Loc:
Manhattan Beach
Time:
0800-0915
Crew: Solo
Conditions:
3 FT, strong offshore, choppy, morning sickness.
I’m supposed to meet Shan and Khang, but
last night’s school function has me on a borderline hangover. When I wake up I
check my phone. Shan texted me at 0630, a half an hour ago, saying that he’s on
his way. Slowly, I get up, brush my teeth, and prep my gear. When I open up my
front door the cold morning air hits me like I’m opening an industrial sized
freezer. The traffic at 0730 is thick, and I curse myself for getting up so
late, having no choice but to deal with it.
Despite the cold, it’s an unassuming
morning with blue sky and sunshine, but I see the leaves on the trees and flags
above business establishments that there are some gusts of wind.
There are no signs of surf activity, as I
score free parking on the hill. When I reach the bottom lot I see Shan, who
shows me his new surf mobile. It’s a black, Toyota 4Runner with brand new meats
on it. I look at one of the stalls and see Khang’s van. We both look at the
water.
“It’s slim pickins,” says Shan.
One of the four surfers in the lineup
catches a right. He kicks out of it, but his board shoots straight into the
air. All of them have long hair, and I recognize that Khang is one of them.
“I have to go out,” I say, “Khang’s out
there. We gotta handle business and paperwork today.” I begin to walk back to
my car to suit up.
“You paddling out?” he asks.
“Yeah, I have to.”
#
I’m standing at the water’s edge. I turn
and wave to Shan who’s still in the parking lot.
It’s bad . . . the conditions I mean.
Terrible. So much water moving around. The wind feels offshore, but still, the
waves are breaking like barrages of fast, windswell peaks—hardly rideable. My
feet are numb from the cold sand, but the water temp actually isn’t too bad.
I paddle . . . and paddle. It’s been twelve
days since I last surfed, and I feel that my paddling arms aren’t what they
used to be. I’ve also started going to the gym again, and I recently worked out
my back, so my muscles are on fire. I wave to Khang, but the problem is that he
isn’t Khang. It’s Roy.
“Hey, Matt!” he says.
“Sup, Roy!”
I look at the rest of the guys: Ross and
Don K. No Khang? I look further north by 33rd Street where some
other surfers are. Could he be there?
#
A thought occurs to me. No matter how
shitty it looks out, if these local guys ever paddle out, most likely I’m going
too. Ross gets a right, blowing the tail and unleashing a bucket of spray over
the back of the wave before it closes. He catches it all the way in. Roy’s next
to leave.
It’s going to take a miracle for the
conditions to improve, at least that’s what I had hoped for when I first saw
the conditions. Now, I don’t think that’s gonna happen. The waves are fast and
unorganized. Upon popping up, I’m sent flying down the line into the next
section which closes out the wave. I eat shit a couple times, but to summarize
this session, I get no turns at all. After Don leaves I catch one in.
#
On the way up to my car, some guy is
heading down to hit the water. “How was it?” he says.
I’m
learning not to have a negative attitude when describing the surf to other
people who are about to paddle out. Why ruin their expectations and shit on
their mornings before they see it for themselves? After all, the stoke factor
is up to them, not me. “It’s all right,” I say. “It was cleaning up a little
when I left.”
I shoot Khang a text, letting him know that
I thought I saw his van. He texts back and says that the waves looked like shit
on the cams and that he and Dais are gonna hit it around 1000.
Later, I get a call from Khang around noon.
“It was good,” he says.
Motherfucker . . . perhaps I should have
been patient? Not only Khang, but I receive email from other buddies who
confirm it, that Porto looks fun. Because of my impatience I chose the wrong
window. It just comes to show: earlier is not always better.
I call Shan and tell him he didn’t miss
shit on the morning’s paddle out.
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