DOGTOWN SESH, SUN 22JULY2012 MOR

Loc: Venice

Crew: Rick and his brother John

Time: 0700-0930

Conditions: 1-3 FT, terrible shape.

     There was a time when I surfed the south side of Venice Pier, strictly because of the free parking in the residential area. I was tired of being butt-raped by the Porto meters. I caught some fun sessions here, but they were few and far between. I had gotten skunked so many times in a row that I wrote Venice off and decided that my best bet was to conform to Porto’s meters.

     Last week, Rick asked me to join him for a paddle out at the north side of Venice Pier. “It’s for an old friend I went to school with,” he said. “It would mean a lot to me if you could come.” I thought about it. I just had a solid session with KK surfing local, but Venice? . . . There are so many horror stories about surfing there.

     Even my friend J, who’s the nicest guy in the world who just relocated from Hermosa to Venice, said that some surfers told him, “Get out of here,” and another guy was like, “Show this guy where to surf.” J said he held his ground, but I couldn’t help but shake my head upon hearing this. In the end, Rick’s question was another defining moment in a friendship.

     “It would mean a lot if you could come,” he said.

     That’s all I needed to hear.

#

     Rick texts me at 0600 with, “I’m leaving the house.” I brush my teeth, grab the Tokoro, my hot water jugs, kiss Briana on the cheek, and head out the door. He calls me once I’m at the end of Washington Boulevard. “There’s parking on Pacific,” he says.

     “So you’re surfing on the north side, right?”

     “Yeah, north side. I’m unloading the van now.”

     “Okay, see you there.”

     I find parallel parking on 26^th, tightly between two cars next to an apartment building. It’s a tight squeeze, especially without a sidewalk. I’m mindful of the cars zooming past just a foot away from my car.

     I decide on trunks and a wetsuit jacket again, despite the morning overcast. My feet strike the tar alleyway on my way to the sand. A network of small apartments with cars crammed in every driveway serve as a different surrounding. It’s not Manhattan Beach, but it’s not the hood either. It’s just different; it smells different. The trashcans here are visible and out in the driveways. Something’s different in the air. This isn’t my territory.

     At first view of the pier, not one single surfer is out. Even the Venice Jetty is empty, probably because it’s a fucking lake out there. I feel like a fool with my Tokoro and retro boardshorts. I should be on a longboard. Even worse, I can’t see Rick anywhere. In the distance, there are four heads at Venice Breakwater. I assume he’s there.

#

     I’m close enough to see who the surfers are, and I don’t know a single one of them. A dark Latin guy kisses his girlfriend on the sand before grabbing his funboard and paddling out. He’s trunking it, bareback. Balls, I’m thinking. While I warm up, I watch to see if he catches anything. The tide’s so low and the swell’s so weak that he’s catching shallow whitewash on the shore. Next to the rocks, some occasional rights are breaking, but I don’t see anyone get down-the-line rides.

     My feet are wet, and I’m expecting to be jolted by chilly water, but it’s the opposite. The water’s still warm enough to bear in trunks. I paddle out and wait. The guys by the rocks go in, and a longboarder chick joins me just to my left. The session starts with a couple closeouts. There are a couple faces to work with, but the sections wall-up so fast, that I can’t do anything with the lip before they shut down. Still, these waves count for something, as the guys sitting to my south start encroaching on me.

     The next lull is long. Rick’s nowhere to be found, and I wonder if it makes sense to stay out here any longer. If he’s anywhere, he’s not here. He’s damn sure not further up north.

     After the next wave, I walk towards the jetty. Nothing. As I near the pier, I spot his infamous blue E-Z UP, the one that toppled over an entire family at Churches that fatal, windy afternoon. When I see the Hurley towel and umbrella, I know it’s Ricks. He’s in the parking lot parked next to John. Rick’s daughter Jane is also there, watching him fumble through his van for more things to bring. I take off my top and head over.

     I assist by carrying a cooler. “I thought you’d be out at 0700?” I say.

     “Yeah . . . there’s not much out there.” Jane tugs at his shirt.

     I understand.

     Another E-Z UP is set close to his. Family member’s of the deceased show up. I tell Rick that I’ll surf with him, but that I plan on leaving a little after 0900.

     The rest of Rick’s family shows up. “Page wants to get her belly button pierced.” he says. “Not until she’s eighteen.”

     John and Rick change into their wetsuits. I decide to bareback it so as not to deal with a drenched top. There’s a small crowd surfing off of the pier. Fast little lefts roll next to the pylons, creating racy little waves. This one guy is ripping them. The wave is fast, but so is he. He pumps and makes his way down the line, cranking out one finishing move as the lip crashes down. He even goes for a closeout barrel, turning into a blurry silhouette under the falls before the explosion. He’s a local. 

#

BMS Sandwich (Board-Me-Sand)

     The inside is a little treacherous. With the fast, rising tide, waves are jacking and walling up as they hit the inside sand bar. John times his paddle out, but I just work my way out without thinking. A small bump morphs into a three-foot wall. It’s round and pitchy, but worst of all is how shallow the water is now since it’s being sucked up into this punchy beast. I duckdive the wave, get flipped upside down, and get held down with my back against the sand as my very own board crushes me. It’s like Zangief’s finishing piledriver move, where his opponent crashes into the ground in slow motion, held there, getting extremely fucked up.

     I resurface, playing it off that I just didn’t get raped and make my way to the outside. Rick wastes no time and heads towards the pier to mix it up with the locals. I suppose he gets a pass since he’s a Venice alumni who was part of the Dogtown surf and skate scene back in the day. John and I sit a little further north. I get a couple weird glares but no words are exchanged, so I treat it like any other day.

     I paddle into a right that actually holds shape because it’s a smaller wave. I get two baby, check turns off the lip before the ride ends. Not bad for a day with mostly closeouts.

     John gets a really long left. I don’t know how he managed to pick one out of the closeouts, but it looks good watching from behind. I’m a firm believer in the possibilities of being old and still ripping. Rick still eclipses my surfing, and John’s no walk in the park either. He pulls off a floater before the ride closes out. Spectacular.

     I say bye to John and paddle over to Rick, letting him know that I have to go. When I’m back on the sand, a huge crowd of people have formed for the paddle out, both young and old.

#

     Back at my car, a Black chick walks by in a sarong, sees my board and says, “How was it?”

     “It’s okay. The waves are getting bigger with the tide push. The water’s warm.”

     She smiles and says she’ll probably get on it later. This is definitely a beach community.

#

     Even though the waves weren’t good, and I didn’t get to do the paddle-out for Rick’s friend, I at least showed my face and was where I said I’d be. Rick’s friend wasn’t even fifty yet. Nothing lasts forever, and that goes for all friendships and relationships. It’s best to cherish each other while we can.