SEARCH, TUE 17JULY2012 EVE

Loc: Bolsa Chica

Crew: Solo

Time: 1800-1930

Conditions: 3 FT, occasional plus sets, high tide, inconsistent, strong onshore, victory at sea.

Pre Blog:

     I missed this entire south swell. This isn’t like me. Usually I’m packed up and on the road early in the morning, at least heading to HB if not Trestles or O-Side. I can only imagine what this is doing to my surfing. It’s a sacrifice for my new relationship and being in the “honeymoon” phase, but I know that some man-time and surf trips must be in order soon. Even though I’m happy to have Briana in my life, I need to restore some balance. The waves are a huge part of what makes me who I am, and the last thing I want is to be someone else.

The Hunt:

     I drop Briana off at work and head south on the 5 towards HB. I meant to surf the last two mornings but couldn’t get up in time, but I’m stoked to see if I can get a good evening sesh. As I approach the state parking lot, I can see some flags and banners blowing hard from the onshore wind. When I park and step out, the wind doesn’t feel too bad. It’s a clear, sunny, summer day. I throw on my Jimmy Miller Foundation trucker hat and glasses and head towards the water. The sun warms the air around me as well as the sand that I walk on. Families sit around the fire pits, and beachgoers lie out on the sand. This is summer in the OC. Explosions of white water can be seen in the distance, but they are breaking in one long line. My fears are confirmed once I can see the break. There is size; that’s not an issue. The inside is consistent, and the marble foam is swirling and pushing fast to the north. I can’t see a surfer all the way from River Jetties to where I’m standing. At Magnolia, I see one guy paddling out. The waves are an easy five feet, long, walled, and fast. I eye a possible shoulder but know that I’d be at the next tower down by the time I reached the lineup. I do an internal debate. I want to paddle out, but it’s a bad sign if no other surfers are around. I can ask the lifeguard what he thinks, but I don’t. Still, waves are coming in fast and racy. The shoulder might be manageable if I can pop up quick enough and just pump. After fifteen minutes of contemplating, I head back to the wagon.

The Search:

     I call Rick and ask for suggestions. He says to check out Dog Beach or Bolsa. I haven’t surfed Bolsa Chica in years. My brother took me there twice in order to break me in, before surfing HB.

#

     The other breaks along PCH look the same. A guy paddles over a wave at the pier, visible over the bike path that parallels the highway. Surfers are sparse and spread so far apart that there isn’t an obvious pack anywhere.

Los Desperados:

     When I reach Bolsa Chica, I park at different towers to see what the breaks look like, but they are all the same: choppy and blown out. The only difference here is the size; it’s maybe a foot smaller, possibly reducing the current. I park at the northern most part of the lot. Four guys are by the river mouth. Even though the waves look like shit, there must be something out there worth paddling out for.

     As I change, a surfer returns to the car next to me. “How was it?” I ask.

     “Terrible. I didn’t catch one wave.”

     It’s not the news I wanna hear, but . . . I’ve already made this commitment to be out here. There’s no turning back now.

     Another surfer in the truck next to me says that he caught some fun ones, but that the current is brutal. “I started at Seapoint,” he says. “I got out at the tower,” he points north, “and I made three rounds back.”

     At least this guy sounds optimistic. I head to the water and start my warm up. There are a lot of fishermen lining the shore. A longboarder waits by the rocks for a lull. I run in, gaining momentum to start my paddle out.

     The current has me going north, half way to the next lifeguard tower by the time I’m passed the impact zone. The wind and chop is so strong the tops of the waves are parted into chocolate chip shaped swirls. The plus sets are long walls. I catch a couple closeouts, bringing myself further north with each wave. Fight the current, I think to myself. A couple other surfers drift towards me. When I work my way back south, it’s like I have bionic paddling since the current sweeps them away at the same time. I hold position for a while until I look back and see how fast I’m moving. It’s useless.

Waves:

     I get a closeout that reforms towards the inside into a little two-foot left. It’s more like a long, rampy section, so I pump down the line and attempt a layback snap. I don’t recover from the maneuver, but it’s still fun to practice it.

     On a set wave, I’m actually in position for the shoulder. I bottom turn and set up for an off-the-lip carve before the section runs away. It feels good.

     The tide rises and makes things swampy for the rest of the session. A longboarder paddles out where I am. He’s floundering on his board, struggling to find the sweet spot. I paddle south to fight the current for a bit. When I turn around he’s far away. Ten minutes later, he’s out of the water. Looking towards Seapoint, I can’t see anyone else in the water. I think about the fun, onshore, evening sessions at Porto, where peaks randomly sprout up for a fun couple of turns. This is not the situation. In the face of the onshore gusts, I wonder if this is a throw-away session.

     I head back to the car, change, and grab my camera for a couple sunset shots. One lone surfer on a red funboard sits in the water by himself, bobbing and drifting further north. His girlfriend walks along the sand, trying to keep up with him.

#

     Good waves and fun sessions can never be guaranteed. When I first pulled up to surf, I figured that those guys out in the lineup knew something I didn’t. They did. The truly addicted will always paddle out. Rain or shine, onshore or off, calm or stormy, the sensation of being on a wave is both paramount and irreplaceable. Those guys know this spot and knew what they were getting into as soon as they pulled into the lot, maybe before they even left the house. Still, they suited up and went out there, despite the quality of waves. Quality was never an issue. Standing tall on your board and going down the line, regardless of how short a ride, are all the things that matter.