26TH ST. MAFIA, SUN 2SEPT2012 MOR

Crew: KK & Dais

Conditions: 2-3 FT, hot, sunny, glassy, dumpy, inconsistent, still fun

     I can easily take the morning off since I’m home now. Why not? The South Bay isn’t catching any of this south swell. It can’t be that great local, maybe one-to-two feet or something like that, but Klaude’s gonna be out there. He didn’t have the opportunity to join us on the Trestles run. What would Francis do? He’d spread the aloha. As I’ve said before and I’ll say it again a million more times: it’s not always about the surf but about the company.

#

     I haven’t been surfing local much this summer. As I’m walking down the hill, I see a surfer doing a familiar warm up: bending forward, rapidly swinging his arms like he’s sprinting, legs in place. It’s Klaude. He paddles out before I can reach him. All the regulars are out, some I don’t know the names of, but the faces are undeniable, local, mellow, veteran rippers of this spot. Don K. for one and then there’s Roy. I see Uncle Miles too. Shit . . . I just saw Miles yesterday going down the line on a big right at Churches. Since the waves are supposed to be flat, I have the Zippy with me. I paddle out, and Klaude’s surprised to see me. He’s damn near blind, so sneaking up on him is too easy. He tells me about Zeroes, and how it wasn’t that great. Little, mooshy, two foot waves are coming in. I catch them easy with the Zippy, but the rides are short. No turns, just a few shoulders, all trimming. KK’s surprised to see me on a fish. I tell him all about my recent “fish experience” and how it’s respawned my love for surfing small waves.

     Something odd happens with the tide shift. It should be getting more mooshy with the rising tide, but the waves start standing up more. Clean, dumpy three-foot closeouts make the inside hard to get through. There are still some shoulders in the mix. I paddle and slide into a wave, but I purl. I purl again on the next wave. Surprisingly, the drops are getting too critical for Zippy. I need more rocker.

     I head back to the wagon to grab the Tokoro. Two old timers watch me as I cross the walk/run path. “That’s an old school board,” says one.

     “Yeah, it’s fun, but it’s standing up a little more now. Gonna swap boards.” I smile.

      I’m heading back towards the water when someone yells my name. I look towards the parking lot. It’s Dais. I tell him that KK’s here.

     The peak in front of the 26^th St. tower’s starting to work. More people congregate toward its peak, especially the groms. KK points out one of the kids and says, “He was at Churches too yesterday.”

     “Oh yeah?” I say to the kid, “I was there too. I saw Miles out there.”

     “Yeah, I was with him,” says the kid (sorry, forgot his name). He paddles into a left.

     “Watch this,” says Klaude. “Pump, pump . . . air.”

     The kid doesn’t punt, but he just about breaks the fins loose one the finishing move.

     I see Don going left. The wave’s dumpy, it’s gonna closeout, but the lip is throwing out, giving a hollow slot in the pocket. It would be suicide, but the barrel is there. Pull in, get a couple seconds of tube time, and then eat shit. Don wisely stays outside of the lip, going into the flats. Safe.

     It’s getting hard to catch a wave. I have “fish hangover.” Again, the Tokoro feels like a toothpick, leafy in the water. The nose looks unnecessarily thin. How can this craft possibly be floating me? My brother warned me about surfing a fish before I’ve nailed my shortboard surfing. “You’ll pick up bad habits,” he said.

     The second half of the session isn’t very eventful, but the next wave clears all the surfers away from my perimeter, alone to catch the next wave. It looks like a nice, shouldery left as I pop up, but the section ahead starts to build and double up. I pump down the line before the whole wave turns into a wall. Since I have good speed, from the midline I climb the face, extend my arms, reach behind my right shoulder, and whip the board around in a grinding carve back to mid face. I redirect, try it again, but my line is too high, and I get stuck on the second turn. Back at the lineup, KK paddles up and says, “I saw that.” He said something else, but I can’t recall. Something about me turning with power and that I’m like a bear. . . ? After that wave, I try to get another duplicate ride, but it doesn’t happen.

     The three of us head back to the lot and receive some gifts from Dais. They are planning breakfast. I’d love to join them, but I got homework to do. I need balance. 

     Back at the house, I dig into my books, with the sensation of that one turn ingrained in my mind. I love fishes, but they don’t turn quite like thrusters.