SURF OVER INJURY, SAT 23NOV2012 MOR

Time: 0900-1015

Crew: Apolla, CC, KK

Conditions: 1-3 FT, light onshore, sunny then foggy, small.

     I spend all day Friday doing homework. Where do the weekends go? I swear I plan on doing much more, but in the balance of obligations, my studies seem to suffer; it’s the story of my semester. Aside from my readings, I stretch and use this self help massage tool (which is shaped like a cane with knobs on it) to prod my back. By nightfall, I feel better.

     Plans fall through for surfing HB on Saturday. With the swell dying out, there’s no need to drive all the way down south, says Randy. After texting Klaude all night about plans to surf HB, I give him the final call around 1000, telling him that we’re gonna be staying local instead. “What time are you gonna go?” I ask.

     “I’m gonna dawn patrol it,” he says.

     “Okay. See you in the morning.”

#

     My roommate has family visiting, so I wake up with a piss boner at 0300. I see that one of our guests didn’t flush the toilet. “Nasty motherfuckers,” I say to myself.

     After I take my piss, I’m glad that I have almost three more hours of sleep.

#

     I shift the rest of the night because of my sore back. I open my eyes. It’s 0830. What thee fuck!? I look at my alarm clock. I forgot to set it. A hundred thoughts run through my mind: I’m an idiot, why the fuck did I wake up late, the morning’s wasted, the DRC is out there and I’m not, my balls are itchy. Worst of all is my word to Klaude. I pride myself in my word. To me, it’s good; if I say I’m gonna do something I usually do it. “See you in the morning.” Those words echo through my mind, the last thing I told KK last night. I reach for my phone and shoot him a text regarding my insolence.

#

     It’s 0900 when I reach the sand. I spot KK and CC, but I don’t rush the water. My back and neck feel tight, much tighter than I went to bed. In the rush and stress of the morning, my body’s going through a relapse. The surf looks consistent, but it’s small. After a solid ten minutes in the child’s-pose, I grab the Tokoro and paddle out.

     Christina paddles but backs out on a wave. She sees me. “Heyyyy, Matt!” she says.

     I acknowledge her, but first I owe my debt to KK. “What’s up, Matt?” he says. He dismounts his board and gives me some man-love. Usually I’d get off my board in this aquatic embrace, but my back’s still tweaked.

     “I thought you went with your brother,” he says.

     I explain my debacle.

     “Well,” he says, “I’m gonna have to leave soon.”

     He says the surf has been fun the last hour. He inquires about the Zippy.

     I paddle to CC and play a little catch-up, relating the tale about my pinched nerve and pinched ego.

     “What did you do for Thanksgiving?” I ask.

     She points to her left. “I just hung out with Apolla.”

     Apolla smiles and waves. She’s been in N.Y. for months; I didn’t even recognize her. We engage in some small talk.

     I call the next wave. CC and KK go for it, but Bruce (local vet and former South Bay male model) catches it first on his longboard, and cruises for a long ride to the inside. It’s a typical 26^th St. scene with people in the water hooting him on his ride. When he comes back, Klaude says, “Bruce, that was sick.”

     Bruce pauses before returning with, “That was scary.”

     We laugh.

     My first wave is a right. My timing is off since I can’t turn my head all the way. I’m back on Barney mode, facing the shore and paddling without eyeing my position. The wave breaks on me. I’m deep and late. I fall on top of my board when I wipe out. The rail bangs the back of my calf on the lower part near my ankle. There’s not much meat there; it fucking hurts. I resurface with double the injury, ignoring the aching from my calf as I make my way back out. Motherfucker.

     KK leaves. CC and I go for a couple waves together. I catch a right. The peak is long and fast, but there’s an opportunity to hit the lip at least once. However, setting up my bottom turn is hard with the damaged calf; I miss my opportunity.

     The slim showing of the DRC leaves (but of course, everyone was here on Thanksgiving Day, the day I got fucked), and now I’m all by my lonesome. The wind from the north picks up, bringing in a marine layer that covers up the sun. The smooth, glassy surface is now riddled with chop. It’s inconsistent. All my rides are short; I can’t get a turn in. It’s a feeling of melancholy in the water. I think about how I fucked myself up a couple days ago, how I was a hermit yesterday, and how I missed the better window of surf. I think the Zippy would’ve helped. . . . As much as I’d like to stay, I’m preoccupied with other things: homework, unfinished blogs, homework, homework, homework. I’m a preoccupied soul in the lineup.

     My next wave is a closeout. It’s not intended to be my last wave, but I decide to ride the whitewash in and call it a morning. It’s a quiet walk back to Marine Ave. where I scored free parking. I walk by other surfers with my head down, looking at the ground. It hurts to raise it.