THE UNEXPECTED, SUN 27MAY2012 MOR

Crew: Rick and Canales

Time: 0630-0930, 3 hrs.

Conditions: 3-4 FT, consistent, zero crowded, glassy, clean, offshore.

     I wake up in the middle of the night to take a piss. It’s 0430. When I come back to the tent, Rick’s still passed out. I expect it to be a morning of sleeping in.

#

     “Matt, wake up!”

     “What, huh?” I lean over and prop myself up on my right elbow. Rick’s head is in the tent, and he’s staring at me.

     “The wind’s offshore, Matt. We need to get on it while it’s good. Let’s go to Oceanside. Get up.”

     “Okay. . . .” I look at my watch. 0530. With the way Rick’s moving you’d think it was noon. The look in his eyes is wild like he’s been up for hours or has been on a caffeine binge, and then it hits me. Canales doesn’t surf. It’s not fair to leave him here or force him up. He came for the reunion, not for water.

     I step outside the tent and find pots with hard boiled eggs and coffee. Rick’s been up for a while.

     “Yeah, we’ll only be there for like two hours,” says Rick in the distance.

     I look over. He’s talking to Canales who’s is still lying down with his beanie half-crooked, covering one eye, dazed. I feel like telling Rick that we’ll just chill here, but he’s all over the place, loading his gear and prepping for the morning. Okay . . . we’re going.

#

     Rick gives Canales the full tour guide treatment during the drive down south. The same tour guide speech that I’ve heard him give myself, my brother, Francis, Canales, and again myself every time we take this drive.

     When we get to the surf spot, I expect nothing. This whole weekend has been small with surf in the background of other things. Besides, I’ve already seen the reports and the forecast. Nothing is breaking down south. The South Bay is actually better Trestles, of course on the weekend that I plan a camping trip. Typical. Even the offshore wind doesn’t give me optimism. We need SWELL.

#

     We’re standing on the sand . . . and I can’t believe it. Not a soul is in the water. Expected. The wind is so light that it’s almost dead. Expected. It’s glassy. Expected. There are unridden, three-foot peaks going unridden, lining all the way up to shore. UNEXPECTED!

     “Look at that,” says Rick. “Looks fun huh?” He gives me a smile which is half stoke and half mockery.

     Yeah, yeah, I know . . . I know, Rick, I know. I’m the grumpy asshole that didn’t want to get up and drive down here for two-foot slop. Yes, Rick. I was wrong, I’m an idiot, and by all means I need to stop doubting your judgment. I look at a four foot wave peel away. I say, “Well, that’s all I need to see!” It’s go time. We march back to the whip, and the only thought I have in my mind is to suit up as fast as possible.

     A couple groms are on the sand, laying out their boards.

     Rick says, “Good morning. Looks fun out there!”

     “Yeah,” one of them says, “we’re gonna paddle out a little later.”

     A little later? Why the hell would they wanna do that?

     We do our best to accommodate Canales. Sure, it’s barely 0630, but we set up a beach chair with a cooler full of beer and some snacks for him. “I’ll be fine,” he says.

#

     I brought my JS because I didn’t expect the surf to be good, but it’s not a bad thing. I’ll be getting waves for sure now. The paddle out is easy, but we can’t decide on where to sit. Some lefts break close to the jetty, and yet there are peaks further north. We accept that this is a natural surf phenomenon of indecisiveness when you have a whole break to yourself, so we just stay put.

     Rick paddles away, gambling with his instincts, predicting a peak somewhere else where I’m not, but I get lucky. A peak forms on the outside right in front of me. I paddle to it and go left. The waves are so clean. They aren’t round, but they’re not mooshy either. The face is so smooth that the spilling lip looks like it’s moving over an immovable, glass surface. The section builds in front of me. I pump, bottom turn, and try to get a carve off the lip. I do, but I notice a difference. I’ve been on my chippy DMS board lately because the JS was broken. Now that I’m on the meaty JS again, my carve feels slow and sluggish, like I’m a second behind where I want to be. I redirect and make my way down to the next section, ending the ride with one more turn.

     Rick says, “I seen you hitting the lip, Matt, but you really need to get a good bottom turn to whack it off the top real good.”

     I nod in agreement, knowing that this is easier said than done; it always is. Rick’s right, and I’m always working on improving my turns every time I paddle out. More practice.

     After the first hour, he goes in for a snack. When he comes back he says, “Canales wanted to get in the water too.” He motions towards the shore. Canales is struggling, holding the board upright in an attempt to beat the whitewash.

#

     I can’t say that the surf is super consistent, but since no one else is out here, it feels like it is. We have all the waves to ourselves, so I must catch as many as possible; I have to, it’s the only way. Pump-pump-carve, pump-pump-carve, is the mantra of the morning. My arms are burning, I gasp for air every time I resurface from a duckdive. I feel like shit. Yup. The carne asada and Tecate diet is catching up. It’s shit fuel for surfing. 

     Even when the wind switches sideshore and creates texture, the shape is still good, but some guys begin to paddle out towards our north and create a small pack. At the three hour mark we go in. From the shore we look at the ocean. It’s onshore, the waves are being knocked down, and the shape’s gone to shit. Yeah . . . Rick chose an excellent window.

#

     Back at the campsite, everyone leaves. I reserved the spot until Monday morning. I usually do a morning sesh before I pack up, but there’s no surf at Trestles. I make myself some tacos and eat a solo lunch.

     My best friend Manolo swings by and invites me to hang out with his family at Old Mans. The surf is flat, but it’s a beautiful evening. I whip out a book and enjoy the sun before we head back to camp. After he leaves, things get lonely. I wonder if it’s worth staying another night. I’d have to drive to Oceanside again in the morning and on top of that, the swell is dying down. I say fuck it, pack up, and hit the road. School starts on Tuesday, so I may as well get prepared for that. 

     Even though I cut the trip short, it was good seeing everybone. Everything can’t be just about surfing. Life is about relationships and connections too, and to score at Oceanside was a nice cherry on top. Until we meet again. . . .