DUES IN BARNEYVILLE, TUE 24JULY2012 MOR

Crew: Bri

Time: 0800-0945

Conditions: 1-3 FT, overcast, warm, light onshore, low tide.

Pre Blog:

     If you don’t know what DBD is, it’s Duckbutter Depletion, which basically means that my balls are drained dry of semen. Briana, who’s eleven years younger than I, has been wearing my ass out AKA fucking my dick off, yo. Geezus. . . . So June 15^th was our first date, we became official on June 24^th, so we planned to celebrate our one month (yes, I know it’s corny) anniversary by starting it with a surf sesh. I had the decision of taking her to San Onofre, but that would be a helluva drive. And then there was Sunset, that’s really beginner friendly, but there’s also a million people there. And then of course, there is Porto, where I learned to surf. 45^th Street used to be where you surfed once you’ve made it, but until then, you started off at Barneyville: the south side of the Jetty. Gradually, you’d work your way up to the smoke stacks, the tanks, and then finally you’d be able to sit outside of the 45^th Street peak where all the hardcore Porto locals would surf. . . . That was years ago, back in 2006. I believe that since then, there’s been a shift or a transformation. The sandwich shack is now the best and most crowded peak, second to Rosecrans. The bathrooms (Shitters) would be the next crowded peak at Porto followed by 45^th which takes a place at third. With that being said, everything between 45^th and the jetty is still considered Barneyville (unless the Jetty is firing in the winter), and that’s where I planned on taking Bri.

#

     Thank goodness Bri was tired last night. I fed her after she took a shower, and she was out like a rock. This came in handy since I’m on DBR status, Duckbutter Recovery. Being that the low tide is scheduled to be around 0800 again, we take our time waking up and head to Porto after they start charging for the meters.

     I try to explain to Briana the differences between the cobblestone breaks at Trestles where she first surfed and Porto’s beach break.

     We get one of the first parking stalls on the left. I stay true to the summertime ritual of boardshorts and a rashguard while Bri uses her wetsuit. Just as we’re about to walk down the steps, I see a local guy I haven’t seen in almost a year: Ray. He’s a longhaired Asian dude who drives a grey Prius. Even my brother knows him from the times he’s surfed this spot. “Ray!” I say, “what’s up, it’s Matt,” I assume he’s forgotten my name, “what’s up, man? I haven’t seen you in forever.” We shake hands.

     “I know. I injured my shoulder really bad. I’ve been out for a while.”

     I tell him that my brother asks about him and that he’s waiting for him in Bali. I introduce him to Bri.

     I tell her the story of how I got in his way one time before Ray and I were cool with each other. There was this set wave by the smoke stacks. Ray turned to paddle for it, and I was in his direct line, about to be run over. I was making my way out, and I paddled to the side of him, barely leaving a hair’s width of room. As I paddled, my arm caught his leash, stopping him in place from sliding down the face of the wave. “Fuck, I’m so sorry!” I said.

     He just glared and gave me that “motherfucker” look. It’s funny how people meet sometimes.

#

     “Be careful on the inside,” I tell her. “It’s shallow.” I go over the “hand helmet” technique and tell her to cover her head if she eats shit.

     She looks out at a walled, three foot closeout. “I’m a little nervous.”

     “Eh, you’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

     When I told Bri my true age, she had a confession of her own. She said she had never surfed a day in her life until our first date, and that she only told me she surfed to get the date with me. So basically, that last camping trip I took her out on, she caught her first wave. But this isn’t Trestles. This is Porto, a little less forgiving. I have to handle her with kid gloves.

#

     Just like the fun session I had at 26^th Street when Surfline said it was crap, this morning at Porto is actually pretty fun. It’s definitely small, but I’m still paddling into these lined-up two-footers that are good for trimming or a solid turn—single shots.

     A random three-foot rogue wave starts to form on the outside. Bri is way too deep, turning her board around to catch it. At Middles and Churches, she got away with this every time, but Porto’s different.

     “Watch out!” I say.

     She doesn’t hear me. It’s ballsy, I’ll give her that. The wave tilts her at such a sharp angle that she plummets forward into the white wash. The NSP shoots up and out from behind her, straight into the air. She resurfaces, gets back on her board, and attempts to turtle dive the next two waves, taking her lickins.

     I remember the dues I used to pay. I accepted them, but I can’t help but worry about her. I hate to say that I’m more concerned because she’s a woman, but . . . I am. I mean, who am I to say that I was a natural when I first paddled out on a longboard. One foot white wash and going straight, I felt I was a force to be reckoned with. Have I forgotten the days when I couldn’t even make it out to the lineup, when I’d end up defeated, soggy, and wet, sitting on the sand next to Rick’s nine-footer that he let me practice on? Other surfers would walk by, avoiding my eye contact, knowing I just got conquered. Is she no different than how I was?

     “Are you all right?” I ask.

     “Whew . . . yeah. I swallowed some water.”

     I don’t even want to tell her how dirty the water is here. “Did you swallow a lot?”

     “No.” She coughs. “Just a little.”

     I try to call her into waves, but the waves I select aren’t even breaking. She makes a tremendous effort to turn the NSP around but paddles for nothing. On the next wave I call out for her, she gets pitched again.

     “Yeah,” she says, “I think I’ll just try to get some on my own.

#

     It’s pure Barneyville here. I know this because there are four other guys and one chick, all struggling, scratching, and falling. They lie all too far on the rear of their boards, leaving their noses sticking high out of the water as they paddle.

     I’m trying to show Bri how easy these little waves are. Even though I’m on my 6’3 JS, my timing is on, and I’m getting these little one-to-two foot shoulders into the shallows. A random three-footer breaks on the outside. I pop-up going left. I pump, bottom turn, and get a slow sluggish carve off the lip. Blame it on the JS. I probably could’ve gotten away with the Tokoro this morning. I return to the lineup stoked, realizing that I’m having more fun that I did at HB the other day.

#

     My board’s on the sand now, and I’m lying on the tail of the NSP, trying to paddle and steer Bri into some waves. We’re going nowhere because the board is too short, and when I try to push her into a wave, the damn leash keeps getting caught on me. We look like buffoons, lying on a 7’10 longboard together. No . . . I look like the buffoon thinking that I’m actually helping.

#

     I’m back on my JS. We have about fifteen minutes left. Bri paddles into another closeout. She’s too deep. I hold my breath, but I don’t see the board shoot out. She disappears until she stands up towards the inside.

     “You got that?” I yell out.

     “Yeah,” she smiles, “I got that one on my belly.”

     Again, she does the same thing on another wave, two rides under her belt.

#

     I give her words of encouragement on the way back to the wagon. I’m proud of her, and even though surfing doesn’t define our relationship, I hope that this is something that we can share together even more in the future.

#

     The rest of the day is a blur. We go straight from El Porto to Carl’s Jr., order two country burrito meals and eat them during the matinee of The Dark Knight Rises. Only twelve bucks, I’m doing muthafuckin’ matinees for the rest of my LIFE!

     We go back to the house and do things that would make my best friend think twice before using the spatula or eating on the kitchen table. 

     I’m about to be gone for two weeks at a military school, so I want to make this first anniversary count. I take her to a nice restaurant and bar in Downtown L.A., really low key. She’s amazed. She appreciates me. That’s all that matters. Her smile glows all night. People stare at us everywhere we go. I’m not used to having someone this stunning on my arm.

#

     So this is a slice of my life, starting with surfing but extending out of the water where feet hit the pavement without sandy footprints, and where people eat three course meals with different sets of forks, knives, and spoons. I thank you for sharing this experience with me.