DAYS OF THE ZIPPY FISH PT.1, FRI 26OCT2012 MOR

Loc: Churches to Middles

Crew: Bri

Time: 0745-1045

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, offshore, consistent, not coo crowded, sunny, warm.

     It’s been three weeks since Bri and I have been able to do a Staycation Friday. All week long I kept an eye on the surf forecast for San Onofre. It never changed: 3-4FT, Fair to Good.

     We wake up at 0545. With the shorter days, it’s still dark as night outside. Since we prepacked everything, all we have to do is strap the longboard on top of the wagon. We head to Vons, grab four sandwiches, a salad, water, and two Odwalla juices for breakfast. There’s a slight hint of orange in the distant horizon, but we’re still making good time.

     To take up time during the drive, I tell Bri stories about growing up in L.A. I tell her how in sixth grade my friend Sebastian got into a fight with one of the neighborhood gangsters. He punched him above the right eye, cutting his eyelid. The gangster was quick to apologize thereafter. Then I told her how the leader of the gang got revenge on Sebastian a couple weeks later. It’s funny how writing and the art of storytelling through verbal narrative are still interrelated.

     There’s a high-wind warning in effect, but right now the trees and brush are calm. We exit Basilone and take a look at Lowers. It looks empty until we get higher up, and we can see about twenty heads. It takes bad conditions for Lowers to be empty, although . . . the waves are flat.

     The peaks at Old Mans are a little hard to gauge from where we are. It’s crowded, and there are waves, but it’s hard to tell how big. From here, they look two-feet high. Since Churches is closer, we foot it over there to have a look. The wind warning is unnecessary. The wind is faint offshore, and the water is glassy. The high tide is swamping things out, but occasional pulses break from the top of the wave all the way south in front of the campgrounds. Even north Churches is producing a little left. Churches has a crowd, but it’s not as bad as Old Mans, so we suit up and decide on Churches.

#

     Did I say the high-wind warning was bullshit? Well, think again. By the time we’re ready to paddle out, the wind is howling offshore. What was calm and glassy water is now rippled and textured. At least it’s offshore, but the wind is still a bit much.

     I didn’t intend on using the Zippy Fish again. To tell the truth . . . I’m kind of tired of it. I miss turns, riding the thrusters, but every time we come out here it just hasn’t been big enough. After borrowing Cheryl’s Don Kadowaki fish, I can’t get it out of my mind. I need one. I think about how much fun it would be to have it. For the first time, I can grasp the idea of “rocker.” For sure, South Bay in the winter during a big WNW and HB on any day that’s three-feet plus calls for a thruster. But San Onofre and Trestles? If it’s not at least a consistent three feet, one can do without rocker. Since I tend to surf smaller, mooshier waves with Briana, a fish is perfect for when I’m with her. But as I’ve complained before, this Zippy is too big; I need something tapered down so I can have more fun on the turns. The next time I see Don, I need to ask him to shape me a board.

Guess who's stoked?

     Bri and I can’t feel the wind as bad in the water, and we sit just south at the end of the string of surfers. Nothing is breaking. I wave Bri down and have her work a little more north with me. The waves have backed off, and I curse this wind, thinking that it has something to do with it.

     Despite the wind, the conditions are perfect, too perfect for October. The low sun is so blindingly bright that we have to squint when looking towards the shore. Through the palm trees, the mountains, and the sand, we’re hit by a radiant gold. We can’t be upset about that, save for our eyeballs.

     Just then, a bump forms on the horizon. All the other surfers are complacent in the grips of this last lull, so they’re all on the outside. I can tell . . . this one’s gonna break further out. Bri and I are the only ones in position. To my surprise, it’s a classic, Churches, right-hand peak, a solid four-feet. I paddle out to meet it, steer with my knee to point my board back towards the shore, stroke three times, and pop up. My bottom turn draws a lot of rail . . . TOO MUCH RAIL. I can’t hook it high off the face and redirect down the line; the rail is set and not letting me go. I try to force the board out of it and fall in the process. Blown . . . a perfectly good wave. A longboarder on my inside backed out of it because he thought I had it.

     There’s a second wave behind it, but I let it pass and let either Bri or the dozen guys on the inside have it; I don’t deserve it.

     Bri paddles up to me. “Fuck,” I say, “I fuckin’ blew a good one.”

     She’s more focused on her paddling, not replying.

     “Weren’t you in position for that second one?” I ask.

     “No . . . yeah. Maybe.”

     “Too big?”

     “I don’t know. I guess I could have gone.”

     I’m preoccupied for the next ten minutes, unable to let go of the fumble, the crime, the sin I just committed. I’m thinking, I blew the wave of the day. I feel it inside: there won’t be another one like it.

     We paddle just south of the main peak where the pack is, but it’s still inconsistent. I try to suppress the thoughts that we’re getting skunked, the thoughts that I’ve waited, we’ve waited, three weeks to be here, and now we aren’t gonna get shit.

     I can’t say that I’m a good surf teacher, but if anything, I’m getting Briana to paddle long distances for a beginner. “Follow me,” I tell her, as we paddle through the main pack and end up on the north side of Churches, the area that Klaude has so infamously named: Mons Pubis. On a good day, the left breaks over here.

     Three groms and some guy have the spot on lock before Bri and I make our way there. As soon as we arrive, a wave comes in. Bri paddles out to turtle-dive it, but I turn-and-go. A grom is way ahead of the section, hooking the lip, cutting back, and redirecting down the line. I’m trying to make the section, but I’m too deep. On the outside, Bri tries to go for the last wave of the set but scratches out. I paddle up to her and say, “There’s a couple good waves here.” And wouldn’t you know . . . like clockwork, the wind dies, and it’s glassy again. To the south, all I can see is blinding light, black dots of surfers, white wash, sand, and green water. At this very moment I know . . . it’s gonna be a good fucking session.

     Since the tide is high, there’s a lot of backwash refracting from the inside, colliding into the incoming waves. It’s an odd spectacle. What should be a two-to-three foot peak becomes a bouncy, fast, four-foot wall, but the cobblestones hold the shape, lining the waves up all the way to the sand until the water’s inches deep. We manage to negotiate around the crowd. Bri catches her first wave, dropping in on one of the guys, but he’s too deep anyway. We only sit here for about a half hour, but within that time I get a good handful of rides.

     Left after left rolls through. The rides are short, but the backwash makes them fast and fun, critical on the take-offs. Once I’m on my feet Zippy shoots me fast down the line. I get a couple two turn rides, turning the twin-fins loose on the finishing turns. One of my rides is long, and I catch the wave as the Amtrak streaks along the railroad tracks in front of me. While going down the line I turn towards the train and salute, unaware if any passengers are watching or not, but if one is . . . maybe for that one moment in time, we might share something.

     Three guys from the sand start suiting up. Once they make their way out towards us, it gets a little too crowded for my taste. I watch Bri take a late drop on one of these backwashed peaks. It sends her down the line unexpectedly. She’s trying to recover from her knees, but she’s thrown off after a couple bounces.

The Renowned Battle Position:

     Bri catches a couple at North Churches, but they are fast, and some guys are in the way. We’ve been watching Middles the whole time, and there are about five surfers near the cliffs. “We’re going over there,” I say. I paddle, and Bri follows. I imagine her shoulders are burning, but . . . she’ll manage.

     We’re not even at the BP yet, and a walled set comes in. We let them pass for the lack of shape, but I’m surprised that anything is even breaking here. The southernmost surfer is right by the BP, so we stop just short of it. Nothing’s happening at first. It’s inconsistent. Then, a line forms on the outside. It’s classic. Probably about three-feet, but tapered at the shoulder, giving a good, long right for any surfing who can bottom-turn and hold a line. Another guy gets the first wave, and I get the second. Again, I’m having backhand issues. I dig deep on the bottom turn and keep getting caught on the rail at the top. I guess it’s my fault for only going for lefts lately. Lucky for me, some peaks are swinging wide to the south, giving left-hand shoulders as well. Once I get these, I open up, making the sections. Even though my backhand surfing looks like shit, my forehand is looking better than ever on this Zippy. I hold the arcing line, carving until I pivot off the tail and redirect. I easily get two-turns on the lefts, even ending some rides with a check off the lip.

Progression:

     On the way back to the line, I hear Bri yell from the inside. I turn around. “Yeahhh!” I yell back. She’s surfing, but she’s not going straight. It’s undeniable from the way her body is angled and from how she’s facing the wave to the right; SHE’S GOING DOWN THE LINE . . . OFFICIALLY.

     She falls off of her board at the end of the ride. After some whitewash rolls over her, she resurfaces with a wet smile from ear to ear.

     Her hair is so wet and slicked back that she looks like a seal. I throwh her a thumbs up, and when she gets back to the line, I congratulate her on her triumph.

     “That was the longest wave I’ve ever had,” she says.

     “Yeah, but Trestles is mostly rights. Now you gotta make sure you can do it going the other direction.”

#

     Middles is working. I haven’t surfed here in so long. It used to be my favorite spot; I’d skip Old Mans and Churches in the past, coming straight here to paddle out. In the last year Middles has disappointed, but for this small day, it’s working how it used it; it’s classic Middles.

     The north wind picks up a little bit, and so does the crowd. I tell Briana that we’re gonna paddle just outside of Lowers to see if anything swings wide. We get close. Lowers is a solid, consistent 3-4 feet. Guys are ripping it. “What do you think?” I ask.

     “I think . . . any one of these kids can out-surf me.”

     I smile. “Yeah. Me too.”

     Nothing does swing wide, but we’re tired. It’s 1045, and we’re looking for our last waves. I make it a point not to do the paddle of shame. We work our way back to North Middles and catch a small crumbler in together.

#

     There’s a feeling of exhaustion and stoke as we make our walk back. It’s been so long since I ended a morning session from this perspective, the famed walk. I love the path, the loose rocks and dirt under my feet. Bushes block our ocean view, but every once in a while we hit that clearing, still seeing peaks rolling through, now with just a little more texture on them. Our path curves alongside the railroad tracks. The wind on the ocean doesn’t seem to touch us as we walk. I remember how many times I’ve made this walk by myself, the feeling of stoke encased in my silence after a good session. On this morning, I’m glad I’m not on this walk alone and that I have someone special to share it with.