Loc:
Manhattan Beach
Time:
1000-1130
Crew: Shan
& Khang
Conditions:
3-4 FT, sunny, strong offshores, consistent, walled.
Pre Blog:
It’s been over twelve days since I updated
this blog. Even though school has been over for over two weeks now, I was faced
with the challenge of not only moving, but having family to help out, as well
as everything that comes with the holidays. Only two days ago did things
finally slow down. Now . . . I can write, but please excuse my hazy memory of
my past surf sessions.
The Morning
Check:
Shan shoots me a text while I’m still in
bed. “Heading out,” he says. Fuck . . . it’s so cold. My friend’s house has
terrible insulation, so my room’s still a refrigerator even with my space heater
that’s set on high. When I open the door to the living room, it’s like opening
a freezer. I brush my teeth and fill up two jugs with scalding hot water. I
throw on my dirty ass clothes because when you’re a surfer, you don’t need to
wear anything fresh nor take a fucking shower every night. Every other day
works for me at this point, even the underwear goes inside out, at least
wearing it for two, maybe three days, depending if I had a borderline shart
incident. My shirt only half reeks, as the armpit-smell test is in the yellow
zone between green and red. I hop on the 405 north to get to Manhattan Beach. I
miss the days of living in El Segundo, where the surf was just a short
distance. Even though my current distance is reasonable, there’s nothing like
living just a couple miles from the surf and not that fake surf where one lives
by the water, but that spot is unsurfable. Nope.
Meet the
Wind:
The cold, offshore, winter air blasts my
gray hoodie, pressing it against my body. My hood is forced forward onto my
brow as I turn my back to the wind. My hands shoot into my pocket while my
lungs inhale a winter fresh breath of air. I step over the run path, past the
walkers and joggers.
It’s sunny with nothing but a blue screen for a sky. The lack
of cloud cover makes it seem like a roof is missing, letting all the cold air
in. Over the ocean, a half mile wall breaks over the inside. It’s white and
brown, marble like. Some banners flying on the beach say that two high schools
are out there. I’m not sure if this is a competition or practice, but they are
going for the walls, most of them pulling in, holding their lines even though
the barrels are closing out. As Captain Willard said in Apocalypse Now, “What balls.” I watch, and I watch, and I watch. It’s
low tide. Could use more water, I’m thinking. I turn around and head to the
lower lot, finding Shan and Veronica in his 4Runner, making the final
adjustments on their booties and gloves. There’s a fun board in the back. Not
good conditions for any beginner. We exchange greetings. He says that he and
Veronica are going to paddle out. I don’t want to shit on their stoke, so I
keep my opinion to myself, but what about me? Am I really gonna paddle out now?
I tell them that I’ll join them, but first I’m gonna move my car.
Decisions:
I’m at the top of the hill looking down.
The flags over the lifeguard station are flapping helplessly in the wind. If
only the wind would die a little bit. I get a text from Khang: “I’ll be there
around nine,” he says. I text him back, letting him know the conditions.
While I’m waiting, I scroll through the Westside
Rentals app on my phone, seeing if anything new popped up in any of the beach
cities. It’s something that I’ve been doing this whole month, obsessively
searching through listings, contemplating on the possibilities of where I can
live and for how much. I look on this studio that I’ve had my eyes on. It’s
expensive and at the ceiling of my budget. It’s only a studio, with its only
consolation being that the utilities are free, parking is good, and it has a
shared garage. And to save the best for last . . . It’s in El Segundo,
literally a couple blocks from where I was living only nine months ago. But space
. . . space is an issue. I call the realtor, and he tells me the unit is unlocked.
I shoot Khang a text, letting him know that I’m gonna check out an apartment
and come back.
A Possible
Future:
When I walk through the door, I first
notice that the paint smells fresh. There are rental apps on the kitchen
counter. The kitchen’s small, but doable for a bachelor. The counter top kicks
ass, takes place of a dining room table to make up for space. The bathroom is
decent, no tub, just stand-up shower. But the living room . . . it’s small, but
shit . . . I don’t have much. Especially with storage space in the garage? All
my bullshit can go in there.
Surf:
When I paddle out, I don’t see Shan, but I
see Khang in the water. He catches a right before I duckdive his same wave. He
paddles up to me and says, “There’s some fun ones out here.”
The wind has died a little, so has the
size, but the shape is still an issue. Most of the waves are walled. Out of
frustration, Khang starts going for them, catching little bombs that offer no
line to take. I, myself, catch a right, good enough for one top turn.
About an hour later, Khang gets a decent
left all the way to shore. He comes back to the lineup and says, “It’s gonna
get good now . . . watch! The wind just died, the tide’s coming up . . . it’s
gonna get good.”
And it should, despite the fact that I’m
usually a curse to Khang whenever we’re together. Somehow, we barely score
waves together. Every time I’ve taken him on a day trip somewhere, the waves
have been only so-so or completely terrible, and as the past has proven before,
the shape does not improve.
Decision
Made:
Back at home, I ponder at my options. I
could live in Long Beach where it’s cheaper and closer to school, but how much
would I spend on gas driving to the South Bay? Sure, I’d be closer to HB and
the other spots further south, but the South Bay is where my heart is, it’s
even at crowded ass Porto where I don’t surf as often. My family is here, my
surf family is here, and so are some of my military perks that I take advantage
of at the air force base. I could live in Hawthorne or Gardena, but that’s not
where I want to be. It’s one thing to live where it’s affordable and another to
worry about having your car broken into. After browsing around online, I come
to the conclusion that I’m moving to a beach city, close to the surf, or
nothing. I call the realtor and set a meeting to bring in my rental
application. The prospect of living in El Segundo fills me with anticipation and
joy. I love that town. What if I could live in my old neighborhood again, close
to the surf, in such a good community? I wouldn’t have to worry about getting
jacked for my shit just for taking a walk in the street. Peace of mind, a
humble abode in my favorite SoCal town. I’d be back to nights of Stuft Crust
Pizza, or maybe a Cuban from Havana Sandwich Company, or a Holly Street bagel
sandwich for only three bucks and some change from The Blue Butterfly.
I tell myself not to get my hopes up so
much . . . but what if?
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