WHEN SCHOOL GETS IN THE WAY , MON 15OCT2012 MOR

Loc: Huntington

Crew: Solo

Time: 0730-0900

Conditions: 3 FT, clean, offshore, inconsistent, high tide.

PRE BLOG—Tales of the Skunk:

     I had duty from the 12^th – 14^th, so on Thursday the 11^th, I planned to do a dawn patrol with my classmate Cassady. The forecast said there would be some AM wind, but that there was some fair conditions from the SW swell.

     I woke up at 0525, ate, and loaded up my wagon. Everything outside was wet; I didn’t realize that it rained.

     The morning was dark, and by the time I reached Torrance on the 405S, lightning and rain commenced. It doesn’t matter, I thought. I was going to paddle out no matter what.

     Long Beach wasn’t any dryer, and there was still thunder and sprinkles when Cassady loaded his gear into my car.

     “What do you think about the thunder?” he asked.

     I thought about his question then remembered the time I surfed Porto during a thunderstorm. We saw the lightning a couple miles away. Only about a dozen of us idiots were out. When we heard the roar from the thunder, none of us said a word. Nope. Instead, we slightly turned our heads to see if anyone was going to say anything. No one did, regardless that we all contemplated on paddling in.

    

     We passed Bolsa Chica. “That looks pretty sick,” said Cas.

     I looked over. There was a clean right peeling, just under three feet. I tell him that we’re gonna check out my brother’s favorite spot in North Huntington.

     When we arrive . . . the peaks are crumbly, long and walled but at only a couple feet. It’s choppy. It’s bad. No one’s out. Even at River Jetties there are only a couple heads. It’s unappetizing. 

     Cassady says that his uncle lives in Newport, and we can park at his house. We check it out. It looks worse.

     We find ourselves back at Bolsa, and anything resembling that clean, wave we saw in the morning is nothing but a myth. Some groms are coming back in, along with a couple longboarders. Everyone is leaving. We drive to lifeguard tower 20. The surf syndrome kicks in, causing me to tilt my head, squint, and mind-surf the crumbly sections. 

     “Let’s go to my work and grab some breakfast,” says Cas.

     We walk back to the car bone dry. Wetsuits and boards fill my wagon, unused—a false alarm. 

#

15OCT2012:

     After a fairly successful work weekend, a morning sesh is necessary. Sure, I could just pick up the old routine and workout before class, but I need this surf session; I have to. According to the weather forecast, there’s a system of high pressure, making the temps rise again, also creating some offshore flow. I take a look at the forecast. The tide’s gonna be a little high in the morning, but Huntington still has a green rating. I gotta do it.

     I load up the JS and the Tokoro and head towards Bolsa since it’s close to school. I don’t bother hitting up Cas because there’s a chance I could get skunked again.

     The feeling of the true, dawn patrol is foreign to me now. Traffic is light but swervy from people still half asleep. The sun’s still a faint, purple tinge behind the horizon, and my car’s instrument panel reflects throughout my inner compartment. My coffee’s hot, and the freeway lights are brownish-orange.

     To think I used to do this all the time.

Bolsa:

     I’m at tower twenty. The conditions are magnificent. The wind is light offshore, the sun’s already bright, there isn’t a cloud in the sky, but gawd damn it’s small. It’s like two-feet, consistent, but not peaky. The lines are long. A few longboarders make their way out. They’re stoked, rushing it.

     I have to see what North HB is doing.

N HB:

     I’m at my favorite spot. Ten guys on body boards are out. A woman with a tripod setup is filming them. A couple peaks roll on, but they meet the backwash, jacking up prematurely but still giving a fat, racy shoulder. It’s not classic HB, not the epic surf that I’ve scored here with Fransauce on many occasions. Three surfers bob to the south. River Jetties has a lot of heads, but I’ve never surfed there; I may never in my life; I don’t know. 

     This is it, as good as it’s gonna get. A sun-beaten, freckle-skin, blonde guy is parked close by.    “How’s the water temp been?” I say.

     “The morning’s been warm, but I still put on a wetsuit, you know . . . keep that water off my back. It’s been windy in the evenings so . . . wetsuit for sure.”

     I thank him and take a look at my boardshorts and wetsuit.

#

     I’m in my Hurley shorts (courtesy of Manny A.) and black, long-sleeved rashguard. Because of the high tide, I select the JS. The water’s cool, but manageable. Trunking it is a successful gamble. The sun is now higher, making everything opposite the ocean a radiant gold. The water is glassy, clean, but . . . fucking tide. It’s inconsistent where I am. The body boarders are getting some waves, but their rides are short. To the south, there’s a left-hand peak that keeps peeling. It’s half the distance to the river jetties, a far but doable paddle.

     When I reach it, I’m close enough to the main pack to make out some faces and shapes, but I have a peak to their north to myself. My first wave comes. The peak looks small, but it hits the sandbar and the backwash, jacking up to three-plus feet. It’s a quick drop, but I maintain my balance into the bottom turn. The section’s running away, so I pump, keeping my eye on the lip. It starts to go vertical, so I crouch, but the lip spills instead of going round. I fade out, climb the face, and attempt a top turn. There’s something about this JS, probably a fault of my own as well, but I just can’t crank out any good front-side turns on it, not like on the Tokoro. The tail is sluggish as I try my carve, so I end up doing more of a check turn off of the face for my finishing maneuver.

     I resurface, not completely fulfilled, but . . . it’s better than any wave that I’ve caught in the last . . . shit, I can’t even remember when the last wave I caught was. I’m satisfied. The wave makes the morning. Despite the conditions, there’s potential.

     Back at the lineup, the surfer I passed earlier is now there. Minutes later, guys are on the sand. Next thing you know, there’s a fucking crowd at my peak. . . . What the fuck just happened?

     I get a couple more rides, but none surpass the quality of my first wave. I’m in position for some plus-sized peaks, but I have to back out because of the crowd. The blonde dude from the parking lot is ripping it up. He takes off deep, where the drop is critical, way behind from where I would take off from, but he makes the sections and gets rides all the way to shore.

     I know it’s going to get better when the tide drops. Even the afternoon, I know it’s going to be good, but my watch says it’s 0900. I have to prioritize.

     I paddled out; I got wet; I got a couple waves. It will have to suffice.

#

     For the rest of the week at school, I study in the library while checking the surf cams and reports. It’s good out there; I know it is. I close my Surfline app because it’s no use; it’s torture. I’ll just have to hear how good it was through someone else. . . .