SURF AND SPLURGE, WED 11JAN2012 MOR

Loc: HB

Crew: Francis

Time: 0715-1015

Conditions: Overcast, hazy, glassy, dead-wind, high tide, semi-consistent, 3-4 ft with occasional 5, fast, hollow on the bigger sets.

     I wonder if I’ve been surfing too much. After returning from Oceanside yesterday, Francis asked where we should surf. Since there’s a small south in the swell, I thought that HB would be a good call—more chance for some combo peaks, and the sandbars are much better there anyway. Unfortunately, Khang couldn’t roll, so it was just us two.

     I’ve barely slept four hours, but Francis calls; he’s outside. It’s 0555. I should be a zombie, but I manage to get all my gear and head downstairs in minutes. Francis is driving this morning, thank goodness. He says, “Matt, have a donut.”

     “Awwww, man . . . that’s gonna make me shit . . . okay.” It tastes like bread that’s been soaked and fried in sugar. “Is this Krispy Kreme’s?” I ask as I furiously suck my fingers.

     “No, 7-Eleven.”

     I’ve been driving a lot, so I welcome the change of sitting shotgun. We’re not expecting much, as the swell is backing off, and despite the forecast I’m only anticipating three-feet. 

     When we park and look at the surf, it looks a little walled and consistent. The tide is still at mid level. At least it’s not flat. On our way back to the truck Francis tells me that he took the best shit of the year yesterday morning at the airport. It was from the pizza and ice cream with brownies that we had the other night. Just as I pull up my wetsuit it hits me. I feel a fecal tsunami rush-up against my backdoor. There’s no way. Fuckin’ donut. The bathrooms are a short jog away from the truck. I play with the idea of just shitting on the sand somewhere or under the lifeguard tower, but I don’t want shit remnants floating around in my wetsuit. I tell him to go ahead as I jog to the restrooms. It’s a good thing that I do. So much comes out. It’s like an iceberg, protruding out of the water. As uncomfortable as it is to take a crap with a wet wetsuit around my ankles, I now feel like a million bucks, ready to surf. 

     It’s a mellow morning on different accounts. For one, it’s overcast. Even though the sun is up, the haziness of it all gives off a lethargic mood, like one of those mornings when you look out the window and decide to stay home. Also, the water’s really glassy; there’s no wind at all. The glassiness and gray skies are almost mirror images. Other than a couple small ripples, it’s hard to tell where the horizon ends and begins, let alone any waves that might be approaching. Lastly, the crowd. . . . I don’t know if people got turned-off by the high tide, but where is everyone? Even River Jetties only has a few heads. Other surfers are around, but they are all spread out. We have the surf to ourselves. 

     Surprisingly, the fading swell is still lingering pretty strong. There are just as many four-foot waves as there are three-foot waves. The sets that break on the outside are an easy five-feet and hollow. The swell direction must be good because there are peaks everywhere. 

     After an initial lull, Francis and I go to work. There are so many pick-and-choose corners that it turns into a wave fest. We get a variety of rides. Some are fast and steep but bog out after the second turn. Some are mooshy, long, and weak. The only thing that bothers me about this session is that I can’t find much to write about it. We surfed for about three hours, and into the third hour we become exhausted. As the tide rises, the paddle back to the lineup gets longer and longer. Also, the rogue sets are breaking so far out, that it’s an easy, four-wave duckdive session over a long distance.

    

Failed Bombs:

     I have a couple good wipeouts early. Unlike Trestles, you really don’t want to catch a wave here late. The earlier, the better. Even though the rogue sets are only five feet, they are a powerful, lip-slamming five-feet. They break so far outside that, if you want to catch the wave, you have to paddle your hardest to go out and meet it or else you’ll be too deep. On a couple I don’t make it out far enough, and I get pitched on the attempted “turn and go.” A wave that still haunts me is from the biggest, three-wave set of the day. I paddled towards the shoulder but I’m too deep. The second one is even bigger, but it breaks a little further out so I’m too deep again. Francis is on the inside making his way out, and he has front row seats to watch me catch the last one. Another guy tries to snake me, so I  drop-in just a little deeper than him. There is almost no shoulder to this wave. The drop is literally the barrel. The wave stands vertical as I pop up, and I’m sliding down the tight shoulder thinking about how I’m going to stall, but I fucking purl. A small group of guys see this from another peak. I can only smile at Francis as he paddles by. “Did you feel it spit?” he asks.

     “Nah. . . .”

     “Yeah, the wave spit out as you fell.”

     “Fuck!” I paddle with him with a defeated smile. “That one’s gonna haunt me for the whole day, I know it . . . I’m gonna take that one home with me.” 

     The natural reaction is to be anxious for another similar set, but it never comes. I think about how much I want to get barreled, and the failed opportunity kills me but then I think about the Wounded Warriors from yesterday. My mood changes from disappointment to gratefulness, and that’s not like me at all (if you know me, you know this is true). Instead of focusing on my failure, I’m just happy that I had the opportunity to try. 

     My last memorable wipeout is with me going over the falls; it’s my first time. It’s like being submerged in water, but you’re in the air, and the water is more like a waterfall that pours down on you as you’re falling.  

     On another left, going backside, Francis grabs rail and angles his whole body until he’s slotted tightly into the almond, but he gets pinched right at the end. It’s good to surf with someone who charges; he makes me want to surf harder when I see him go. 

All it takes is that one, asshole seal:

     There are a lot of dolphins this morning as well as a couple seals. The water just a couple feet away from me starts to stir. I panic and nearly fall off my board, and then a big, brown belly of blubber surfaces. Goodness. I don’t like those kinds of surprises in the water. The last time a dolphin scared the shit out of me was at Bay St. years ago. I try to yell out to Francis to tell him what happened, but he’s far away, so I watch the seal swim off towards another surfer. The seal disappears and does the same exact thing to the other guy. He freaks out, splashes, and even after he sees it’s not a shark he still paddles away with purpose. Seals . . . they’ve gotta be fucking with us.

The right way to end it:

     I can’t describe a whole series of waves like I usually do, but in three hours we catch enough waves that we’re worn out. Francis later tells me that he was sitting on the sand earlier because he was done, but it looked so fun that he came back. The thing is that HB isn’t a wave machine. There are lulls, but never long enough to question the surf. Also, sometimes the surf does turn-on to the point that we have to miss waves too. The ocean setS the tone. The ideal session is one in which the waves conform to the surfer, where everything is “meant to be,” timed right, or a gamble on where to sit transforms into a memorable ride. Today it isn’t about “us.” Put it this way. . . . Usually a surfer leaves after conditions deteriorate: onshore wind, mooshiness, decreased wave size, poor shape, crowds, and closeouts. However, the waves never stop coming; the wind never changes, and the water is still glassy as a lake. Even the high tide has no effect on the waves. How often do you paddle out in good conditions only to leave while the conditions are just as good if not better? 

     Francis is waiting on shore, and I’m trying to get my last one. It feels like a long lull. That could be it . . . no more. Randomly, a bump starts to form towards the outside, so I paddle. I’ve tried to pick off lefts the whole morning to work on my frontside turns, and this wave is another one. I’m trying to make it count, so I drop-in just behind the shoulder but not too deep. The instant pitch sends me flying down the line. The face has a good five-feet to work with. Off of a fast bottom turn, I come back up the face, shift my weight on the tail, and do one of my best frontside carves ever. It’s just the speed; the steep drop sends me flying. I rarely pull-off nice turns going left. The sensation on this wave is so fast and fluid, but yet it only happens in a flash. I need more repetition to know it. Francis critiques my ride and says, “You cut it in the right place, but the way you’re ending it. . . ?” I bogged out and fell at the end, typical for me.

     As we look back at the ocean we watch a couple more waves roll in. Even the crowd thins-out with only a couple guys on the sand warming up. We leave the gold exactly where we found it and how we left it.

Splurge:

     It’s a long drive to Torrance, in fact it’s out of the way of El Segundo completely, but we’re starving. There’s nothing like surf hunger combined with a long drive. We’re not simply hungry; we’re pissed-off, rape your anus hungry. I’ve been going to the Seafood Town Chinese restaurant since I was nineteen. I treat Francis since he drove, and I’ve also been raving about this place to him for months. We order the walnut shrimp, beef chow fun, and eggplant with garlic sauce. 

     We try to eat slowly, but we’re full and packing-up leftovers an hour later. Good surf followed by good food, we’re ready to slip into a coma, not bad for an unsuspecting Wednesday.

WOUNDED WARRIORS, TUE 10JAN2012 MOR

Loc: Camp Pendleton

Crew: Rick

Time: 0730-1300 (surfing and participating)

Conditions: Clear, sunny, cool offshore wind, mooshy, high tide, three feet, consistent.

     I’m slowed down by residue from last night, but it’s 0515, Rick’s on his way, so I have to start moving. Today would have been a day to surf HB with Francis and Khang, but last night Rick gave me an invite to do something different. He asked if I’d be interested in volunteering to assist with the Wounded Warriors program at Camp Pendleton. I’ve only seen articles about it in magazines and some footage on TV. I only think about his invite for a couple seconds, and the only answer I can come up with is “yes.” Normally I have a problem making commitments, always keeping my schedule open until the last minute, but this is different. Surfing is a selfish art/sport, I’v been pretty selfish myself lately, so why not take some off of my plate and give to those who need it? 

     With under five hours of sleep, it’s a brutal drive. Our Starbucks’ coffee starts to kick-in when we reach the OC. It’s about 0630, and the horizon is just giving off its first glow of orange. When we get to Camp Pendleton it’s forty-six degrees. Since the event doesn’t start until 0900, we have some time to surf. 

     The peaks and shoulders are long and racy, but rideable. The waves are a solid three feet-fun size. Rick and I make the whole crowd. Churches looked like a lake when we drove by, so this spot is definitely better. Rick draws first blood, catching a right all the way to shore. I catch a couple that are too fast, and then Rick goes again catching a left all the way to the sand. Today’s waves kind of break like HB. The lump on the surface looks small, but then it just jacks up a foot bigger producing a fast shoulder to pump down. I finally get a wave. The left is fast, but I pump with it the whole time doing a couple check-turns off the lip until it ends. Yes, it’s small, but it’s much better than yesterday’s session, and an empty lineup is priceless. A selfish thought arises: would be nice to just surf all morning and not volunteer. We each get a couple more waves after Rick sees a tent being set up.

Warriors:

     Sitting in a circle with Marines and volunteers, Daniel is the first one to speak. “I can either keep my leg and have no mobility, or chop it off and be able to move around better,” he says. Kevin, Rick, and I are the only noobs, and we’re as attentive to Daniel’s words as everyone else. “So I’m about to lose my leg. I just have to get ready for that. I just want to get through that this year.” After him, it’s the next person’s turn to introduce themselves and say his New Year’s resolution. 

     What did I say? “Get barreled longer than one-point-five seconds.” Sure, it got a laugh or two, but Daniel’s about to lose his fuckin’ leg, and he’s cool as a cucumber. I wonder about my bad attitude after a bad session or when the surf sucks, and meanwhile guys like Daniel are stoked just to attempt to stand up in the whitewater. 

     Rick and I are assigned to help one of the instructors—Anthony. Anthony is taking out Adam; it’s his first time surfing. I saw Adam earlier when he arrived. He was carrying a gigantic foam board. He approached one of the volunteers and said, “Can you help me with this? I only got one arm.” Since Rick and I are new, we don’t have a Marine to ourselves because we have to learn how they instruct. Anthony knows what he’s doing, doubling-up on the foamie with Adam, and then swinging them both around for a little one-foot peeler. Adam only gets to his knees and falls on the inside, but his eyes and smile light up his whole face. Anthony asks if I’m ready to get him a wave. I say yes, but I’m pretty nervous to mess up. It’s one thing to send your buddy purling into the shallows, but I’m really concerned about Adam’s safety. I push him into a wave that walls-up. The fact that I pushed him in at an angle doesn’t help either; I’m a shitty teacher. The wave is breaking on his side, but he somehow, miraculously holds on and gets to shore. He asks for a break after this wave. Anthony tells me all my mistakes.

     We have about fifteen minutes before the next pow-wow, so Rick and I are able to catch a couple waves with the more advanced guys. I get two long lefts that open up. They’re not as fast as earlier, and I’m able to practice my frontside carves, getting two on each wave. They’re fun, not fast enough to get good performance but good enough to make the day.

     The people hosting the event are from the Jimmy Miller Foundation (http://jimmymillerfoundation.org/#). Nancy Miller takes interest on how Rick and I found out about their ocean therapy. We explain how much we surf the military installations and that this is the least we can do to give back. Most of the volunteers here are from the South Bay. Mike is a Vietnam Vet that Klaude introduced me to at 26^th. I meet another local guy named Charlie. He’s usually on a stand-up paddle board, and I’ve seen him many times before. He’s this tall, cut-up dude with this huge tattoo on his back that looks like a tree with leaves spreading out. Carly is a lifeguard from Hermosa Beach, and for the remainder of the event she teaches us noobs how to properly instruct. There is definitely more to pushing someone on a wave when it comes to teaching. She shows us how to wheelie the board over the waves and how to ride on the back, letting go only when the surfer stands. In the midst of our training, we hoot on the other soldiers who catch waves next to us. Even though some have suffered from IED related injuries, others have challenges not visible on the outside, and they are here to benefit from the confidence of catching a wave. I can only imagine what that does for them in their everyday lives. 

     During lunch we all gather in a circle one last time. Anthony expresses his appreciation for Daniel’s visit. With only days before his major surgery he can be anywhere, but he chooses to be with his surf family. Daniel laughs as he tells his story about surfing as a kid only to lose the use of his leg and be forced to surf goofy foot. 

     Rick and I say our goodbyes to Adam and everyone else we met. We throw a couple pizza boxes away and help carry some equipment. Other than my military service, volunteering has never been in my nature, but for the whole ride home all we can talk about is how good this experience was. Rick says, “That could’ve been me needing help to catch a wave.” He’s been retired for some time, but I see his point. Last night I wondered if I made the right decision, being concerned with catching my own waves for me, me, me. Even in the morning, I hoped Rick would look at me and say, “Nah, let’s just enjoy the surf.” That was pretty selfish—shameful. I’ve never thought about the other card, seeing soldiers with physical limitations, some with missing or nonfunctional limbs, still scraping, scratching, doing their best to paddle, and stand up on white wash that’s barely a foot high. These are the waves that I spit and shit on, discarded as useless and a waste of surf. From each of these waves, they turn around, determined to face the ocean for another ride. If they live in pain, it’s hard to tell from the joy on their faces. Even if they don’t stand or wipeout, they only suffer from a common surf syndrome: one more wave. I have so much in my surfing life, bitching and crying because the shape sucks, while some of these guys are trying to surf when they can barely walk. How could I ever complain about a session now? What blows my mind is Daniel . . . he’s about to lose his leg, and he’s already making plans on when he’ll be surfing again. I could’ve missed-out on all of this: the people, the energy, the inspiration, the beauty of those overcoming insurmountable odds, and how the smallest wave contains the power to affect lives. Now I can see. Each wave means so much more now, not the turns or barrels that I’ve obsessed about. I can be on it. I can surf it. That’s all that matters. 

GOODBYE VIOLENCE, MON 09JAN2012 MOR

Crew: Francis

Time: 0815-1015

Conditions: Clear, sunny, cool air and water, mooshy, high tide, three feet, inconsistent.

     Khang’s probably somewhere down there. We planned to surf before 0700, but I’m late. I’ve been so unreliable this winter break. Also, this morning’s a little cool. The last couple days have been in the fifties, but my temp gauge read forty-six degrees before leaving the house. The surf looks smaller, and I don’t expect much until I see the locals on a peak just north of 26^th. Don, Roy, and Bruce are on it, but it’s one of the only good peaks left. The tide has drowned out everything else, and other than a few random pulses most of the waves break late and onto the shore. I don’t see Khang anywhere, but I paddle just outside the pack. . . . Nothing, I don’t catch shit. 

     Francis works his way down sometime after 0830. He says that he got worked on Saturday. “I had to try three times,” he says. “I tried over here twice, couldn’t make it out. Then I went more south and paddled out there, but I had to ditch my board like three times.”

     “Was anyone else out?”

     “Most of the locals were in the lot. When they saw me going out, they were like, ‘Good luck.’”Francis is gnarlier than I am, so if he had a hard time I know I would’ve been eating shit. 

     The place is pretty empty, but the few longboarders on the outside paddle into the waves early. I even have to back-out from an SUP guy. I have a feeling it was good before the tide rose. 

     “I’m gonna stay until the tide drops, about 1000,” says Francis. I can’t tell if the tide’s lowering, but there’s a short, fifteen minute window when it gets pretty consistent. The waves look walled, but the mooshiness holds their shape. However, they only get fun when they’re right over the sand; it actually gets a little hollow but way too risky. My rides end in calf-deep water. Out of the two of us, Francis is getting the most out of the conditions. I watch him get a handful of two-turn waves, even one final turn right over the sand. We have a chance at going back-to-back. He catches the first long wave of a set, and I paddle into the second one, but I pump too high and accidentally kick out. Another surfer on my outside is pissed; he backed out of it for me. Oh well. 

     I find that the reason I’m cold is because there’s a tear in my chest seal; this sucks. I got this wetsuit replaced by O’Neill over the summer. I know I’ve been surfing a lot, but I expected it to last longer. I hate that trickle of cold water that runs down my chest on every duckdive, and this is my thickest wetsuit too—3.5, 2.5. I go through wetsuits pretty quickly. 

     We’re done. When we call for our last waves, Francis gets three before I get mine. It’s a beautiful day; that’s all we can say. I later find out that Khang didn’t go, but he didn’t miss anything anyway.

DARK FACES (double sesh), FRI 06JAN2012 EVE

Crew: Solo

Time: 1415-1630

Conditions: 4-6 ft with occasional 7, glassy, consistent, light cloud cover, still sunny, warm, and crowded.

     I do my best to take a nap. Really, I should have brought my beach umbrella, chair, sleeping mat, anything that would’ve kept me from sleeping in the driver’s seat. I usually get skunked when I pack for the day; I didn’t want to jinx myself. 

     It’s been a while since I’ve seen the tide this low. Cobblestones are exposed for a long way out before touching the water. Churches is still consistent with fewer heads out now, and the size seems to have tapered down a bit. I feel fresh, rejuvenated, and reenergized after my rest, but the definite goal is to try and find some surf to myself. Since there’s no south in the swell, north Churches and south Middles isn’t working so well, but the break in front of the BP (center of Middles) has a couple of peaks. The crowd here is thin as well, and the surf has dropped down to a mellow three to four feet. It’ll be an easy evening. I paddle out and share the lineup with only five other guys, but the peaks here run away a little fast, so I begin to inch my way in front of the cliffs where another peak is working. Even Lowers isn’t that packed. I play chess with a couple surfers, even a chick. We’re all trying to sit in the right spot, but it’s not aggressive; we all get our turns. The rides aren’t as long as the morning, and three turns is the longest ride I can get. 

     However, the changing conditions catch me off guard. As the tide push begins, the wave size picks up again too. Just when I thought things were dying-off I see bigger waves breaking closer to Lowers again like the morning. After a small wave that dumps me in front of the BP I tell myself that I’ll paddle my way over there, but the cliffs turn on, and I just can’t pass the smaller waves up. On top of that, I’m exhausted. That MRE didn’t give me as much fuel as I thought. I also haven’t pulled a double session in a while, so I just feel really sluggish. People start lapping me; I feel my upper back muscles tighten. I finally tell myself to pass on the smaller waves, take breaks, and that I’ll eventually make my way there. 

     I thought I felt a sideshore wind blowing from the north, north east, but in the ocean I can barely feel it. The water is still glassy, the atmosphere mellow with a medium crowd. I never thought I’d make it, but I cover enough distance to sit where I want. My fatigue gives me patience, as I’m not ready for another long paddle yet. 

     The ocean looks different now because of the sun. Far on the outside they start rolling in. You know that there’s size because the sun goes behind the waves as soon as they pickup. All you can see are dark faces coming towards you.

Wave of the day:

     Unfortunately, my GoPro battery is dead, so I’m surfing with this useless, big piece of jewelry on my wrist. I wonder if it’s throwing my surfing off or not. My session this evening is definitely not as active as my morning one, but my strategy still comes through. As expected, a peak breaks wide where I’m all alone to get it. Usually though, there is at least someone nearby that’s too deep to go, but this time around I am literally alone. As the wave picks up I can see the base gain some depth; it’s turning darker which means it’s not as mooshy. I actually say something to myself as I dart towards it: “You see that right there, that’s heaven right there.” I catch this one late and deep like my morning rides, and now that the sun’s not blinding me I can see the wave more. The drop is smooth, long, and dark—marble like. Coming off my first top turn I’m approaching the inside crowd. I cut back a little, pump, and set up my next drop as to avoid collisions. I’m not used to an audience, but anyone getting a ride at the top of the wave here gets under the spotlight regardless. I can’t say that it boosts my ego in any way because all I can think of is not falling. I can tell the wave is about six feet because, even with this forgiving shape, I can sense that my turns are more critical, have more speed, and there’s more risk of an awkward wipeout if I make a mistake. A random surfer hoots me on as I set up my bottom turn. I do my best to delay my hack until I’m as high on the wave as I feel comfortable with. Leaning my weight back down after the hook, I find myself reentering the wave successfully. It’s a long ride. After my next two turns my thighs start burning. I didn’t realize how much it works your legs when you’re crouching on the bottom turns, especially if you have speed it’s like there’s some G-force working against you. I’m still passing people paddling out. After my fourth turn I trim high on the lip and walk towards the nose. “I’m fuckin’ tired!” I yell out. There are at least two turns left on the wave, but I turn around to face it and step off the rail to end my ride.

     I’m so stoked but tired too. And after all that work to get to my spot, I find myself right in front of the BP again. It’s a long ass paddle back. 

     I can’t find exactly where I was sitting last because, well . . . the evening shift finally arrives. Again, everyone is fighting for scraps while more surfers sit towards the inside; every angle’s covered, but I’m still stoked off my last ride. Easily, I tell myself that I can go home happy even if I don’t get another one. Now I’m forced to sit with a pack. A surfer looks back at me, looks away, turns around again and asks, “Hey, was that you about ten minutes ago going backside on that wave?”

     “Haha, yeah, that was me.”

     “Awww, man, that was sick.”

     I laugh and smile back. “Thanks, man! You know, I can’t really tell from my perspective on the wave. It felt like it was good but I didn’t know how it looked.”

     “Awww, man, you hit it perfectly when you came up, hooked it in the right spot, and then it went ‘pshhhh!’” He makes a hand gesture on top of his other hand and spreads his fingers out as he makes the noise. His other friend is looking at us and smiling too. 

     “Thanks, man. That’s what I’ve been trying to do. I was worried—“ A wave pops up right in front of us. “Here you go.” The guy and his buddy paddle for it but scratch out while I continue my journey closer to Lowers. 

     It makes no sense to sit in this spot. I’m too deep to go for the wide ones, and I’m too close to Lowers to get any leftovers; I have to surf Lowers. I’ve tried this many times: try to steal a golden nug from the main pack, but every try has been unsuccessful. I inch my way closer. I pass on a couple opportunities; it’s just too thick. There’s the mad scramble as the waves approach, and surfers here would run-over their grandmas, let alone a scavenger like me. On a couple waves I paddle, but someone on my inside has it. If we both drop in it’s a guaranteed accident. On another wave the guy scratches out, and I curse myself for not going. 

     Finally it’s do or die. I am at the main peak. Every big, dark face has a swashbuckling scallywag racing towards it, but after the set it’s only me and a couple guys sitting outside. My eyes are wide open; I can feel my heart beat. For the regulars here this is nothing, but I’ve always frothed at the thought of catching one of these gems, to be one of those guys that catches a wave from the top of Lowers all the way to the inside of Middles; that’s a long fuckin’ ride. People sitting towards the inside don’t want to venture out towards us, and the guys that were just here got some piece of the last wave. As I expect, an outside set approaches. I do my best to gain position that gives me priority. I paddle out to meet it but a little too far, so I scratch out which places me closer to the inside. When I turn around I’m too deep for the second wave of the set, so I have to duckdive it. Now . . . for the last wave it’s me and another guy, but since he’s on the outside he gets better position. I still paddle for it, hoping that he won’t make it, and then an old guy next to me says, “Don’t go, it’s too steep, you’ll hit him.” I pull back and the other guy makes it; he was right. He looks like Super Mario, plumber stash and all. Damn, I just really want one. 

     In an attempt to give myself priority, I paddle a little north just past the peak. I want to be deeper than everyone else to catch that right; it’s my only chance. When the next big wave comes I’m sitting too deep, but I go for it anyway. Someone drops in on me, but it doesn’t matter because I’m too far behind the section; I straighten out. After I get off the wave I look outside and decide not to paddle back; I’m tired. 

     Walking on the shore away from my favorite surf spot, I wonder if I should just surf Middles until it’s dark, but something comes over me. I’ve been here all day for the most part alone. I won’t be seeing Lauren this weekend, so I just want to go home. I talk to another guy parked next to me; he’s packing up too. “Yeah,” he says. “Tomorrow . . . it’s going to be crowded.” 

  

     Just as I’m shutting all my doors the guys who I saw earlier walk by and say, “Hey! Wave of the day, see you later!” I wish them a “good one” and begin my drive home. Completely beached, drained, and worn out, I listen to some Barrington Levy on the stereo. Traffic is light, it’s dark out, and I’m quiet. I reflect on the day’s events; it almost feels like they didn’t happen. I feel like a great tale is being compacted into my mind in fragments. How was that wave I got? Too many turns to sort out and enough waves that I can’t remember them all. And how about those faces? Some I darted towards, passed up, or watched others ride them a long way. Somewhere in there I got my rides as well, but on this journey home I’m so silent, becoming immersed in the deep base of roots reggae. I give up. It’s just too much to fuckin remember. Continuing on the 405 N I stare at the road. It’s a quiet drive home.