Crew: Khang
then Francis
Time: 0700-1000
Conditions:
3-4 FT+, inconsistent, sunny, warm, fun.
I’m supposed to meet Khang at first light,
but it’s already 0630 when I stumble out of bed. I’m tired. I could easily pull
the sheets over my head, shut off the alarm, and go back to bed. What’s one day
of surf? I could sacrifice a day, right? Does it really matter that I gave my
friend my word that I’d be out there in the water with him right now? He’ll
understand. I can see the text now: “Sorry, bro. I was sooooo tired. Couldn’t
wake up. You surfing tomorrow?”
I think about it . . . and think about it.
A sliver of light blue sky is visible through the shutters. I think about Khang
out there, looking back to see if I’m on the sand. . . . Get up.
#
There’s an open parking spot on the hill at
26th, in front of the park. Easy parking is a bad sign. The rough, flaky
skin around my heel scrapes against my wetsuit as I pull it on. When I get to
the sand, there is a sea of people. Some guy in front of 26th with
long hair waves at me. He’s next to someone with a shaved head. It’s them, I
think. I wave back, do a half-ass warm up, and paddle out.
I get closer and closer with each stroke.
Khang catches a closeout that fizzles towards the inside, but there’s a
problem. It’s not Khang. It’s some other sexy guys with long, black hair. We
look at each other, telepathically communicating. He gives me a look that says,
“I don’t know you.”
And I look away in a sheepish manner,
thinking, “Oops.”
It’s crowded where the Khang imposter is
surfing, so I paddle north, where I finally spot him. He’s on a blue fish. We
give each other a hug in the water. I haven’t seen him since The Battle of
Bruticus Maximus, the battle that we fought and lost horrendously (http://elportosurf.blogspot.com/2012/02/smile-now-cry-later-sat-sun-25.html).
However, after tearing his knee up, I’m surprised that he went from crutches to
surfing again in three months, a speedy recovery. He’s just gotten back from
Texas. “How was it?” I ask.
“Good!” We pause for a moment and look over
the horizon. The wave’s too small. “It’s a different way of living out there.
Over here people work to survive. Out there . . . there’s money to be passed
around.”
“Yeah?”
He talks about his brother’s lush apartment
and how it costs the same amount that a studio costs over here. “It’s tempting,”
he says, “but . . .”
I already know what’s coming next.
“We got this. . . .” He holds out his
hands. We both look into the blue sky. A seagull flies overhead. The next wave
looks mooshy, but he turns around and scratches into it. It’s racy, but down
the line, close to shore, he hops out the back without his board.
I get the next right, forcing two backside
turns. They’re ugly, but they count. When I paddle back I say, “But there’s the
gulf, right? There’s surf out there.”
He breaks his gaze over the ocean and looks
at me. “Yeah, but that would be like ten hours away.”
“Yeah, huh? You’d really have to make a
weekend out of it.”
He nods.
I see a bump in the distance, but there’s a
bigger bump behind it. Being a selfish surfer, I keep my secret. When the first
bump passes, a peaky, five-footer forms out the back. I paddle out to meet it,
but I’m too deep, so I let it pass. I turn around and Khang’s nowhere to be
seen. Fucker, I’m thinking . . . he got it.
#
He has to go to work, so he catches one
more in. The tide’s come up, and it’s slowed things down. I make my way towards
26th, and just when I think about leaving I see Francis in the
lineup. “You just missed Khang,” I say.
“Yeah, I know. I saw him.”
Francis brings his smile, and he also
brings the waves. Sets start coming in around four-feet. This isn’t supposed to
be happening. We’re both exchanging waves, mostly rights.
“Francis,” I say, “I’m so fucking tired.” I’m
smiling, but my back muscles are still burning from yesterday’s session and
from all the surfing as of recent.
The onshore gets stronger, but the sets are
still coming in. The water’s choppy but still with size and shape. I get the
next monster right. Francis is on the inside watching, so I draw an aggressive
line for a critical bottom turn. The speed forces my knees to bend, but I hook
the lip too high. I whack it, but I go over it, left behind.
Francis paddles up. He reads the
frustration on my face. “That was a good setup,” he says.
#
The wind makes the shape even worse, but we’re
satisfied, having caught a good window. Francis comes over for cereal and cup o’
noodles. I can’t help myself, so I also make a batch of dark chocolate brownies
before we hit the PS3 for a couple hours. I meet with my friends for dinner in the evening. I hope it’s the beginning of a good
summer.
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