telepathically that we’re the only ones here to surf, but antisocial enough not to say hi. I forget my sweater at home, so it’s a bit cold in my Billabong tank top. Leaves from the palm trees rattle from the wind, but it’s not strong like the last time I was here; it’s more of a light rustle.

     When I reach the water, I see two guys out at the break in front of me. River Jetties has a small handful of people, and there are two more guys by Magnolia. The tide is still low, and the water on the inside is churning, but . . . the lineup looks glassy. The smoke from the factory is blowing on shore, but the wind isn’t messing up the surface. A couple small two-foot peaks peel. Someone going right trims a tiny shoulder. 

     If you think I’m disappointed at this, you’re wrong. I’m fucking stoked! One, it looks much better than the last time I was here. Two, it’s clean. Three, I know HB enough to know that even small days here can be really fun. Four, the tide’s still filling in; it should get better.

     The jog back to my car serves as a warm up as well. Two more guys in the lot watch me as I trot by. They’re paddling out too.

     I rub some Vertra into my face, slip into my wetsuit, and pull out the DMS. There’s a lot of wax on there, but I scrub on a quick coat just in case.

SEAL BOOTY:

     On the walk back to the water, there’s a chick walking ahead of me. Her calves and butt are so round in her tight, black wetsuit. Dirty blonde hair swings above her lower back, revealing how her wide hips taper down to a thin waste. “Ohhhhhhh,” I say to myself. “That’s what I call seal booty.” I’d like to cut that seal open, make a little slit, and see what kind of meat is in there. She doesn’t warm up, and she joins the other two dudes who were changing in the lot.

SHIT ON MY LIPS:

     Usually I walk around a little bit, searching for a nice peak to paddle out to, but this morning it’s all the same. It’s only two-three feet, and I doubt that one spot is any better than another.

     I try to keep my hair dry as I paddle out, but I’m forced to duckdive a little insider. I resurface. Whew, it’s cold. The ocean’s a little murky and smells like stale water from a dishwasher. When I reach the outside, I see frothy, brown clumps of foam leaving oily trails of residue around it. Yuck, I think. I know what it is. It’s shit. It looks just like the shit that floated onto shore in Bali when that fuckin boat dumped its payload. It looks the same. I make an active effort to keep the water out of my mouth today.

SINGLE SHOTS:

     I paddle away from the brown streams and sit north of the two sausages with the seal. Even though the wind’s onshore, I can barely feel it. There isn’t any texture in the water, and the grey sky’s reflection over the ocean makes it hard to see the peaks. Again, this place is still fun when it’s small. Little one foot bumps turn into two-feet, and two-foot bumps turn in three-feet plus. I paddle knowing that the little bump will stand, sending me flying down the line faster than expected. I catch my first right. Since the tide is low, the ride is short. I’m moving fast, and a clean three-foot section builds ahead. I bottom turn and crack the top before it closes. I wonder if I got some spray. I wonder if the seal saw.

     The whole low tide window is like this. There are fast lefts and rights that are all good for at least one turn before sending you into the shallows. Going left, I have time to bottom turn and set up for one, nice grinding turn. I’m amped on these, puffing out my cheeks, stretching out my fingers, and trying to twist my torso. They feel good, but I know that they look novice from shore.

REMAIN HUMBLE:

     There’s a surfer to my north now. He looks like Orlando Bloom with long hair. He catches a front-side right and gets two turns. It’s an uncrowded morning, and I wonder if he’s the best guy out here. After each ride I check to see if anyone’s watching. I force my turns. I want to show that I know what I’m doing and that I’m pretty decent. I watch Seal Booty from behind the wave. She’s making her sections, but she’s not getting spray. And then . . . I catch myself. I’m an idiot. What the fuck am I doing comparing myself to the other surfers out here? Who cares if they rip or if they’re better? I grab the nose of my board, exhale, and stare out at the smooth ocean. Surfing’s about having fun; that’s all that matters. It’s a lesson that’s been echoed throughout surf time. One-footers, ten-footers, spilling waves, and barrels; surfing with absolute stoke is the best surfing of all.

     One of the sausages that she’s with pulls into the pocket and disappears before emerging through the trail of scattered white-wash. I see what they’re doing. They’re trying to get barreled. Good for them, I think to myself. Good shit.

FAITH IN YOUR SURFING:

     With the tide increase, the waves are getting better. The waves are breaking farther out, and they’re about three-feet. Two guys infiltrate my position, but there’s still enough spacing for us. I get my first solid two-turn right that I’ve had in a while. Yes, I know I recently camped at Churches, but this HB wave is clean and down-the-line. The face is smooth and unmolested when I bust the lip with my tail. There’s that sensation when you know you’ve pulled it off right: continuous momentum, smooth transfer of speed, and the audible “splash” that you hear out the back. Two turns . . . I’m stoked.

     My front side’s another story. I’m scoring mostly lefts this morning, but I keep getting hung up on my top-turns. I do my best to use the rail, shift my weight on the tail, and draw an arc down the face, but every time I do, I seem to dump all of my speed. I mean, it feels good, but I’m not snapping on my frontside. I try to make something happen on my next wave. I force the down turn and get a little splash from the tail at mid face, halfway through the arc. Yeah, it’s okay, but it’s slow and sluggish—forced.

     I bob in the lineup and realize that my surfing is plateauing. My frontside carves haven’t progressed lately and don’t have any explosion to them. I see scattered peaks all around me, but I already know how I’m going to turn and how I’m going to feel afterwards. I’m shitting on my session.

EXCEEDED EXPECTATIONS:

     As much as surfers complain about Surfline, it’s still the main, quick and easy guide to see what the swell is doing. Two-to-three feet, that’s all I expected today. But now . . . at mid-tide something has changed.

     In the grey distance, bumps arise. I paddle out to meet them, but the first one breaks early. A clean HB A-frame peak rolls away. It has more size, a little over four-feet. What was a morning filled with squinting more size out of small bumps is now undeniable, juicy sets.

     Still, there are only four other guys here, and they’re sitting at different peaks. It’s been a while since I’ve had conditions like this to myself.

WITH FAITH, CONSISTENCY, AND PATIENCE :

     I’m shoulder hunting. I have to. The peaks are too fast, but on my DMS, I’m popping up on the shoulder and faced with long, lined-up sections. I don’t get more than three turns, and I am falling a lot on the third one. I get this fuckin’ left, I mean, the section is so smooth, the lip’s curved back, almost Trestles-like, but it’s standing up a lot more. It’s a performance wave just begging for rail. I’m pumping, keeping up with it. I bottom turn and get a hacking arc off the lip. The speed and size makes my carve fluid. I pump twice more and hit the lip again. I’m feeling good, but I really want to crank it on the third. I’m at the end of the shoulder when I shift my weight to my tail and pivot as hard as I can. I’ve managed to shoot my tail in front of me. A small toss of water sprays over the remainder of the shoulder in perfect view. It’s my first time throwing the tail out . . . period!

     I step off my board, grab it, and paddle back out. “Oh my god!” I say out loud to myself. I’m doing my signature, celebrating, surfer calls. A guy on the outside looks back when he hears me. I must sound crazy right now, but I’m stoked beyond belief. To think I was just scrutinizing my surfing and now this. I love everything again. I love the floating swirls of fizzy shit in the water. I love the grey overcast skies. I love the other sausages next to me. I fucking love HB.

     I get another left that’s a solid three feet. I try to set myself up for a gouging arc. On the third turn, I follow through with the motion and feel my tail slide back into the wave. I know this is different because it’s such a smoother feeling, and it brings me back into the pocket nice and tight. The nose of my board angles up while the tail swivels down. I stand back up and do a walking 360 before raising both arms in the air and falling.

     I paddle back, again, yelling even more.

EXHAUSTION:

     It’s 1015, and the surf’s still pumping, but the high tide is affecting it. The waves aren’t lining up as well anymore. The drop is fast, but the shoulders taper down right after the bottom turn. The tide also makes the paddle back out longer. My duckdives are looking good though. I manage to get under all the set waves, punching through the back with an acceptable loss of momentum.

     I catch another bogger at 1030. I turn around and see tumbling whitewash heading my way. I go in.

     It’s a quiet walk back to my car. Two ladies on the sand are getting their morning exercise. One’s tall and fit, the other short and wide, wearing pink pants that says PINK on the back. Both of their asses are flabby . . . I’d do them both.

     My car is still the only one on my side of the lot. How could that be, especially on a day like this with firing surf? Preposterous. I take a piss by the wagon, pull off my wetsuit, and sip my coffee as I drive off.

     Driving on the 405 listening to Sebastian Tellier, I’m overwhelmed with peace and satisfaction. I may have surfed one of the best sessions in my life.

I come home to this.

Try eating your lunch with this guy begging all day. . . . Look what he did to his tennis ball.