Loc:
Huntington
Crew: Solo
Time: 0745-0945
Conditions:
3 FT, overcast, drizzling, onshore, choppy, manageable peaks.
Pre-Blog:
Khang called me yesterday, telling me how I
missed out on Wednesday. According to him, the South Bay was “all time” that
day. He said he surfed in the morning and evening and that the peaks were just
going off. It made me sad to hear this. I knew it was good. I asked where he
was surfing on Saturday, and he said he had to surf local because of work.
According to the forecast, El Porto isn’t
supposed to be good. In actuality, nowhere is supposed to be good. There is a
chance of rain with inevitable onshore flow in the forecast, but the South Bay
is predicted to be 1-2 FT while North OC supposed to be 2-3. I know it’s just a
matter of “one foot,” but I’m hoping that the forecast will be off. Besides, it
was off yesterday, and today can be another exception. I put out the word that
I’m traveling down south, but everyone has to stay local.
DARKNESS:
It’s 0530 when my alarm goes off, but I
snooze until 0556. Since I have everything prepacked, all I need to do is fill
up my hot water jugs. I grab both of my thrusters, pat Smokey on the head, and
jump in the surfmobile.
When I glance at the clock on the
instrument panel, I see that it’s already 0645, but looking outside, it’s hard
to tell that this is the early morning. Combined with the overcast and the
shorter days as we near the winter solstice, it’s hard to imagine that there
used to be light out at this time.
Once I hit Torrance, rain drops start
hitting my windshield. It’s sporadic, off and on, mostly on the light side.
Despite the rain, from what I can tell, there isn’t much wind yet. As I drive
down Bolsa Ave., I’m thinking that I might score. The wind report is off again,
and I’m hoping for at least a solid hour before the conditions change. I look
to a building on the left hand side of the road. It has an American flag mounted
at the top floor . . . and the stars and stripes are blowing hard onshore.
Driving past Bolsa Chica, my fears are
confirmed. The RVs parked in the lot all have flags indicating the wind. I look
right to see what the waves are doing. Bolsa Chica is small. Dog Beach doesn’t
look much better, but Magnolia has some peaks. My optimism comes back when I
see Huntington Pier. The water doesn’t look that choppy yet, so there’s a
chance that things aren’t totally blown out.
I pull up to my parking spot and head
towards the sand for a look. I see an old guy who was leaving when Bri and I
showed up yesterday. “Paddling out?” I ask.
“Yeah. Looks like it!”
There’s another guy on the sand watching
it. As soon as I’m close enough to see the waves, he leaves. Being alone, I
whip out my wiener and piss right there on the spot. As usual, there are a
couple guys to my north, three guys to my south, and then a small crowd at River
Jetties. A set rolls in. It's three-feet plus but walled. Even the shoulders at
the end are breaking section-into-section. I wait it out a little longer,
hoping to see at least one random peak like yesterday. Compared to yesterday,
the waves are a hair smaller and the water is much choppier. I debate on
calling Klaude to see if I can get a report from him. Maybe I should just head
back local. Right then, one of the guys just south of me catches a left. He
gets one turn before the wave closes out. Sold!
#
There’s no debate on what to wear this
morning; it’s wetsuit all the way. I glance at the sky to see if the sun has a
chance at peeking out, but the overcast is too thick. It’s already looking like
it’s gonna be a gloomy day. I imagine what my brother would do if he saw this
choppy, onshore, overcast sight. He’d say, “Damn,” shiver in his sweater, give
a look of disdain, turn around, and go home. But fuck it. I can only hope for
the best. Sometimes the conditions look better in the ocean.
I have a spot all to myself. The old-timer
from the parking lot and his two buddies are a little off to my left. No one is
to my right. There’s that peak just north of River Jetties that looks like it’s
working, but I know it’s gonna get packed soon, so I try to see if I can score
where I’m at in No Man’s Land.
I’m caught in a lull, wondering if I should
venture south, but I don’t want to get too close to those other guys next to
me. From experience, a set will come by the time I make it there, and I’ll be
competing with the very guys that have been sitting and waiting well before me.
Patience. The wind isn’t a factor in the lineup. On the shore I felt the gusts
against my face, but right now . . . the wind seems to have backed off a bit.
The water’s choppy but still manageable. All I need . . . is a wave.
When the set comes it’s walled. There’s a
shoulder at the end, but I’m too deep for it. Then like a miracle, a classic HB
peak sprouts up. Since the swell is smaller today, it’s no more than three
feet, but still, I have to appreciate this. Even with the wind, chop, and
weather suitable for a suicide, the sand bars are still working. This little
peak is pushing through the agents of skunk, still forming, still breaking. I
pop-up going left. The wind is still knocking it down fast, but I have some
face to work with. I get caught behind the section, and by the time I get to
the shoulder the ride is over, but I’m not bummed. There’s potential.
The first hour’s pretty consistent. There
aren’t many lulls, and I’m not stagnant for long between waves. The shape is
still messy, but there are lefts to be had. They’re racy, but I pop-up fast and
make it to the open faces. The rides are short, but they’re single shots, good
for finishing turns or maneuvers if you’ve got them. I take a look towards
River Jetties, and that peak to the north of it is now crowded with at least
ten people. Good, good for them . . . just don’t come over here.
I take advantage of the oncoming sections,
climbing the face of the shoulders approaching, floating on the lips,
maintaining my balance as they crash, riding them out. No, these aren’t legit
floaters, but I’m just stoked to not eat shit on them. Back in the day, I
wouldn’t even try doing this.
The rest of my waves are series of pumps
followed by fun, single-shot turns to finish the rides. It’s hard to put
English on my finishing carves because the waves aren’t clean (and because I’m
a novice), but even though my turns don’t wrap around, I still get enough arc
to make it fun. I get one turn on the Tokoro where I sink my weight down into
the turn and pivot sharply off of the tail. The end section is only two-feet,
but I throw-out a little toss of water. There’s just something about the
Tokoro; it’s such a good board, fun to turn; I love it.
To my surprise, I get the break to myself,
and the consistent, random peaks make the trek to HB worth it.
Things slow down into the second hour, and
waves within my last twenty minutes are hard to come by. The wind picks up
again, making the water choppier. It’s messing with the shape even more. I
wonder how the scene must look from the shore. No one would want to paddle out
now.
#
When I’m done changing it’s exactly 0905.
My engine’s running. I want to call Klaude and ask him how local was, but I don’t
bother. I contemplate breakfast when I’m on the freeway, but I don’t want to
eat alone. Just then, Klaude texts me. He says it was 2-3 FT on the face, and
it’s still offshore. Son of a bitch, I’m thinking. Looks like I missed out on a
good day for a local sesh, but I don’t regret anything. I still had fun on the
HB gamble.
We meet in El Segundo and kaukau at The
Blue Butterfly. I spot him for breakfast since he and his dad hooked me up with
some Ahi Poki on Monday night. This breakfast meeting was meant to be because a
woman that he hasn’t seen in ten years recognizes him and gets his number. She’s
wearing a tight blue skirt, naughty for a cold, wet day. Even though we didn’t
surf together, we still get to enjoy each other’s company.
The sky is overcast here too with a light
sheet of moisture in the air. We sit at a table outside and hover over our
bagels, stoked on the surf that nature provides.
 |
| Empty? |
No comments:
Post a Comment