Loc:
Manhattan Beach
Crew: Randy
& Klaude
Conditions:
6FT, walled, consistent, overcast, gnarly.
Klaude wasn’t going to join my bro and I
for a surf in the morning. I was disappointed, and KK sensed it in my voice. I
didn’t want to pressure KK, and I accepted that it would just be me and my bro.
He later rescinded and said he’d meet us. The swell got bigger over night, and
Saturday morning was supposed to be heavy.
#
It’s another grey and ominous morning. Randy
and I head out. I didn’t know what to expect local, but one thing I do know is
that if the swell is too big, the sandbars won’t hold the shape. Before we
park, we see guys perched and watching the surf from the parking lot. Randy and
I step out from the lifeguard station for a closer look. There’s only one guy
out. A big wave comes, at least six feet. It’s gonna close, but he holds his
line and gets barreled before he’s enveloped by the lip of the wave. From
there, he struggles to get back out and punch through the rest of the set. The
inside is roaring whitewash, and the sets are consistent and big. I’m looking
for some shape. I see some makeable waves, but they are fast. “What do you
think?” I ask Randy.
“Yeah, looks okay. There’s a couple
shoulders here.”
“Do you wanna check Porto?”
“I don’t know. Should we? This is your
break. You should know better.”
I look at my phone to see if Klaude called
yet. “Let’s wait,” I say.
I guess I wouldn’t mind so much, but there
is only one guy out, and he’s riding a gun. I have my 6’1 standard shortboard
Tokoro, while Randy feels perfectly comfortable with the 5’8 Lost board.
When Klaude shows up, we change and head to
the sand. I’m taking my time warming up, making sure that I won’t reinjure
myself. I’m scouting the water for a lull and a channel. The storm drain seems
like the best bet. Klaude and Randy hit the water first. As much as I want to
warm up longer, I decide to paddle out with them at the same time. I don’t want
to get caught in a set while they’re on the outside without me.
It’s the moment of truth. My paddle’s
pretty strong; I’m confident about that. I pass Klaude and I pass my brother,
and then . . . the barrage.
FUCK ME:
I’m either paddling over or duckdiving the
whitewash, but I’m getting slowed down. If I could just make it over the
outside peak. I reach the point where the waves are breaking and forming the
whitewash; I’m so close. The closer I get to the impact zone, the harder it is
to pull clean duckdives. I resurface. Randy passes me up. I keep paddling. My
breath is becoming more rapid, heart pounding, duckdive, cold, gasp for air. I
think about the guys in the lot. What we’re doing can’t look appealing,
especially what I’m going through. What happened to my strong paddle?
The set never stops. I still see Randy.
He’s further out now, but still not in the clear. I gain a little ground and
get closer, but the waves start getting bigger and break further out. The white
wash is too much. This is a nonstop affair. I’m unaware at how long I’ve been
at this, but I’m tired. I look at my surroundings and realize that I’m way back
towards the inside again. I turn around and catch the whitewash to shore. I
think about the blog title: Couldn’t Make it Out. It’s a defeating moment in my
life. How embarrassing, especially on a rare day that I paddle out with my
brother; I can’t even fuckin’ make it out. I walk back south a little to where
I had paddled out. Just a little break, I’m thinking. Then I see Don K. paddle
out on a long, gunny board. Klaude is still on the inside too, paddling his ass
off, in the same predicament that I was in. On the outside my brother catches a
wave, going right. He stalls and tries to hunker down, but the lip isn’t
throwing out into a barrel. He dives into the base of the wave before it closes
out. I catch my breath and paddle out next to Klaude. I know he doesn’t realize
I’m there. “Hey!” I say. I communicate with my facial expression, one that
reads: “me too.” I have no idea if this second paddle out will materialize, and
as I approach the first inside waves, I get held back again. Don K. paddles
past me. I slide back on my board and try to make it back out. Miraculously . .
. the set finally stops.
I can finally see the channel, but the
whole time I’m scared shitless, wondering if some rogue wave is just gonna
gobble me up. The safest place is the outside, and I’m still working my way
through the impact zone. Once I see Don paddle more parallel to the beach, I
know I’ve made it. My eyes are so blurry from all the whitewash. I see Randy. I
want to throw both of my arms up in celebration, but there’s still work to be
done.
When I turn around, I see Klaude taking
advantage of the lull too, making his way closer. It was the hardest paddle out
in my entire life.
#
You bet your ass I’m being picky. I’m not
just going for anything and everything, especially after that gnarly paddle
out. Randy’s picky, but he goes on a couple. The sets calmed down, so he’s able
to make it back with ease. Don K. gets the longest ride of the morning. On his
gun, I watch him take off. Even though the wave looks like its closing out, he
kicks out way towards the inside.
“Don said it was a forty-five minute set,”
says Klaude.
I know we were paddling for a while, but
forty-five minutes still feels too long. I’m thinking maybe thirty-five at
most.
Randy’s and Don’s waves inspire Klaude and
I to go. Randy gets one. So do I. I go on a left. The drop feels critical, not
from the shape but from the size, speed, and power. I pop up and start pumping
down the line, but the wave is breaking section-on-section, so I kick out. Back
at the lineup, Klaude goes on the next one. It’s a crazy morning. I see him
paddle and disappear as the wave picks him up. It looks like pure oblivion from
the back of the wave, just a massive explosion. He paddles back unharmed.
As the tide rises, the consistency slows
down, but the majority of the waves are still walled. Don K. leaves, and the
three of us who are left are even pickier, scratching and pulling out.
Meanwhile, the lot is still full with just spectators, but now a few surfers
start making their way to the sand and paddle out in front of the lifeguard
tower.
The whole time, Klaude and I are just
giving each other that look. We and Don K. (and that one other guy who was
there first) were the only ones who paddled out. I can’t speak for Klaude, but
I for sure felt out of my comfort zone.
WIPEOUT OF
THE WINTER:
I get one decent right. The take off is so
steep that I have a hard time muscling through my bottom turn. I’m not used to
going this fast, so I kickout. Sure, maybe I could have gotten a turn, maybe
two, but I damn sure don’t want to get caught on that inside again. After this,
and the wave I mentioned earlier, I eat shit on my next rides.
Klaude sees this as he’s paddling out. So
does my brother. I’m paddling, going for a bomb. Just as I’m popping up, I get
hung up on the lip. My bro later tells me it was from the backwash, but I
really don’t know what happened. All I know is that my board is in the air to
my right, and I’m covering up my head like I’m getting pummeled by some UFC
guy, but my descent down is a weightless airdrop. I am oblivion. I must’ve held my breath too soon. I feel the pressure
in my sinuses, in fact I can hear them compressing with a faint squeal. Even
though we’re far out in the lineup, I still get dragged deep down and touch the
bottom. The weight of the water feels heavier, and I’m running out of air. I
get that uncomfortable notion that I am pretty far down. Staying calm is hard.
I’m out of air, and all I can think of is: what if there’s another wave coming?
I’m fucked. I resurface, gasping in terrified shock, like an old man walking
alone in the night who’s scared by someone or something that leaps out of the
darkness unexpected. It’s not so easy to grab my board and paddle back. I’m
weak, the depravation of air affects me. I paddle towards Klaude.
“You were down there for a while. I saw
your board tomb stoning,” he says.
I try to calm down and come up with the
right words, but I don’t want to sound like I just had a near death experience.
After all, it comes with the territory of being a surfer. We all have these
moments. For those like me, very seldom. I’m shaken, visibly as well. All I can
do is turn to Klaude and say, “I’ll never take air for granted again.”
My next wipe out is on one of my last
waves. Randy is the only one who sees this one. I take off on a steep drop. I’m
trying to put some weight on the tail to bring the nose up. After all that
downward momentum, my nose purls at the base of the wave. It’s like slow
motion, seeing the tip of my board look like a slice of pie wedging into the
water. The liquid around the fiber glass so clear. You think, just come back
up, nose, just come back up . . . but it doesn’t. I do an indo over my board
and land into the water with the wave crashing over me. To add more insult to
injury, it’s not just the wipeouts and the paddle outs that are demoralizing,
but getting caught by the set on the way back out. All I see is Klaude and
Randy darting towards the outside. I’m in such a bad spot that I don’t know if
I should wait for the wave to explode first or to just say fuck it and try to
duckdive it. Earlier, I had ditched my board because . . . I knew it was
pointless. But on this wave, I try. My hands are like clamps, holding onto my
board despite the chaos around me. As buoyant as this piece of watercraft is
supposed to be, I’m being flipped upside down and all around with this awkward
object in hand. I wonder, is this worth holding onto?
I can’t remember if Klaude or I make it to
shore first, but after catching a close out, I pass on the next set coming in
and catch the white wash to shore. My muscles are sore, even my biceps are
burning. Klaude and I watch Randy catch his last wave. He goes down the line a
little, check turns, and rides the rest of it to shore. In the parking lot,
Klaude talks to the old vets. They say they timed Don K.’s paddle out at
twenty-nine minutes. He paddled out way after we did.
#
I spend the rest of the day with Bri and
Randy, but I’m quieter than usual. Even now as I write this, I think about that
hold down. If another wave came after that one, really . . . seriously . . . I would
have been FUCKED. I’m lucky to be here.
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