THOSE OLD VENICE GUYS, SUN 30SEPT2012 MOR

Location: Oceanside

Crew: Reptile Rick and Gary AKA Balls Deep

Conditions: 4-6 FT, glassy, clean, consistent, hollow, punchy, pitchy, fast.

     It’s 0430, and I’m getting my snacks ready for the day. I’m used to this routine. It’s like I’m getting ready for my Monday through Thursday classes. . . . I really don’t want to eat the same shit that I pack for school, so I just grab a Zone Bar, a PB&J sandwich, and a cup of coffee. I’m not as tired as I should be since I went to bed pretty late, but I have to be on time today because Rick’s driving, and we’re meeting at Gary’s house.

     I hop on the 405 South and head to Torrance. When I pull up to Gary’s driveway, they are just about done with loading their gear. I offer Gary the front seat, but he says, “No, no, no, go ahead, Matt,” and sits in the back of the van. 

     Rick talks almost the whole way to Oceanside, but it’s understandable because he’s the one driving. I do my duties as a passenger and engage him in conversation. Gary fades in and out of sleep. I sip on my coffee to stay awake, looking towards the horizon which is slowly turning orange, as if a fire’s brewing somewhere behind the earth.

     Rick narrates tales about their old Venice days while Gary confirms with a “yup” or correcting Rick with a name or two that he can’t remember.

     “We were all in bad shape that night,” says Rick. “When he hit me I was out cold; they said I was snoring.”

     Gary laughs in the back seat.

     “Yup, then we all went to my mom’s house to do more damage,” Rick continues. “We kept drinking, all bloody . . .”

     One thing’s for sure. Rick’s a different man around his childhood friends. I only realize this now, but aren’t we all like this? I thought I knew Rick down to the bone, but I get to hear his animal side that I’ve never heard before. Maybe it’s because he used to be my squad leader and because he was platoon sergeant for a brief time. Maybe it’s because I consider him a mentor that I’m so surprised to hear this. In the end, he’s a pirate, and so am I. I’m in the right company.

#

North Oceanside:

     I’d really like to name this spot, but Rick insists that we keep it under the radar since it’s rarely crowded. I oblige.

     We arrive at North Oceanside at 0630. The waves are breaking close to shore. Surfers are already in the water to join in on this south swell frenzy. Gary and I get closer to the water to examine the shape. 

     “They’re breaking section-into-section,” says Gary.

     “Section-into-section . . . that’s a good term. I never heard that before.”

     He’s right. Every peak looks manageable, but it keeps on running into the next peak, walling up every time it happens.

     “I hope Rick doesn’t want to do this,” says Gary.

     “Oh?”

     He nods his head.

     “Well, maybe the tide will help it out.”

     “Nah,” he says, “the tide will push the peaks in.”

     Just as he says that, the set appears. What were four foot walls turns into one giant, six foot, section-into-section line that stretches across the whole beach front. No one goes for the waves. Some surfers are caught in the impact zone, others scramble to get further out, and the set lasts for at least six waves. 

     Rick just finished taking a shit. He walks up to us from behind.

     “You see that?” says Gary.

     “Yeah, what do you think?” he says.

     Gary suggests we go to a spot that he’s familiar with a couple miles south. I was open to surf “whatever” this morning, but after seeing our first option incapable of holding the swell, I realize that I’m in for a gnarly morning. 

#

     We take the lower road along Oceanside Pier. The size here is a couple feet smaller. Even though it’s a little walled, the waves are manageable. We push it south a couple more miles to the next break.

Secret Spot #2:

     It’s close to 0800. It’s sunny, clear, and there isn’t any wind. I whip out the Tokoro, hoping I can do better on it today. Rick and Gary have meatier boards. Rick’s not on his Fish; he’s on his Spyder. Gary has one too. They are quad fin set-up. Gary’s using the nub on his 6’6.

     As we’re warming up on the sand, at least a dozen people are there just to watch. I get anxious when surfing new spots, and it’s been a while since I’ve surfed pitchy, fast waves. Usually, HB is where I get my training for such conditions, but I’ve only been surfing Old Mans for the south swells.

     Gary paddles out first, so I follow behind. Rick warms up a little longer and gets caught in the impact zone for a bit.

     It doesn’t take long before I catch my first wave. It stands up really fast. I’m slow getting to my feet, so by the time I’m up, the section is long gone. I dismount and resurface. Just as I grab my board, I see Gary sliding down the face of a wave with speed. Two other guys try to go on him, but they kick out. Gary bottom turns, pumps down the line, stalls, and gets a little cover-up right in front of me. I duckdive.

     Rick and Gary paddle back together. “It was throwing out over you a little,” says Rick. Rick goes next, and gets a long left all the way to shore, but he has shit luck again on the inside, and pays for his wave by getting pounded by the rest of the set.

     I go left on a smaller wave, but the it’s so fast that I’m struggling to get my footing. Am I this rusty? Is this what my brother warned me about when he told me not to ride a fish yet? By the time I gain my composure, I get one sloppy topturn. It’s good for a baby splash out the back, but Rick still gives me a thumbs up.

THE INCONVENIENT TRUTH:

     We did have other surfers around us, but they paddle away from Gary. I’m serious. I think Rick is pushing 50, and he rips for a guy his age. No . . . he rips PERIOD. Gary can’t be too far behind him in age, and here he is . . . here THEY are . . . REGULATING. These old Venice guys, I swear they’re cut from a different cloth. I’m no ripper; compared to these guys I’m just a young grasshopper. I’m a booger just hanging around, the little shit trying to hang with the big boys.

     There’s a bump in the distance. I know it’s gonna be big. I can have the shoulder; I’m positioned for it, but Gary’s just in front of the peak; but he’s late. He still paddles for it; it’s gonna be fast. He tries to pop up, and I catch a glimpse of him air dropping before I lose my vantage point. God damn . . . that was pretty ballsy.

     Rick paddles and stops about ten meters to my right. “Did you see that guy?” he says.

     “That was Gary.”

     “That was Gary?”

     I nod and look behind me. Gary’s just making his way back to the lineup, smirking.

#

     Another peak comes, just a hair smaller than the one that Gary wiped out on, but it’s still close to six feet. I’m near the shoulder for the left. I turn, paddle, and then I hear, “Matt.”

     I look to the right, and Gary is paddling into the wave from behind the peak. The wave is round and starting to bowl. It’s going hollow. I pull back and lose sight of him. The wave spits. He doesn’t make it out.

     Gary resurfaces from the bubbles and white noise of the foam. “I almost had that one,” he says.

     “Fuck, you were deep.” I ask him about his barrel technique.

     “You gotta set your edge,” he says. “Either take off at the peak or right behind it.”

     Shit, I’ve heard this before, both from my brother and Francis. My mind just isn’t wired like that, and this is a helluva day to experiment.

    

     A couple minutes later, another peak comes my way. I gotta go for it, but I’m in position for the right. I kick; I paddle, I pop up and slide down the face. I want to pull in from the bottom turn, but I’m looking down towards the nose of my board, trying to prevent the purl. And then . . . the whole lip crashes down on me. I touch the bottom and resurface. There’s a crowd on the beach; I know everyone saw it. What pressure. I act like I’m not phased, but I’m shaken. I’d like to think I’m better than this. What’s to blame? Too much time on the fishes, not enough surf time at the more critical breaks like HB, is it my schedule at school and how I’m out of the water more? I sit in the lineup, contemplating. The wave here is a hair more critical than HB.

     Gary’s to my right. He says, “Jamie’s going, Jamie’s going, Jamie’s got this wave.”

     I look at him.

     He’s lying on his belly, smiling with his face close to the deck.

     I’m outclassed.

#

     Rick chooses to surf further north. He’s talking it up with a couple guys. What a social butterfly he is. I guess you can do that when you’re good.

     The tide fills up and turns things inconsistent. There’s still a crowd on the shore which puts some pressure on my last ride. The shape is starting to wall up, so I catch a closeout to the inside.

     I imagine the people talking and pointing me out, saying, “That was the guy who ate shit.” It could be all in my mind.

     Back at the van, we change and head back to North Oceanside. I kill off the rest of the snacks that I brought, but I’m still hungry. Gary hands me some chips he bought from Trader Joes. These guys are prepared with coolers.

     “That was fun wasn’t it?” says Rick.

     I scratch my shriveled penis through my shorts. “Yeah.”