Location:
Old Mans
Crew: Bri
Time:
1000-1130
Conditions:
2-4 FT, warm, glassy, consistent, mooshy, crowded.
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| This pic has nothing to do with anything |
I took Bri to school on Wednesday night and
wrote my blogs in the library while she was in class. When she was done, she
said, “I was looking at the surf report. I really wanna surf Old Mans. They say
it’s good for beginners.”
I told her that I had the intention of
taking her there, but that it’s been so crowded. “You know, Middles’ and
Churches’ waves are just as easy. I just take you over there because it’s less
crowded, but we can check it out.”
#
I mean to go to sleep by midnight, but
we’re up late, finally sleeping a little past 0100 in a sticky sweat. The plan
was to wake up at 0500, but I know that’s not going to happen anymore. This is
my last day to surf before I leave for my two-weeks of training in
Massachusetts, and I know that less than four hours of sleep will make me
useless, especially when I’m low on duckbutter.
We wake up at six. Even though we’re only
packing for the day, I take a while doing so. I’m so used to packing for
weekend trips that it’s hard to pack only for one day. I take too much. I need
this; I might need that; I need everything. I contemplate about taking the
propane stove, and then I realize that I’m over doing it.
Briana helps me strap her board before we
head to her house in Yorba because she forgot her contact lenses and doesn’t
want to surf blind. Klaude surfs blind. Before I got my lasic, I surfed blind
too. I want to tell her this, but I’d be an insensitive asshole. Whatever,
we’ll get her contacts and move on.
#
I’m anal, and even though I want to spoil
her, my dickish side is coming out. We’re driving to Yorba . . . all the way to
Yorba. We should just be heading straight to the beach; we’d be half way to San
Onofre by now. I’m quiet, which means I’m mad. On top of that, I’m tired, which
makes for a cranky Donny Duckbutter. She feels my negative energy. I can’t help
it.
After we get her contacts, we encounter
massive traffic getting on the 55S from the 91W. This is when my body language
is obvious. I tap the steering wheel with my thumbs, put on my glasses so she
can’t see my eyes. My mind won’t shut the fuck up. All the way to San Onofre,
unbelievable that we’re making this drive . . . and we’re way behind schedule.
#
We park at the north end of San Onofre.
There are definitely waves. It’s crowded, but the left is breaking so good, all
the way in front of the campsites. However, the window we are catching is shit:
one, obviously for the crowd, and two, because the tide is topping out soon.
I try to move on from my asshole ways and
shift my attention to prepping our gear. I’m starving. I move the plums and
bananas from the bag to the cooler, accidentally leaving Bri’s homemade oatmeal
chocolate chip cookies on the seat. There’s also one of my dark chocolate brownies
in there. I reach for the container, but I knock it over, and it falls.
Everything falls out of the container: cookies and one brownie covered in
crunchy sand.
“FUCK!” I say. Food going to waste. . . .
In my book, you may as well kick me in the balls before I even let one speck of
rice go in the trash. Not only that, but my hunger . . . Bri’s cookies are the
shit, and I REALLY just wanted to eat ONE of those motherfuckers. “Son of a
bitch.”
“Baby, just leave them alone.” She comes
over and rubs my neck.
I’m crouched on the ground, dusting the
sand off, but they are stuck in the dough. “Motherfucker.”
“It’s okay, throw them away.” She does her
best to comfort me.
I can only wonder. Is this what I deserve
for all my negative energy? “Fuck. . . .” I pick up the pieces, put them in the
container, and set them back in the car. I’ll try to eat them later.
#
I have to be strong. I don’t want Bri to
see me have a nervous breakdown. I feel like I won a million dollars, but I
accidentally left the suitcase full of money at the bus stop. That’s my image,
my true life nightmare.
Flashback:
Once upon a time, I was in a nuclear
family. We had just moved from Maui to Los Angeles. We were on the RTD bus: my
mom, dad, and two sisters. Don’t ask me where my brother was. I hadn’t even
started the second grade yet. We went to McDonald’s for lunch. My mom bought me
a Happy Meal. It came with this toy, a plastic pipe set that was bendable and
fit into these round, white pieces with holes all over them. When our bus came,
I forgot my Happy Meal on the bus stop bench. When I realized this, the bus
made a loud hiss, and we were already pulling away. I cried . . . I cried like
a little bitch with my face in my momma’s lap, standing there in the crowded
bus while she held on to the rails. I heard my mom whisper to another
passenger, “He forgot his toy.”
Does this sound stupid right now? That’s
how spilling those cookies and one brownie made me feel.
#
The waves are perfect for longboarding, so
perfect that I’m the only dumbass with a shortboard. It’s so crowded. That’s
the only words that come to mind. I feel myself being a dick again. “Well, I
need your input on where you want to surf. It’s not so bad there.” I point to
the northern most peak, naturally because there’s no one there.
“Right there?”
I pause. “Yeah, or . . .” I see a channel
between two peaks, “we can go there.”
We’re in the center of Old Mans between two
breaks. Despite the tide and the late start, the surface conditions are clean.
The big sets on the outside are a solid three-to-four feet. Even though it’s
crowded, the energy here is different. Everyone is scrambling for the wave, but
the vibe here is mellow. Some surfers party-wave it but still kick out in time
to let the guy with priority have the wave. No one’s calling anyone off of a
wave. Maybe it’s because they’re longboarding?
We sit wide for the south peak, the right.
We’re not in the main pack which means we’re going for scraps or sitting on the
shoulder where it’s pretty much guaranteed that someone will be on the wave. A
wave swings wide. I paddle, scratch, kick, but I can’t get into it. The same
thing happens again. The waves are too mooshy here. I must look like an idiot,
the only guy on a thruster.
Bri’s having a hard time too. Even though
the waves here are easy, they lack the vertical face which compensates for her
beginner-level paddle. She paddles closer to the lineup, while I remain wide.
Just then, a four-foot set breaks wide and far on the outside. The surfers in
the main pack are too deep for it; it’s coming my way. I paddle out to meet it,
swing, and turn around. It reminds me of PV and Zeroes but just a hair
mooshier, enough to make it that much harder to get into. I slide down the face
and pop up going right. I pump my board to get speed, but . . . I just can’t
gather any momentum. The tide, the mooshiness, the wrong board, my inability to
surf like Jimmy Slade keeps me from doing anything but trimming. My bottom turn
is slow. I try a backhand hack, but I’m going too slow and fall when I force
the motion. I still resurface, somewhat stoked. I’m surprised that a set came
my way.
I paddle back out. Again, another one of
those sets comes. This time I bottom turn lower and get a better turn off the
top before the wave closes out. I turn and go on the inside for a couple more.
Sure, these aren’t down-the-line waves, but I’m having fun.
Bri’s deeper in the pack. She turns around
to see where I am. I paddle over, grinning. “I’m getting lucky over there,” I
say. “Some sets swung my way.”
She follows me back to my spot. Some
surfers shift more south towards us. A wave breaks towards the inside. We’re in
position.
“This one?” says Briana.
“Yup, go.”
She paddles and disappears. On her inside,
I just notice a grom going fast down the line. She resurfaces unharmed and
paddles back to me. “I didn’t see that kid. I tried to kick out.” Even though
she dropped in on him, there are no hard looks or words exchanged.
On the next set, Briana paddles into a wave
late, but the waves are so forgiving here that she sticks the landing. She
stands up and turns around quickly so I can see her. We make eye contact, I
acknowledge, she falls. She catches a couple more. I’m stoked for her. She’s
doing a good job.
“I definitely like the waves here a little
bit more,” she says. “It’s definitely more mellow.”
Now sitting with us are other beginners and
noobs that don’t want to be in the main pack. Bri talks to an old lady who’s
riding a soft top, just the normal morning surf kind of conversation. I hope
she can get used to this kind of life.
#
The tide kills our spot, things slow down a
little bit, but it’s hard to leave. I know the wind’s gonna be stronger later.
Despite Magicseaweed’s forecast of light wind today, I don’t want to chance it;
we need to milk this session.
“We don’t have to stay out here if the
tide’s up,” she says. “Let’s just go eat breakfast.”
I’m thinking that we have all day. Why not?
We rinse off and change. I have a text from
Rick that I hadn’t responded to yet. I call him, and it turns out he has a
campsite reserved for the WHC today all the way into Sunday, and he’ll be here
at noon. I tell Bri that she’ll get to meet my surf mentor. She’s heard so much
about Rick; we’re both excited. I
struggle on the decision for breakfast.
“We can go anywhere for breakfast . . . my
treat,” says Briana.
Well . . . I guess today’s not off to a bad
start after all.
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