MEANT TO BE, FRI 24AUG2012 MOR

Location: Churches

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 2-3 FT, overcast, glassy, bath water.

THE PLAN:

     It’s Thursday night, and I’ve got dinner plans with my homeboys that I haven’t seen in a while. Since we’re meeting up in Mission Viejo, I’m already thinking about surfing HB in the morning and then heading to Trestles to staycation it the whole day, might as well if I have to be in that area anyway, right?

     At around 2000 I get a call from Khang, asking me if I’m going to surf tomorrow. I ask him if he can surf the whole day, but he says that he’s only free until 1300. I contemplate. Surfing with Khang would take me away from my initial staycation plan, but at the same time I weigh the value of friendship. Sure, I could go down south and get a good soul session in, but I haven’t surfed with Khang since I left for the East Coast.

     We decide to surf Huntington. “I’ll drive this time,” he says. “You always drive.”

     I thank him, and we plan to dawn patrol it. Start time: 0530

#

THE EXECUTION:

     It’s 0500 when my alarm goes off. I barely got four hours of sleep, but I only hit the snooze button once. First thing’s first. I brush my teeth, eat a small bowl of cereal, drink some water, take my vitamins, pack some gear, and sit in my car outside. I shoot him a series of text messages that go like this:

0539—I’m chillin in the car, parked in front of the house.

0603—Guy, you awake?

     He’s not answering his phone. I’m assuming that he’s had a hard night of partying or something. Without missing a beat, I go back in the house and grab extra equipment for a day trip. After I start the car, I send him one last text at 0623, letting him know that I’m on the road.

#

THE PATROL, 0711 HRS:

     I don’t know what happened since yesterday. The swell was supposed to taper off a bit, but I didn’t imagine it would be like this.

     I’m standing in front of my HB surf spot. The inside is churning like yesterday, but the waves are half the size. It’s low tide, so I think about my options: come back to see if the tide push helps, paddle out later, or keep driving.

     It wasn’t my plan to leave here this early because there’s still morning traffic. There are surfers in the water, but they’re moving north with the current. At the River Jetties I see a few heads. One guy gets two turns on a sloppy, white-washed left. In front of me, the guys are stagnant. I wait and wait for any sign of life: a set, a random peak, a rogue wave, someone to sell me a good ride. A body boarder catches a foamy wave. The overcast skies are uninviting. I hope that the traffic’s not too bad.

Mephitidae Carnivora:

     I don’t see any surfers at Lowers. I’m about to exit the freeway when I take one last look, and there are about twenty heads out. I swear the only thing that keeps Lowers empty is the dark. When I pull up to Churches, it’s flat. Three guys are sitting at the bottom of the wave, near the campgrounds. Six guys are at the top. A set rolls through, a little bit bigger than two feet but definitely not three. I hop in the car to see what Old Mans looks like.

#

     Gawd damn it’s crowded . . . it’s so small and it’s so crowded. The northern peak isn’t working, but there are surfers everywhere from there on. I’ve seen this place more crowded, but I’d rather battle it out with nine other guys where the surf can’t be much better or worse.

MONKEY TIME:

     I’m already thinking that today’s gonna suck. I’m gonna be here all fucking day like I planned, and I’m gonna be stuck, scratching out on one-foot waves. It looks like Churches shut off a little bit with the tide coming up. A Small peak breaks at the top of the wave. A longboarder goes right; three guys paddle battle for the next wave swinging wide. After this . . . nothing. The gray clouds enhance my vibe.

     Make the best out of it, is what I’m thinking. I make it a point not to rush, taking my time changing into trunks and rashguard. The Vertra goes on, and then I wax up Zippy. A surfer returns to the truck parked next to me.

     “How was it?” I say.

     He’s dark and still dripping wet, wearing the same summer getup. “It was okay, but you’re gonna need a big board.”

     I thank him for his advice and head to the sand.

#

     In my white rashguard and neon shorts, I’m gonna stick out in the group of black dots. That’s the first thing that comes to mind while I warm up. Two Marines march by wearing ruck sacks.

     Instead of paddling out from the south end of Churches where it’s easier, I walk out right in front of me. The cobblestone dance takes longer than expected, and I fight to make my way to deeper water. First, I sit wide-left, to the south. I’m sitting way inside, behind some longboarders.

     I take a moment to look at the water. There’s wind in the North O.C. but not much here. The surface is smooth and glassy with just a small hint of wind.

     A right comes my way. I paddle into it. It’s good for one pump before it closes out. Five minutes later, another one, but the same thing happens. There’s a long lull, so I gradually work my way closer to the middle of the wave.

#

     I’m sitting just inside the main pack, to the south. A set rolls through, but I have to kick-out because someone’s already on it. Eventually a couple waves swing wide. I go left, but it’s nothing but a trim fest. I hate crowds, so I paddle through them and sit on the north side.

     I wave forms, and it’s breaking wide to the right. Someone from the main pack goes right, and I’m in perfect position for the left. It’s a small wave, but it’s good for a fun drop and a pump to the highline. From there I sink my weight down and pull off a finishing turn. I’m still slow at turning this board, but it still feels good. When I go back to the lineup, more waves start swinging wide, and I keep catching them all to myself. What a surprise. I usually get nothing but rights at Middles and Churches, and here I am scoring lefts all to myself; I love lefts.

     The guys sitting at the main peak next to me have their heads over their shoulders, looking back at me every time I kick out. They’re all on longboarders. Even though they’re seeing me get all of these waves, none of the come to invade my spot.

     I only have to back out of one wave for a longboarder from the top. None of the waves reach three-feet. But they are so fun. The rides are a little shorter than Old Mans, but here they stand up just a little bit more. With the clean conditions, my rides are small, little, two-foot, smooth, silky shoulders. I can see the cobblestones as I ride over them. Every once in a while I get a turn. Instead of trying to get power on them I try to be more graceful and smooth, but I’m still gonna need some time to work on that.

     After an hour and a half, the tide makes things inconsistent. The wind picks up and makes the surface conditions choppy. The lone peak that I was surfing earlier is now a group of six surfers sitting all around me. I paddle further north to get away, and then a long lull hits. Impatient, I catch some white wash in.

#

     Back at the car, I’m still smiling ear to ear. Even though the conditions got shitty, I did surf for two-and-a-half hours and scored a lot of waves. As I’m changing, I’m debating on what to eat. A Machaca Plate from Cafe del Sol sounds good, but then there’s Carl’s Jr., and a breakfast burrito would sound really good. Also they have those French toast sticks . . . mmmmm, mmmmmm! Instead I decide on the supermarket.

     There’s a wild look in my eyes when I walk through the glass doors. After a good session I could eat a camel, and right now I look like a junkie about to get his fix. Everything looks good. I grab two plums, a banana, Wheat Thins, a chicken salad, Lunchables, and some dark chocolate chips. Back at the car, I devour EVERYTHING.

#

     I park back at Churches underneath a tree. It’s overcast still, and the waves are getting worse. I whip out my laptop and start catching up on my surf blogs. It’s so nice to be able to this sort of thing.