TINY CHURCH, SAT 26MAY2012 EVE

Crew: Rick and Canales

Time: ?

Conditions: 1-2 FT with occasional 3, inconsistent, uncrowded, warm, glassy, clean.

     It rained last night. It rained fuckin’ hard. Thank God the Coleman Insta-Tent that I spent $160 on did what it was supposed to do and kept us dry.

     

  By 0730 everyone is up, and after we’re done cooking breakfast, Rastaetter says his goodbyes and heads back to Oxnard. 

     To kill some time since the surf is dismal, I take the boys on a hike to the trail that leads up and behind Lowers. I’ve never made this hike before, so it’s a first time for everyone. We throw a twelve pack in my bag and head out.

     

 We find ourselves in front of Middles where some little kids have a water cameraman for the day. Alhough the surf is only two-feet, it looks fun. Even though Avelar, Castillo, and Canales have never surfed before, they’re content with seeing the far-fetched coastline that they only get to see every so often. The Tecates go down smooth, and we sit here for an hour with hot sand under our asses. 

     Once we get back to camp, Rick shows up. For those that don’t know, Rick was everyone’s section sergeant at one point or another. Everyone’s happy to see him. He says that he stopped by Churches and Lowers and that it looked small, so we polish off more food, grab some beer, and head towards the Hoedad shacks by Old Mans. I’m glad he’s here to help mix up the energy, as I can only do so much to keep everyone entertained, and he’s so longwinded with things to say that it ensures there’s never a quiet moment. 

Rule number one . . . never fall asleep around scouts.

     Once Avelar and Castillo leave, Rick gets the itch to paddle out at Churches.

     We grab six beers to make sure that Canales won’t be bored then he says, “I wanna paddle out too.”

     I look at him. “You don’t have a wetsuit.” The years haven’t been kind to his stomach. Right now he’s boarder-line stage-three beer gut. “Maybe Rick has an extra one.”

     He forces himself into Rick’s spring suit, but some things make it obvious that it’s too tight.

     I suggest that he let me show him a couple pointers, but the alcohol has him. He’s been drinking all day. He says, “No, just go, go!” He takes another sip and points to the horizon. “Go do your own thing. I got it.”

     Rick and I sit at the top of the wave at Churches, watching Canales flounder on the Zippy fish. “He gonna be all right?” says Rick.

     It’s a perfect evening save for any swell. We exchange little two-foot rides going right. All trimming, walking the nose—no turns. Rick sneaks away without telling me. I look back. Both he and Canales are gone.

     A little three foot bumps pops out the back. I catch it, the wave doubles up, and I slide into the second wave towards the inside, cranking one backhand turn before it closes. It’s the best wave of the camping trip thus far. I wonder if anyone saw it, but the three longboarders who paddle out serve as an answer to my question. I keep looking back though because I’m worried. Is Canales okay? Did he get hurt? Is Rick okay? Did he take his injections? I get another random three-footer out the back, getting another back-hand snap before going in.

     I’m walking around trying to find these assholes, and then I see them up the street. When they’re close enough, Rick says, “We were in the shower together.” They’re smiling, each with a beer in his hand.

     Assoles, I’m thinking. They left me out of the post-surf beershower ritual.

#

     I accept that this isn’t a weekend for surf, especially with the lack of swell. I remain grateful for my friends who showed up and for my friends who are here.

     Rick turns in early, Canales decides to sleep in his car, and I hang out by the bonfire by my lonesome, enjoying the night, and thinking about what it means to be alive.