THE DOUBLE GAMBLE, SAT 07JULY2012 MOR

Loc: HB

Crew: Solo

Time: 0645-0915

Conditions: 2-3+ FT, inconsistent, low tide, overcast, walled.

     It’s 0515, and I’m wide awake. Briana is knocked out next to me, breathing hard. I’d like to blame my insomnia on my untamable erection, but I’m not even sure if that’s why I’m up. Briana has to go to work at noon; she’s tired, so I’m not gonna bother her. I take a look at Surfline’s forecast for Porto. . . . Shit. I check out HB; it has a green rating. So what’s it gonna be? I can surf local slop or get some of that south facing swell. Instantly, my mind goes back to the days that I’ve gambled and scored there, so many times with Francis and a few times on my own. I imagine those fast, racy, down-the-line waves, perfect for carving practice. However, I have one dilemma. I have Briana knocked out right here at the house. If I go, I shouldn’t leave her too long without me. I’ll have to make sure I come back in time before she wakes up.

#

     As I’m getting ready, I send out a mass text, letting my buddies know that I’m heading down south on an impulse. Rick calls me, but he’s already on his way to Oceanside. “You never answer your e-mails anymore,” he says. I apologize, tell him I’ve been busy with school, also busy being the luckiest man alive with my young hottie (Can you blame me?).

     Klaude replies via text: On my way to Zeroes.

     So, it looks like it’s gonna be a solo trip.

     The drive is easy, not hectic with a long line of cars like on the 4^th of July. I park at my usual spot and do a little check on the surf. A small crew is checking it out by the paved path. Feeling like a new comer, I avoid eye contact and stay on my side of the walkway in hopes that they don’t notice me.

     I stand over the sand, overlooking the ocean, unzip my fly, and take a hot, steaming piss while holding my coffee cup in my other hand. The tide is the most drained out that I’ve ever seen it here. Shallow sand protrudes from the shoreline for yards before hitting the water line. But right in front of me, there are a couple little two-foot racers, and even though the tide is low, things should pick up with the tide push 

     Back at the car, I suit up and take a shit at the porta-potty. Grabbing my Tokoro and walking back towards the ocean, I have high expectations.

#

     The crowd is thin. Two other guys sit to my north, and I can see why. The waves wall up where I sit, leaving the shoulder out of reach, right where those guys are sitting. I head towards them. When I reach their spot, they are even further north, and that’s when I realize that the current’s strong this morning. I paddle and go, but my first couple waves are closeouts. I fail to realize that the rising tide today will be very slow.

Wave of the Day:

     I’m into the first hour, and things aren’t improving much. There are long lulls, and the shape isn’t signature for HB. The waves aren’t big, but they are coming in on the walled side, leaving a tapered shoulder only at the very end, and even that’s not guaranteed to give you any distance, but every once in a while a gem comes through.

     A three-foot left comes my way; it’s racy. I pop up at an angle to start my line on the drop. The section is running away, but I pump and catch up to it. As I’m setting up for my top-turn, a longboarder eyes me as he strokes his way into it. He backs out just as I’m bottom-turning, and I get a little tail carve on the open face in front of the section. I recover and pump to where the ride’s about to fizzle out. The end section is only two feet, but I push hard on the tail, keeping the quarter-outside rail in the face. The turn is smooth and fluid. I layback but can’t recover.

     There’s a sense of accomplishment in my face as I paddle back to the lineup past the longboarder. I can’t help but feel stoked. I’ve been working so hard on my frontside, trying to get it up to par with my backhand. Even though I didn’t stick the layback snap, it felt good; I’m close. I’m telling you, one of these days I’m going to pull it off, hopefully before the end of the year. But there’s just that undeniable feeling of motion and fluidity, when you know you are on the cusp of doing something new, when it’s less than an accident and more like something you mean to do. . . . In time.

#

     It’s 0900, but I still can’t leave. Stubborn as I am, I’m waiting for that fucking window to open up, the solid window of good, rippable surf that I expected when I had morning wood at 0515. . . . Nothing. The surf doesn’t improve at all. Save for the left I got earlier, there hasn’t been a saving grace for this session.

     At 0915 I catch a closer in.

#

     It’s 1000 when I enter my living room with board in hand. Briana’s already awake, sitting on the couch on her laptop. She doesn’t acknowledge me, and the distance in her face is obvious. She’s upset. “Hey, hun,” I say, as I walk over and lean in for a kiss.

     “Hey,” she says. “How was the surf?”

     “Lame. How long have you been awake?”

     “For like an hour.” She’s still looking at her laptop.

     “Did you sleep well?”

     “No, not really.” Loud banging echoes through the house as the next door neighbor pounds away at something.

     “You okay?”

     “Yeah.”

     But she’s not okay; I know she’s not. I wash the dishes to give her some space and wait to see if she’ll let me know what’s bugging her. Later she admits that she didn’t like waking up without me, and that she didn’t expect me to be gone that long, especially if the surf sucked. In two hours I have to take her to work, so she has a good point; it’s understandable. I’m glad she communicates with me, and this problem is a good one to have. I’ve been on my own for a bit, and it’s nice to have someone who actually cares about spending time together.

     “If you go next time, take me with you,” she says.

     “Of course.”