EPIC, FRI 06JAN2012 MOR

Crew: Deathwish Dave

Time: 0800-1045

Conditions: 5-6 ft with occasional 7+, glassy, consistent, clear, sunny, warm, and crowded.

     The line of cars was in the emergency lane before the Cristianitos exit. It only took a second to realize what all the traffic was about. Rick suggested Churches; I had to surf somewhere that was either reef or point; beach breaks would be closed out again. Even the local media was pumping up the swell. I didn’t get nervous until I checked the buoy report for Churches: 9-13 feet. Impossible. . . . There’s no way Churches could be breaking that big, or anywhere in the area; it just seemed too hard to fathom, but I don’t know what I was scared of. If it would be too gnarly, I knew I’d come back to surf another day. I think I was more worried if I’d let myself walk away without trying. It would only take one guy to be out there to make me think about it. And then again, maybe my balls aren’t so big in the first place. I called Klaude to vent. He said, “Dude, you’re nervous? Did you not go to Bali?” He was right. I lowered my expectations by chopping the buoy report in half; somewhere around six feet seemed more realistic. 

     When I finally get to the Basilone Rd. exit I can see Lowers. I’ve never seen it break this big. I’m witnessing a set, but it doesn’t look like Lowers. Usually it breaks in the same spot which starts off as an A-frame and has some inside sections that work too. However, this morning I see two long lines, the left is completely walled-up and closed, but the right is open and lined-up all the way to Middles. I can’t see any surfers; I’m far away, so I can’t get any scale. All I know is that only two huge waves take up the whole area. 

It's important to always have a battle buddy.

     I score on the VIP parking. One spot is left open next to the porta potties. Churches is madness. With my beachfront parking and the high tide combined, the surf appears to be right in front of my bumper. Everywhere, black wetsuits are in a frenzy: paddling out in the channel and white wash, jogging on the sand with their boards, paddling over waves, on the waves, sitting and waiting, and zigzagging on the open shoulders, pulling off carves and snaps. There’s just so much movement, erratic and spontaneous like flies on shit. Churches is a god damn machine. Three waves are peeling right in front of me, surfers on every one of them with more waves out the back—unreal. I gave Deathwish Dave my state parking pass, so he’s on his way to meet me. He hit me up last night and asked where I was going to surf. Guilty as charged, I thought it would be too big for him. I said, “Yeah, I’m going to check out Trestles, but um . . . it’s supposed to be priiiiity big.” 

     I’m in no rush. I think my anxiousness to hurry up and get out there is overwhelmed by the surf. Why rush? The surf’s going nowhere. I’m here, I got great parking, I’m gonna take my time putting on my shit, and we’re gonna fuckin’ surf. 

     Even though Churches looks good, it’s packed. The surf is so consistent here that waves are even breaking towards the San Onofre side; guys are sitting way far off to the side and still catching peaks that sprout up. “We’re gonna check it out down there,” I say as I motion towards Middles. On the way over Middles doesn’t look very good. The left that usually breaks off of north Churches isn’t working—too much west in the swell. The waves are breaking more just south of Lowers in front of the cliffs. I see a couple swing wide, and I tell Dave that that’s where we’re gonna sit. Even though the waves here aren’t as consistent, I always enjoy sessions more by sacrificing the better waves to get waves all to myself. 

     We sit wide of the pack; we’re more in front of the Battle Position at Middles, but nothing is happening. Lowers isn’t as crowded as Churches, so we work our way in a little closer to the pack. Everyone is spread out; that’s the good part. The high tide and swell form different peaks. For nearly the first twenty minutes I catch nothing. Either I’m out of position or some dick’s already on it. I resign to the thought of catching only a couple waves on such an epic day, and then it happens. I catch my first wave, and forgive me because I can’t remember how each one of them went. I love Trestles; it’s so rippable. I’ve fooled myself before. I surfed here so much in training for Bali. Its slopy, forgiving, long right-handers made me believe I was ready. Trestles makes any shitty surfer an average surfer, every average surfer a good surfer, and every good surfer motherfuckin’ Dane Reynolds. . . . Okay, maybe not Dane, but you get the point. At Trestles all you have to do is stand up, and you’re guaranteed a long ride. Whether you fall or not depends on you getting out of your comfort zone: turns, carves, cutbacks, airs, whatever. Even if you just trim you look good. The biggest wave I’ve caught out here was maybe five feet, but the first wave I get is at least five feet, close to six. I’ve been skunked for so long coming down here that I’ve forgot how to ride a good wave. Looking ahead of me, it’s so lined-up that I’m more concerned about falling than turning, but still I try. I’m so rusty. Carving three to four foot waves is easy, but when there is size you just can’t get so loose on them. I calculate, over calculate. I don’t bottom turn too deep, and my top turns arc way below the lip. I damn near lose my balance the whole ride: arms flailing, taking way too long to reposition my feet, and still, the mellow, crumbling lip is just pushing me back in. At Porto, and HB for sure, the lip would make you pay and pitch you over, but the lip here is actually correcting me, as if saying, “Whoops, watch out there little feller, you almost lost it. Now get back in there!” On a day like today three turns is a short ride, a fucking travesty. I usually blow a load over a three turn wave. Two turns?! I can call it a good day if I can get a two-turn wave. You know why I count turns? Because I barely fucking get them. If you’re surfing places that close out most of the time then you’re going straight, nowhere. My ride takes me all the way back to the BP which is just about half way to the tip of Churches. This was today’s “average” wave, and today’s “average” waves give me the longest rights of my life. 

     Wave buffet status? I don’t know. That’s the only thing fucking it up today . . . sharing. But still, there is enough to go around for everyone. The standout Lowers peak is now multiple peaks. It’s like roulette this morning; you may get a random peak sitting anywhere in the lineup. I always sit wide of the break, and for the first hour and forty-five minutes it’s like clockwork. As soon as I see that wall in the distance I just dart for the shoulder. Those that gamble on Lowers have to duckdive. One of the best things about today is that I’m catching waves so late; you can only get away with this at Trestles. Even on six foot faces I’m catching waves deep. The spilling waves are so gentle, over-forgiving and harmless, like catching a feather. But then the face just builds and stands giving so much speed on the drop. After the first carve I have to cut back and wait for it to build again. Once the wave hits the inside it stands up a little more; two waves in one! The inside gets more rippable. You have so much time to pump, draw the highline, and set up your next drop for the next maneuver, again ending the ride deep in Middles. It’s not just me. I have to pass up on so many waves. If you think my rides are long, guys sitting at the top of the wave (traditional lowers peak) catch waves to the BP too. I have front row seats for most of them. 

     The hardest thing about today is the paddle, believe it or not. Consistent and consecutive long rides means you’re spending a lot of time paddling back. Also, smaller, clean, three foot waves are breaking towards the inside. On a couple occasions I turn-and-go on these which results in an even longer paddle back to where I wanted to go in the first place. And the irony is that these smaller waves are the ones that we’re usually fighting over, but on a day like today nobody’s wasting their time with them!

     I sit with Dave for a minute. He gave up on the shoulder and has been in my area for a while. “Sometimes they swing wide,” I tell him. And of course, my strategy proves effective, as another juicy wall forms leaving an open shoulder that’s within reach. It’s easily in the six foot range. I’m deeper than Dave; he’s right where he needs to be. “DAVE, GO!” 

     “Go?”

     Man . . . he’s sitting there. Timing is so god damn crucial, but he’s asking me if he should go as this thing is approaching him. Sweet spot, EVERYTHING, this wave couldn’t have been set up better if you had Coco Ho on it surfing towards you naked. He finally maneuvers his board around and starts to paddle. As the wave breaks I see Dave stand up over the lip as it passes him; he popped up too early. I feel a hint of my brother within me, and as much as we bump heads I feel myself turning a little dickish. As my brother told me on a wave that I passed up at Balangan, I say, “You gotta go for those.” 

     Even a stranger starts blaring at him in the now still ocean. “You gotta go for it!” he says. 

     Dave smiles, shrugs it off, but I can tell he really wanted that wave. He says, “Damn,” to himself as he looks down at his board. Shit . . . we’ve all been there and still end up there on any given wave we miss; it’s such a shitty feeling. 

     I tell him not to worry, and that he’s just not used to surfing this wave, and then I explain how you can catch these a little late and how they’re not pitchy like Porto and HB. “If you can catch waves at Huntington, which I’ve seen you do, you can catch these, no problem.” 

     At about the two hour mark the scene changes; the late shift arrives. Middles is usually empty while there’s a circus camped at Lowers, but today everyone is posted all along the shoreline: cameras, umbrellas, chairs, etc. It’s obvious that a lot of people called-in sick today. I get pushed closer to Lowers because the crowd gets too thick. My strategy is now everyone’s strategy. My last wave is a left, my only left, but surprisingly it still has a little shape. I attempt to do a floater as the section runs away, but I don’t get high enough. 

     Back at the shore I wait for Dave, and I actually see him on a wave. Unfortunately someone else is already on it, so he kicks out. Better than nothing. I see him catch another one before I see him doing the cobblestone dance on the way in. 

     With the lowering tide, Middles and the north end of Churches is starting to work. Back at the car I see that Churches hasn’t skipped a beat. Sure, it’s a little smaller than Lowers, but its consistency is bar none. I get even more tired just looking at it. There isn’t a second that goes by that there isn’t a wave, and on every wave there’s a surfer on it. It’s hard to imagine, but it’s true. 

     I pass on the option to drive somewhere for chow. I can’t, not when the ocean’s doing this. I pull out a military ration. Shelf life Mexican rice and chili never tasted so good. Dave has some business to handle back in L.A. I thank him for coming along. He’s earned some stripes for even witnessing a day like this first hand, and even though he didn’t catch many waves, he was out there while the rest of our buddies would’ve killed to have the time to be in his place. Rick calls and tells me that the local breaks are closed out. Fuck . . . how many times have I been skunked here since Bali? Coming here was undeniably the right call, and it’s so rare that the right call is ever made when it comes to surfing. But to score on a day like this is like hitting the jackpot, winning, triple-7, lotto, who wants to be a millionaire. And yet these things cost no money at all while money can't buy them. Being addicted to the sensation of being on a wave, today is a great reward. 

Reward. . . .

ROMANTICISM VS REALISM, THU 05JAN2012 MOR

Crew: Solo

Time: 0830-1030

Conditions: 3-4 ft +, sunny, warm, clean, mid-low tide, pounding closeouts, north current with rip current.

     Yesterday’s adventures have me tired. Francis’ text at 0630 wakes me; he says Manhattan Beach is breaking decent. There’s no way; I can’t. I wake up again to a loud crashing noise at 0730. My neighbor skipped the curb, plowed through some trashcans, hit the side of his building, and wrecked the front of his van. Poor guy, he seems like a cool dude. I see his family exiting the van. At least no one’s hurt. Five minutes later one El Segundo police car comes across the scene. I see him use his radio, and he calls the whole force: fire engine, paramedics, two other patrol cars, and even their motorcycle cop—unnecessary. 

     Francis texts me again as I’m parking; he’s leaving. “Have fun,” he says. I don’t mind the solo session. Every once in a while it’s nice just to get away and reflect on your own thoughts, and these earplugs make my world more internal. As I’m walking on the sand I take note of my surroundings, possible residue from yesterday’s PV mission. Looking at everything from the ocean, the sky, the beautiful homes behind me, PV in the distance, and Santa Monica in the background to my north, I tell myself to be grateful for where I am. 

     I see some right and left-hand shoulders peel away from the scattered peaks in front of me while I stretch; I’m happy. Easy session is what I’m thinking: go in, catch a couple rides, paddle around a little bit, and go home with a smile on my face. 

     The crowd’s pretty thin where I’m at, and I get a left right away. It’s not a long ride, but it’s good for a pump or two before it closes out. My next wave is a right which doubles up towards the inside. My body gets air as I kick out. Again, no turns, but I reemerge smiling and laughing to myself. I’m having too much fun. It’s another day of the ideal surfer life, enjoying the gifts of nature that only a surfer would understand. Today I can do no wrong. 

     A couple more guys sit in my area, and then I realize that the current has taken me further south. On my next wave I get dropped-in on, but I can’t make the section anyway, so it doesn’t matter. While on that wave I watched the surfer in front of me get some frontside carves, clean and fast. Envy starts to build. I need to get me one of those. My next couple waves are closeouts, and meanwhile that other surfer’s friends are ripping on their waves; I just can’t seem to pick off a good one. Before I know it I’m sitting way on the outside—rip current. A couple other guys and I paddle towards 26^th while trying to get closer to shore. What was initially an easy morning turns into a paddle battle. I’m getting tired, and the rip current makes it seem impossible to get to 26^th. 

     With the tide going from mid to low, the waves begin to stand up. For a couple waves in a row I get pitched. I catch a couple closeouts only to get caught on the inside. Talk about transformation, the waves turn into dumpsters and get punchy. In the impact zone, I lose my board on multiple duckdives. Meanwhile, I watch the same guy from earlier get some spray from a cutback and more spray from the rebound off the shoulder. I keep getting caught on the inside, and I’m ashamed to admit that I ditched my board at least three times; there was no use. I just couldn’t get under the waves. I can’t be a complete pussy. I see a different surfer catch a closeout and then reemerge holding onto half of his surfboard. It’s strong enough to break boards out here. I’m getting worked. I’m past my hour and a half mark, but I’m stubborn; there’s no way I’m ending my session like this. I turn back towards the lineup and make my way out again. The set hasn’t stopped, and again, I’m in the impact zone. I gather speed as the wave stands; I tell myself that I’m going to make this one. I push my board and go as deep as I can. Underwater, there’s this eerie moment of silence before the wave crashes. I feel the pressure build on my earplugs and hear a momentary “squeak,” and then my board’s yanked out of my hands. Fighting my way back to the inside, I notice bees hovering over the white wash, barely getting out of the way before the next wall comes roaring by. Why the fuck are there bees out here? My last wave is a straight shot. I go back to my car defeated and unfulfilled. It makes me realize that there is no true romanticism in surfing. If it happens it just happens by chance. Either you score or get skunked, you catch the wave or you wipeout; there is no fairy tale. Any moment that seems ideal is just a “moment,” a fleeting one. We all know what surfing should be like, but this is what it really is.: eating shit and getting pounded on a beautiful day. And tomorrow . . . it might be something else.

IDEAL, WED 04JAN2012 EVE

Loc: PV

Crew: Fransauce & Nicole

Time: 1445-1600

Conditions: 4 ft with occasional 5, sunny, warm, clean, windless, glassy, low tide, consistent, mooshy, slow but FUN!

     It’s 0640; I’m early. There’s a lot of water moving around on the inside, and the waves are closing out. Three guys paddle out, only one makes it, and the other two are getting their asses handed to them. In front of 45^th there are two guys, and one of them catches a wave with nowhere to go. Yeah . . . I thought it would be like this. I shoot the text to Khang and Frans to let them know there’s an occasional shoulder, but it’s not looking good.

     Fifteen minutes later Khang and I are at 26^th. He brought donuts. I didn’t have to shit yet, and I’m sure this Long John’s gonna change all that. I can’t resist; I have another one. A guy paddles out by the tower. By the time he makes it to the lineup he’s almost by Marine. Only a couple regulars are looking at it too. “You going out?” I ask one of them.

     “Nah . . . better surf OC.”

     A couple guys converse with a guy who’s walking his dog: “You going?” one asks him.

     “I’m gonna wait for the report to see what PV’s doing.”

     Khang and I look at each other. I know he wants to do it, but our sense of adventure isn’t there. 

     It’s 0750; we’re back at the Porto lot. I told him the shape was better here. As we drove down 45^th the inside looked worse, much worse, pure violence, rows of whitewash, back-to-back, with colon-cleansers forming out the back. Sure, it was just the set, but it “set” the tone for the morning’s decision. “What are you gonna do?” he asks. 

     “I’m thinking about Churches.” Khang needs to be at work by noon, so I’d be making a solo trip. I sit in my car before leaving. I wanna do it; I feel like a chicken, just turning and going without even trying. I don’t know if other surfers put this pressure on themselves. No, I don’t rip; I know I don’t, but it gives me all the more reason to at least try, to get beaten up a little, maybe catch one wave in a couple hours, get worked, and earn the experience points, and then I can call it a day—easy.

     A garlic and onion omelet later, and I’m sitting in front of my laptop checking out Surfline. Francis called and said he’d check out Sunset with his girlfriend when the tide lowers; it sounds like a plan. My friends and I are doing sushi tonight, and it’s getting a little late to do Churches and come back; Sunset Blvd. is convenient. Before I can even click on the surfcam I get a call from Rick. He says, “What’s up, Matt. How was it?”

     “Closed out. I was thinking about surfing Sunset with Francis.”

     “No, it’s blue over there.” It takes a second for me to realize he’s talking about one of the swell models he’s looked at. “It’s small in the northern part of the bay. You might need to go north.” He names off a bunch of the little turn-offs on PCH that I’ve only passed and never surfed. I get nervous surfing new spots, and especially if I’m doing it alone. “I bet PV is going off now,” he says. He’s sat me down to stare at a map to show me where he’s surfed, but I failed to absorb; I’ve been spoiled with him showing me new spots in person, and I’ve always counted on him doing that eventually. 

     “Well . . . maybe I’ll just do some recon today. I’ll probably drive around PV to take a look, at least find out how to get there.” 

     Francis calls and asks about Sunset. “Nah,” I say. “I looked at the cams; it’s small right now. I think I’m gonna just go and check out PV.”

     “Oh. . . . Do you want me and Nicole to come with you?”

     Twenty minutes later my wagon is filled to the rim: cooler, wetsuit boxes, surf boards, towels, food, and water. I made it very clear: this is a RECON mission, no guarantee to surf, just checking it out, and gonna have a look-see. I stress a little about my company, not so much about their energy, but I know how I am. Unfortunately I’m a people-pleaser, an accommodator-masturbator. If we don’t strike gold, I’ll feel bad and start needlessly apologizing for shit that I have no control over. . . . I got issues. 

     We take the 405N to Hawthorne—mistake. I take a left turn somewhere in PV and start heading towards Pedro. It’s still an interesting journey—new. Francis says the scenery reminds him of Big Sur; it definitely doesn’t feel or look like L.A., except for the assholes tailgating me. 

     We pull off to our first cove wondering where the hell we are. A few bikers, joggers, and some sightseers are out enjoying their day. The sun’s so high; it’s so warm. Over my shades my forehead’s getting baked. One hell of a fuckin’ winter. Moving along, we stop at a couple more places. It’s a good thing I’m not solo. Nicole texts Klaude for directions, and Francis navigates us on his phone to get us on track. If I was alone this would’ve turned-out uneventful.

     We walk towards a steep cliff where we spot our first surfers, a good handful of them. How the hell do we get down? After inspection, we can see a dirt trail that disappears from our vantage point; it looks steep. About fifteen surfers are sitting at the point; we have no idea which break this is, but we’re guessing it’s Indicators, but this is still unconfirmed. There’s a concrete structure that looks like half an igloo, and a bunch of locals are hanging out there. Instantly, Rick’s stories come to mind, stories about locals throwing rocks at you, fucking with your car, and telling you to get out of the lineup. I could be blowing it out of proportion, but I can see how this setup could incite aggressive behavior. That igloo, it’s their spot. I’m damn sure all those guys hanging out in there all know each other, and a new face is all too obvious. We can see everything because we’re up so high, and the surfers look tiny on the right-handers that are breaking. “Whoa, look at that!” says Francis. He’s stoked. The waves are clean, the kelp makes the water look Saran Wrapped with just the shape moving under the film. Big, moundy waves roll through. A surfer gets barreled. He’s so far away, but he disappears momentarily then reemerges. Another guy does an air at the end of his ride. The whole time we watch, not one surfer wipes out; these are their waves. 

     You know me . . . I don’t like crowds. I assume Francis is thinking the same. “So what do you think?” I say with my tone that signals an exit.

     Without a second to ponder he says, “I’d love to go out there!” Should I be ashamed of myself? We’re just two different animals. He’s not only a good surfer, but he’s not concerned with all the negative connotations that I’ve conjured up in my mind; he’s ready. 

     “Really? Man . . . but it’s just one wave, a lot of competition to get one of those.” We watch the next set. “Look, nothing’s swinging wide; it’s just that one spot.”

     “Yeah . . . but I don’t know, I’d really love to just sit out there even for just an hour; it looks so good.”

     I lead the way back to the wagon, apologizing. I tell him I feel as if I’ve disappointed him, but I don’t think it’s the right day and place to show up to, what looks like, a localized spot and expect to take some off their plate. “I know I’m not gonna catch anything,” I say.

     “That’s okay. I’m definitely coming back!”

     We stop at a couple more places. The next one looks spooky. This big, jagged, square rock is sticking out of the water. No one’s there, but two surfers emerge by us from a hidden trail. This place looks too vertical for a trail. Where the fuck did THEY come from?  

    The second spot has a small handful of surfers sharing a left. It’s so unexpected. The break is literally hiding behind some houses and bushes but at a lower elevation at the base of the hill. We’re about to call it quits before we get to a huge lookout area where we can see the whole South Bay, Torrance to Santa Monica. “Well, let’s have a look,” I say. Francis and I approach the edge looking at another empty cove, but as we get closer to the edge we see about ten longboarders. “Whoa! How’s that?” I say. From our perspective, the incoming waves look like giant, walled-up ripples, but some guys are getting long rides. It’s a weird angle; we’re right on top of them so it’s hard to make out any depth or shape. A long dirt trail snakes around the point. 

     Nicole’s struggling with her booties. Good lord . . . I watch Francis wrestle with her foot, barely getting the neoprene past her heel. “I don’t want to break your ankle,” he says. It’s comical. I’m so anal that I’m usually antsy and quiet which means to hurry up, but today is different; this is a recon, no expectations, going with the flow, surf or no surf we are still accomplishing something. 

     How the hell can I have been in SoCal this long without making my way down this very trail. It’s not L.A., it’s not Porto, and it’s not like anything I usually surf. The vantage point looking over the ocean; the dark, shadowy rocks; the sharpness; the remoteness; the feeling of isolation; the smooth cobblestones that make-up the shore line; the towering, massive cliff that shoots up from the jagged point; the sun’s rays illuminating the moisture at the base of the cove. I hate to get corny and over-romanticize, but I was so close to not seeing this today. I think about the morning, how I didn’t paddle out. What if I did? I would’ve been at home on the PS3 while all this would’ve existed, would’ve been here, and I wouldn’t have cared one drop of ball-sweat. I, the surfer, the imitation traveler, assuming that I’ve surfed my fair share of what’s breath-taking and gorgeous would have been missing out on all of this. . . . I’m a fucking idiot. My walk turns into a jog over the hard, crumbly dirt. Nicole and Francis are way back there somewhere; I can’t even see them. And there isn’t much of a crowd, just a good handful of longboarders. I see a guy get a long left. Yes . . . lefts! I haven’t surfed an evening session in months, so the atmosphere’s inviting. Kelp, cobblestones, dead-wind, still water, the smell of salt and decay, I’m in heaven. I signal to Francis that I’m paddling out ahead of him. I follow another guy entering the water because I have zero local knowledge. The sun illuminates the moisture, causing a thick, peach-colored, mist to paddle through. Even the water looks peach, and the vegetation and dark red soil in the cliff above gives a majestic backdrop. Since the waves are breaking mooshy, the duckdives are easy. It’s almost questionable to be on a shortboard because everyone’s on logs, but I make it out just fine. Avoiding the main peak, I sit away from the crowd, hoping that something swings wide. I see a long, four-foot, wall forming in the distance, and forgive me for idealizing the moment, but I am thee only one near the shoulder; Motherfucker, I am the shoulder! Francis and Nicole are just making their way out, and I drop into a slopy, forgiving left that builds into a long, slow section that I pump down. My turns suck on my frontside, but I manage a half turn down the face before kicking out. Just the fact the wave was clean, and I had it all to myself makes me stoked beyond words. Also, it’s such a different wave from Manhattan, so refreshing. I’m in my own world . . . living, smiling. I see Francis paddling. He’s towing Nicole behind him. We smile and laugh, and then he drops her off just outside the crowd. 

     I catch a similar wave—glorious. The second wave of the set is heading straight for Nicole. I see her ditch her board. The third wave just breaks past her, and she’s off of her board holding on to it. When the third wave comes, she turns around and catches the whitewater in. As she passes I yell, “Nicooooooole!” She hasn’t surfed in a while. 

     Francis paddles up and asks what happened to her. The first forty-five minutes of the session is straight-up buffet status. No one else wants to sit wide. So many waves break late that even the longboarders scratch-out, and there I am, solo: napkin tucked in, fork in one hand, knife in the other, and ready to indulge. No breakthrough rides, just clean, long, slow, easy waves all to myself. Towards the second half of the session my spot turns off, and Francis turns on. The waves are breaking more towards the outside, and I watch Francis launch his backside attack, unleashing at least two buckets out the back on each wave. It’s a score; we both score. Sitting together, all we can do is glance at each other, smile, and shake our heads in approval. It seems meant-to-be; it feels like fiction; this shouldn’t be real. 

     We have to call-it at 1600 because I have to be in the OC in two hours. I’m quietly stoked as we make our exit, but I head up in front of the couple, solemnly reflecting on the day’s events with the setting sun beading on my neck and back. 

BALANCE:

     My energy changes; I’m rushed. I’m late for tonight’s sushi man-date. I drop off Nicole and Francis with quickness, and then I’m off to pick up Boris. From Boris, I pick up Dan in Gardena. From Gardena, I stop off at the Bella Terra in HB to pick up Tim. We show up to our famed sushi spot an hour late to meet Sebastian. Tim starts off with an order of twenty muscles. 

    The waitress is new; she doesn’t know us. “Twenty?” she asks. 

     “Yes,” says Tim.

     “Twenty? All now or later?”

     “Now.”

     We splurge. And oh, my word, there’s nothing like all you can eat sushi after a surf session. Plate after plate, we keep them coming. After the first hour they keep asking if we want the bill or still have an order coming. People filter out as new diners enter, and we still remain. Tim leans in and says, “They’re charging extra.”

     “What?”

     “A couple tables, they didn’t eat all their food.”

     How dare they desecrate the art of power-eating AYCE sushi. Amateurs. . . 

You don't wanna know. . . .

     Late Christmas gifts are exchanged. It’s been so long since we’ve all been together at once. And finally there’s the long drive home. It was an early morning with a local patrol, followed by a chance-score at a new spot, and then sushi with my closest friends that I consider my family. It’s been such a long day, so perfect and unbelievable. This is the way life should be.