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| Some random guy about to get barrelled |
Location: North
Oceanside
Crew: Reptile
Rick and Gary AKA Balls Deep
Conditions:
6-7 FT+, light north wind, inconsistent, mooshy outside, fast and drainy inside.
Gary and Rick are generous with their food.
I’m starving to death, but I’m putting it off like I ain’t hungry. Gary offers
some Wheat Thins.
“Thanks,” I say. I grab a few. When he
walks off, I take a handful. He has string cheese. . . . I so want to eat his
string cheese, but I can’t jack his food; it isn’t right. I didn’t want to make
the same lousy sandwiches that I eat on a daily basis, but right now those
lousy sandwiches would do me some serious justice.
“Here, Matt,” says Rick. He tries to hand
me a packet of crackers and tuna.
“No thanks, I’m good, man.” But I’m not
good. But what kind of an asshole am I? If I’m THIS HUNGRY, I can only imagine
how hungry these guys are. Instead, I chow on some of Rick’s celery. It will
have to do. Rick opens up a can of sardines. They’re making my mouth water.
There’s a little bit of foam at the corner of my mouth. I wipe it off. I
swallow my saliva and drink some water. There’s a little bit of cracker
somewhere between my guns that I break loose with my tongue; it’s so delicious.
#
We walk out to the sand and take a look at
the surf. It’s not as walled as it was earlier, but the shape is still
questionable. Surfers are scattered. Most of the waves are suicide barrels, fast
and pinchy, but some guys manage to get some cover-up and make it out. Rick
hands me a beer; we drink it right there on the sand. Gary grabs his camera and
starts clicking away. Then . . . the coma sets in.
Back at our picnic area, I’m beginning to
doze off. The weather’s so nice; it’s freaking hot! The water looks inviting,
but I’m in no rush. I could fall asleep right here in this chair. I reach for
Gary’s Wheat Thins and realize I’ve damn near killed the whole box. Restraining
myself, I put it back in his cooler.
I’m nodding off when Rick shows up in his
wetsuit. “You ready, Matt?” he says. He’s zipping up his back.
I’m silent.
“Don’t make me paddle out there alone.”
I open my eyes. “Right behind you.” I throw
on trunks and my short sleeved rashguard. I hope I won’t regret it.
#
Gary’s under an umbrella close to shore. “I’m
gonna take some pictures of you guys for a little while,” he says.
“Is it breaking good here?” I ask, pointing
straight out in front.
“Yeah. It’s a little fast here though.”
Rick paddles out first, and I’m right
behind him. He heads towards the Jetty. I’m north, right in front of Gary.
Even though the shape isn’t that great,
something’s happening with the lowering tide. Some five-to-six foot lefts start
to pop up. I’m next to a guy on a longboard. I paddle for a wave, but so does
he. He’s on my inside. I pull out, but he doesn’t even catch it. I take the
next one, but it walls up towards the inside. I kick out early.
The crowd that was here earlier begins to
thin out. I paddle closer to Rick. He hasn’t caught one yet either. Some waves
are breaking towards the jetty on the outside, werbly and refracting off the
rocks. They look rideable but suspect to mooshing out. For some reason, Rick
and the half-dozen guys around us paddle to the north, but I paddle south, a
little closer to the jetty. Then all of a sudden, there’s a big line on the
horizon.
“Go for it, Matt!” says Rick.
Shit, he read my mind. I mean, I’m all
alone, and there’s a chance to catch this outside wave. Nothing is breaking
anywhere else, so the pressure is on. Every other surfer in the water is
frothing for a ride, and here I am, the guy who just paddled out minutes ago. I
shouldn’t be so lucky.
I’m on my JS. It’s 6’3 and has a little
more volume than the Tokoro. I need the extra length and volume for all the
water moving around. The wave is already peeling just outside of the jetty, but
it looks mooshy. I do NOT want to miss this wave. I purposely catch it a little
late to make sure I don’t scratch out.
Rick yells, “PADDLE HARD!”
It’s not standing up yet, but when I pop up
. . . the race begins. What a drop in. . . . I don’t want to exaggerate, so for
the sake of my brother’s Hawaiian/Bali scale, I’ll modestly say that this is a
six-foot wave. The face is mixed with sand and white wash, and it’s a little
choppy. The drop isn’t critical-steep like this morning, but it’s not slopey
like Trestles either. From here, the section builds and lines up. I want to
bottom turn and climb the face, but there’s too much size and the wave is going
too fast. I pump and start my bottom turn from mid face. I can’t carve, there’s
too much water moving, so I draw a high speed line, skimming the top of the
wave. I can see Rick and the other surfers behind it. I’m approaching the
inside, and the wave’s energy changes. The bottom starts sucking out and it’s
going even faster. I try to top turn again, but it’s sloppy, and I almost lose
my balance. I’m near the shallows when jump over the lip, and the wave explodes
behind me.
Damn, what a way to open up a session. I
did it with a bomb. How did I pull that off with Rick with me? He’s throwing me
shakas from the lineup. I’m smiling the whole paddle up to him. I turn and see
Gary suiting up.
From here, Rick takes over. There’s no
question if he’ll make the wave; the question is: where will the bucket-toss
come out from. He gets the most distance out of all of us, and again . . .
today’s not his day for the inside, as he’s caught again in the impact zone.
Gary makes it out. Now there are only two
other surfers besides the three of us. The shape is better now, but it’s
inconsistent. There are long lulls, and since the wave initially breaks mooshy,
sitting in the right place becomes trivial. It would make sense to sit more on
the inside, but then the fucking sets come, then what?
It doesn’t take long for Gary to get a
ride, and he goes almost as far as Rick. Gary paddles back, stoked. “That inside
section,” he says. He shakes his head. “It’s just like, ‘KABOOM!’” He mimics an
explosion with his hands.
The trade off of waves is between the two of
them. I get more rides but not a lot, and they are nothing like my first one.
Gary catches another long left. Minutes later, Rick and I spot him back on the
sand.
#
We’re almost into the third hour. My teeth
are chattering.
“Awwww, you’re freezing,” says Rick.
I try not to say too much because it’s
uncomfortable. “I’mallright!”
“You should have used my long sleeve
rashguard.”
“Itsokay!”
I hate to have Rick outlast me, or anyone.
I’m usually the last one out, but in this case, I need a last wave.
Rick catches the first wave of the next
set, and a couple seconds later I get the second one. The wave doesn’t look
like much; it’s a little smaller than my first, but since the tide is now
lower, the wave builds speed instantly. The section in front of me is long and
walled, so I’m pumping the whole time to make it. I do a cautious turn, almost
losing my balance again, and then the face goes vertical. I see that it’s tapering
into a shoulder in front of me; it’s barreling. I could pull in, but it’s
draining hard, and I can see the sand sucking into the face. Rick paddles over
the shoulder, watching me. Instead, I pump and go for one more turn before the
wave closes out.
Maybe I could have tried for the barrel; I
don’t know, but I’m stoked to have ended with that ride.
Back on the sand I ask Gary, “Why did you
go in?”
I can’t quote him word for word, but he got
barreled on the inside, clean. “I had to come out after that one,” he says. “I
wasn’t gonna get a better one than that.”
Gary’s snapping photos of Rick’s last ride.
He gets two turns on the inside. Rick comes up to me and says, “You could have
got barreled on that one.”
“Yeah, shit. I know. It was getting a
little drainy.”
 |
| Rick's last wave |
 |
| Fist pump |
#
I’m exhausted, we all are. I treat the guys
to some Subway, and then we head to San Onofre so Rick can run an errand. We
watch Old Mans and Churches. Churches looks so fuckin’ fun. The south swell is
hitting here, and the rights are coming in at a consistent five-feet, nothing
but tapered right hand lines from the outside all the way in. There’s a
conveyor belt of surfers cycling through to make it back out, more activity
than there are surfers.
“If Manny was here, we’d be paddling out
again,” says Rick. We all wouldn’t mind
another go out, but we’ve had our fill. It’s time to head back. Rick asks me to
drive because he’s tired. Seniority wise, I should be the one driving anyway.
Because of Carmageddon, there’s no traffic. I take a shit at Gary’s house. I
feel bad about the skid marks I leave on his toilet, but I’m sure that he won’t
mind; he might think it was Rick. I get home before it’s dark. The weekend’s
over, and I’m too tired for homework. I’d like to think it was worth it.
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