AKA SKUNKY BREWSTER, FRI 20JULY2012 MOR

Loc: HB

Crew: Solo

Time: 0630-0845

Conditions: 2-3 FT, consistent, low to mid tide, clean, sunny, warm, walled.

     Briana went home after work on Thursday, so as to give me some quality time with my cousin Sherwin. I picked him up from LAX at 2245, and thank goodness he flew United because I was able to skip all the other terminals and made the immediate left to his baggage claim. I wanted to take him to BJ’s Pizza for happy hour, but it was already running late. It’s the same every time I see him. Despite being apart for two years, it’s like I just saw him yesterday.

     “Couz,” I said, “I got food at the house. I’m gonna cook.”

     “I like In-N-Out. I get’m.” He smiled, revealing his top snaggle tooth on the left side. “I’ll get one for Manolo too. It’s the least I can do.”

     “You sure?” I realized that there’s no In-N-Out in Oahu, and as tired as I am of In-N-Out, this was a rare opportunity for him.

     He caught up with Manolo back at the house, and when Manolo went to bed, we stayed up and talked a little longer. Instantly I was brought back to the days of our childhood, being a freshman in high school, when my grandparents would drive over every other night to talk story with his grandma, my grandma’s sister. Sherwin and I would walk through Pualu place, a small subdivision in Napili off of the Honoapiilani Hwy. The smell of pineapple fields, soil, and mountain moisture filled the air. We talked about girls from school, prayed for pussy, and wondered why they were doing in their houses with the lights on. Years later, here we are on my couch as grown as men, still talking about pussy. I set the couch for him.

#

     I go to sleep at 0115 and set my alarm for 0430. I hit the snooze a couple times, losing the all-importance of Sherwin’s flight at exactly 0600. There’s a knock at the door. It’s 0445. “Shit.” I open the door. “Sorry, couz. Don’t worry. We’ll be out of here in a second.” My car is pre-packed with my surf gear, except my hot water bottles. I get him to the airport at 0515. He’s in a rush, carrying a laptop bag and a map case for his seminar. We hug.

     “Couz, if you like, come San Diego. I get the room.”

     I smile and tell him to text me so I know he made the flight on time.

     It’s still dark on the way to HB. My cousin’s layover actually fits perfectly for today’s plans. According to Surfline, there’s 2-3 FT swell in north OC, green rating. I called Cheryl yesterday, but she had to work. Khang’s still out from tattoo recovery. I contemplated on calling Shan but said “fuck it” on account of how flakey he is. Over it. This morning is strictly a solo session, and if the conditions are right, this could be a good score, like back in the Fran-Saucian times.

#

     Someone on my blog recommended exiting Bolsa Chica and taking the coastal route to HB, so I give it a shot. I take Bolsa too far, so I have to U-turn and take Warner to PCH. The drive seems out of the way, but I can see why this route is worth it. I can see the waves breaking at Bolsa to give me a sneak preview of what to expect. It’s small. Dog Beach is small too, but when I reach Golden West, the peaks are significantly bigger.

     When I pull into the state lot, I park and take a shit at the porta potty. Of course, someone took a piss all over the seat. Piss drips from my ass cheeks as I pull my shorts up. Okay, that was a joke. I wiped the piss. 

     I figure I’ll get some pics for my blog, so I head to the water. The tide’s really low, but some small peaks are punching through. The perfect window, I’m thinking. I love catching the window as it’s turning good, and even though it’s shitty now, I have a feeling that this spot will turn on once the tide fills in. 

     It’s already seventy degrees, and it’s not even 0630 yet, so I decide on a rashguard with trunks. I take my time warming up. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, and the wind is swinging south from the offshore, but it’s still faint. Only a few heads are by the river jetties, and one guy is out in front of me. I brace for the cold as I get ankle deep, but to my surprise the water is warm. Even when I start paddling to full submersion, the temp is easy to deal with. From there I sit and wait.

     I scratch for some little two footers, but I can’t get into them. I miss a three foot wave on the outside and duckdive it. The other guy sharing the break has a couple waves under his belt, and I have nothing.

     My first wave is a closeout, and upon dismounting my board I find myself in shallow water. What’s disturbing is the shape. The sets look peaky, but right when they stand, more sections build on both sides, forcing them to closeout. More tide. We just need more tide.

Wave of the Day:

     About forty-five minutes into the session, a lone peak forms on the outside. It looks classic, the way that HB is supposed to break. It’s not tall, but it’s a small bump that will morph into something else once it hits the sand bar. I paddle out to meet it, swing around, and accidentally put myself right under the peak. HB is so pitchy that I usually like to take the shoulder. It jacks up so fast that I barely pop-up in time, almost purling. I bottom turn and climb the face, but the speed and size surprises me; it’s a solid four-footer. I should be posturing my body to crank out a turn and shifting my weight to push the tail and rail into the face, but I’m slow. Instead I trim my board into a high line, drop back in, turn at mid-face, and end the ride with a baby-carve at the dissolving shoulder. I don’t know what it is. Whether rust or inactivity, I should have rode that wave better.

“FUUUUCK!”:

     That’s what the guy yells out who’s surfing next to me, regardless of whether I’m there or not. I saw the whole thing. He paddled for a two-footer and scratched out, yelled “FUUUUCK!” and splashed the water around him. I thought this only happens at Porto. I understand his frustration. Even though the sets are rolling in, they are walled. The shoulders all the way at the end are still sprouting new sections into the shallows that wall-up and closeout.

     I fight the current to stay in front of my designated tower, but I eventually give in because my spot’s not working anyway. It’s a sad case. The conditions are perfect, perfect summer weather all around. Even the south wind isn’t messing things up, but the waves, the waves just don’t want to come in single, down-the-line peaks. I catch a closeout and call it a morning.

     So the void of not having a good session in a while continues, with my session at Zeroes being my best one as of late, about two weekends ago. I don’t know what it will take or what kind of sacrifices to the surf gods I’ll have to make, but I’m due up for another turnfest . . . actually. I know what sacrifices I’ll have to make. Balance.