BARREL PROBLEMS, THU 23AUG2012 MOR

Location: HB

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, overcast, offshore, bath water.

Pre Blog:

     Since I’ve been back home, I haven’t really had a moment to myself. Don’t get me wrong. Friends, family, and loved ones are important, but it’s still healthy for everyone to have their self time. After a hectic Wednesday, Thursday would be my first day to myself with an open schedule. With school starting on Monday, I needed to capitalize on my free time. I knew I had to catch up on some surf blogs, maybe hit the gym, and do some groceries, but all those are secondary to my main priority . . . SURF.

#

     It’s Wednesday night at my mom’s house, and I’m looking at the surf forecast. There’s a tropical storm down south causing a south swell that has a lot of east in it. Also, there’s a minor northwest windswell. I overhear the local news in the background, and the weather lady says to go to OC if you want good surf and that the wind will be light. Well . . . slap my knees and call me ashy. We got surf reports on local TV.

#

     I really wouldn’t mind dawn patrolling, but I got home late last night. I went to sleep around 0100 and set my alarm for 0515. I snooze until 0600. The surf syndrome kicks in, and I start justifying my late start: Low tide is around 0700, so I’ll catch the perfect window with the tide push.

     After the Zippy fish sessions in San Onofre, I bring the Tokoro and Zippy just in case. The drive’s smooth until I pass the 22. Once I hit gridlock traffic, I regret not taking Bolsa Road down to PCH. It takes forever to reach my exit.

     It’s an overcast morning. The crappy atmosphere spells skunk. I have no idea what the wind is doing, but when I step outside the wagon, I feel some offshore gusts. The parking lot is vacant of any signs of surf life. I walk to the shore to take a look first. A couple is walking back with their boards in hand. I’m trying to make eye contact, but they’re avoiding me. I want to ask how the surf was but then I start getting self conscious. Are they gonna think I’m some kind of weirdo? And then again, people ask me shit like that all the time, and I don’t think anything of it.

     I have no idea what to expect, but when I clear the sand the first thing I see is the River Jetties. They are working. The inside is churning white wash, and the waves are a little hollow on the low tide. I don’t want to say that the barrels are spitting, so I’ll just say that the waves are coughing. None-the-less, I see the plume of mist heaved out of the tubes. River Jetties is south of my spot. Directly in front of me, I can’t really tell if it’s good or not. Even though the wind is offshore, the surface conditions aren’t clean; there’s something about this swell that’s creating morning sickness. It doesn’t look as good as River Jetties, but there are some peaks. The sections build and wall up on some of the waves, but there are some marginal shoulders. Surfline called the swell at two-to-three feet, but it’s more like three—to-four with an occasional five.

     After all the driving I’ve done, I’m not going further south. That’s a fact. It’s either this or nothing.

#

     I’m wondering if I should trunk it or put on my 2/2 short sleeved wetsuit. Zeros was cold, San Onofre was hot, so I have no idea what the temp will be like here. I decide on the 2/2, grab the Tokoro, and hit the sand.

     I walk a little more south before I paddle out. A pack of surfers slowly drifts north, and I pick a gap to the left of the main body.

     Lying on the Tokoro is awkward after riding Zippy. I feel sluggish as I try to get my momentum going to glide across the water. The nose of my board looks narrow to the extreme, like the tip of a number two pencil. With a new awareness, I wonder if this board is too small for me.

#

     I’m huffing and puffing at the lineup. My rear deltoids are on fire. I only duckdived two waves, but it took a little out of me. This place is definitely not like Old Mans. 

     One of the guys in the pack to my north takes off late on a right. I expect him to go down the line, but he tucks in close to the wall of water and gets a little shampoo action. He kicks out and looks at my direction. I smile and nod, using body language to tell him I saw that. Damn he made it look so easy.

     I’m waiting for HB to do its thing: small bump, hit the sand bar, double up, fast, pitch. I start to head towards the bumps but keep scratching out. I move a little more towards the inside and get a steep, four-foot left that tapers down after the drop, but it’s fast. I can’t even remember that last time I caught a wave like this. HB demands a lot, so I scrape and kick as hard as I can. The drop is pretty vertical. I angle myself down, fade out a little, and pull back in to the face to get down the line. I have so much momentum off the drop; the speed catches me offguard. Guys in the pack watch me. There’s so much speed that I don’t need a deep bottom turn. From midface, I project up towards the lip, shift my wait towards the tail, set my rail, and draw a tight carve back to the base of the wave. I somehow manage to redirect down the line. Now the wave is barely three feet, but the end section is still fast. I put as much English as I can on my finishing carve and almost ass plant into the water. To save myself, I put both of my hands behind me into the wave. It’s a borderline lay back snap, but since I do it on accident, it doesn’t count . . . but it feels fucking outstanding. . . .

     I paddle back beyond stoked. Anyone that knows me knows that I’ve been working hard on my frontside turns. The smile on my face spells reassurance. No one in the pack is watching me anymore.

     Back at the lineup, I’m burning up in my wetsuit. I can’t believe it. Even though it’s overcast and I’m miles away from San Diego County, the ocean is like fucking bathwater. In this wetsuit, I’m boiling.

#

     Not all the waves are perfect, nor am I in good position for all of them. Even though the shape is weird, there are a few signature HB peaks that roll through. I’m talking isolated, stand alone peaks, moving in all by themselves . . . I love catching these.

     My timing is off. I paddle out to meet it, but it’s already doubling up in front of me, leaving me the option to drop in J.O.B style or duckdive it. I choose the latter. . . .

     I’m out of position on numerous occasions, but I’m not upset. I’m just glad there are waves.

#

PUSSYLIOTH:

     I’d like to think I’m charging. Am I not Donny Duckbutter, the O.G. Dumprider of the DRC? Have I not been to Bali and braved the conditions despite my barney status? I’ve had massive wipeouts that friends can attest to, prop worthy even to strangers.

     So I’m going for these waves. I’m confident, deep on the peak, but the drop is so vertical that I straighten out. There’s no way I can make it. On the next wave, the drop is so steep that I purl as I straighten up and get pummeled by the lip. Mother ocean suplexes me into the sand, onto the top of my shoulders, and then . . . I have a motherfuckin’ epiphany, a sad one at that.

     Am I charging? . . . Fuck no. Gawd damn . . . if you’ve been reading this blog for any amount of time, then you as the reader and I as the writer both know how long I’ve been fooling myself. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m not charging. I’m not even riding the wave right. The low tide has these waves going hollow, especially for how deep I am in the take off spot. I can’t go fucking straight because these waves are meant for barrel riding only, unless I purposely hunt for the shoulder way off to the side. The mental image is ingrained in my mind from the pop up. To my left, the lip is curling, but there’s no time to fade out and pull in. It really is J.O.B style. You just gotta get up as fast as you can and hug the face on the way down. That being said, why the fuck has it taken me this long to realize this?

DISCLAIMER: THINGS ARE GOING TO GET REALLY KOOKY RIGHT NOW UNTIL THE NEXT PAGE BREAK. . . .

     Is it my fault for watching Who is J.O.B and Modern Collective one too many times? Mind you, this is the voice of a surfer who’s never been barreled.

     If you’re a barney or borderline intermediate like me that hasn’t been barreled before, how do you imagine it? What kind of images does your mind associate with the word “barrel?” I’ve always thought of the ideal: the steep drop, the building section, fading out, pulling back in, check turning in the pocket, crouching, and just letting the water cascade over you. Yes, I know I should be embarrassed for even writing this, but these are my humble, true thoughts. I always imagined that I’d just pull in and get barreled, and maybe after all this time I just needed the right wave. BULLSHIT. I’ve seen guys get barreled even at Porto. There ARE barrels. Sure, maybe they’re not perfect, but the beach breaks can get hollow for at least some kind of cover up, even in the summer if the swell’s good.

     I’ve been going at it wrong all along. You don’t just fade out, pull in, and get barreled. Fuck no. That’s some auto pilot type bullshit. You might as well equate that to accidentally getting barreled. I’ve accidentally gotten pinched, but not barreled. 

     After eating shit on that wave, I realize that the commitment starts from the paddle. I can’t go straight anymore because the wave is too round. Pop up, hug the face, and try not to shit your pants. That’s it . . . that’s what I need to do and should’ve been doing all along. I imagine that I’ll have to be a master at wiping out in the tube. It’s going to take a while.

     Knowing this, I will admit that I’ve barely scratched the surface. A new door is cracked open giving me a slice of what’s on the other side. I guess I’ll just have to put my foot in first and see what happens, but as of right now, I haven’t crossed the threshold yet.

#

     The Old Mans’ sessions reminded me that surfing is about having fun, so despite my epiphany I don’t get too hard on myself. The tide’s coming up, and the waves are turning more into spillers. There will be another time for phase two.

     The rights aren’t lining up as well, but I do get one solid backhand crack off the lip. I forgot how good the Tokoro feels on my backhand on a good wave. I get mostly lefts, and I get the rides that I’ve been frothing for. I’m really easy to please, and one good frontside carve is worth its weight in gold to me. Most of them are single shots, finishing turns before the close out section. I’m getting better at shifting my weight and using the rail to draw a line. Half way through the carve I put more ass into the motion, whipping the tail at the end of the arc. To date, these are the fastest, tightest frontside turns I’ve ever done. Even my arms are swinging with my body to get as much torque as possible. This is a barney’s dream, this barney’s dream. I wonder if I’ve got Zippy to thank for this, slowing down my surfing and bringing me back to fundamentals.

#

     My last couple waves are steep drops. I’m closer to the shoulder, and I see the wall going vertical. In the back of my mind, I know I should be pulling in and stalling, hoping for some cover-up before the hollow section spills. But really, is this what I should be doing? Should I not be doing what comes natural to me as a surfer, what’s fun, what freedom of expression I can muster up in that fraction of a second? Instead I do what feels right and pump to the open face. I’m not gonna force the issue.

     The next wave is such a late drop that I’m knocked off balance. I gain control at the base of the wave, but my feet are wide apart. The wave is too fast, so I can’t readjust, and I ride the wave out like that.

     A surfer paddles by me and says, “Man, I thought you were going to get barreled on that one.”

     I think back to the drop, dissecting the milliseconds where I must have done something wrong. I exhale and smile. “Nope. Not today.”