GROM CITY, WED 06JUN2012 MOR

Loc: 26th

Crew: Solo

Time: 0800-1000

Conditions: 4 FT+, consistent, crowded as hell, clean, glassy, offshore.

     What the fuck is wrong with me. I’m late. I’m always waking up late. I celebrated getting out of class last night by stopping by Rocks bar in Long Beach since my friend Nikki bartends there. I was surprised to see how empty the place was, so I stayed longer than anticipated. Also, since Tuesday is free jukebox night, it was hard to leave since I got to play all my jams. I played “Back of the Van.”

     “Who is this?” asked Nikki, as she turned from the register with her brows pointed downward.

     “Ladyhawke.”

     “I’m shazamming you’re music. Where do you get all this stuff?”

     I laughed. “Surf porn. I’m telling you. You gotta come through for surf porn night.” I stayed until a quarter to one. I also knew I had to leave because she was looking really good, no longer like someone who’s “just a friend” should look like. She’s 5’10, tall and built like an Amazonian, or like those athletic chicks that practice beach volleyball at six in the morning. It was hard to focus on the TV whenever she turned to face the register. Her long, black hair stopped just above the waistline of her jeans, jeans filled to the rim with flesh, pushing out the back pockets but never overflowing. “I gotta go,” I said. I gave her a hug that was more like a pat on the back. 

#

     It’s 0730. I meant to get up earlier. I pop an Advil for my headache. I check my phone and see that Rick tex’d me: “Going off at Jetty with a few heads out.” That text was two hours ago. Fuck. . . .

     The sun’s already blazing full blast outside my window. It’s warm out, so I grab my wetsuit jacket and boardshorts; I’m trunking it today. If it’s good like Rick says it is, there’s no way I’m going to Porto this morning. I imagine the line of cars going down into the lot, people double parked waiting for cars to leave, and the different clicks of surfers within every ten yards. It’s like that scene from The Outsiders when the camera pans through the drive-in movie theater and you see the Greasers and Socs. No, there’s no way I’m dealing with that this morning. Maybe at first light but not when the hive is stirring.

     I park at the meters and grab my DMS. Once I reach the sand I’m the witnessing a beautiful sight. Classic South Bay is the first thing that comes to mind. The 26^th Street tower is working. Big, peaky A-frames are rolling through, peeling, giving long rides. The weather’s so clear and sunny that the water’s a dark blue, the way it should be. The surface of the ocean is pure, unmolested glass, only disrupted by the waves and the surfers. The surfers . . . it is so fucking crowded. The main peak is grom central. School’s out, and it’s obvious. North and south of 26^th has a couple empty spots in the channel. Other than that, the prime take-off spots are littered with people.

     I paddle out just south of the tower, next to other guys that don’t feel like competing. At least it’s warm enough that I’m not freezing my balls off. The next set comes, and I’ve got side row seats to the surf show. Fuck that. I need to be in the show. I paddle closer and sit next to Vietnam Vet Mike. He has a longboard with the 1^st CAV emblem on it.

     “It’s fun out here, isn’t it!” he says.

     “Yeah, I wish I got here earlier.”

     Another surfer chimes in, “Nah, man. You showed up at the right time.”

     Mike signals me for the next set coming my way. It’s a right. I paddle into it, slide down, but it’s a closeout. I’m in the impact zone, stuck in roaring white wash. I duckdive and resurface short of breath. My head hurts. I’m an idiot for letting myself get a hangover on a day like this.

     The set disperses the crowd, so now I’m sitting outside, just north of Mike. Again, the next set comes. It’s perfect, A-framing, and I’m right on the peak. I paddle and kick; I’m about to pop up. I look to my left, and there’s a local grom going for it. He slides down as I pull out. It’s his wave.

     Frustrated, I paddle north next to Bruce and the older locals. It’s still a competition, but it’s more manageable. I get my wave of the day which is a juicy right. Because of the size, the drop-in is fast. I set up for a bottom turn, fighting against the pressure that wants to keep me squatted and pressed at the base. I climb the face and hit the lip as it starts to curl. Before, this would feel critical, but I’m pulling more of these off, so I recover, already thinking about the next turn.

     It feels good, satisfying. I paddle back to the lineup, stoked for one set wave on a crowded day like this.

#

     One wave is a straight-up wall, but I go for it anyway. The wave bottoms-out fast. I almost stick the landing, but the sudden drop into the flats makes me fall backwards. I’m in a bad spot. I resurface and see Bruce sliding down on the second wave. I’m without my board and treading water, waiting to see if he’ll run me over or not. I see the urgency in his eyes, the quick look down the line to see if he can alter, and finally the change of direction up and over the lip. Sorry, Bruce.

     When my session is over, I notice that my DMS feels a little heavier than usual.

#

     It was a beautiful day for surf and conditions, but it’s like that Lower’s Syndrome: you can be at a place with perfect waves, but there’s no guarantee that you’ll be the one surfing them. There were just too many people out there.