DEJA VU, FRI 10FEB2012 MOR

Ports Mc'Gorts

Crew: Fransauce & Khang

Time: 0830-1030

Conditions: High tide, offshore, 5 ft, walled with some shoulders, inconsistent.

     I’ve been lying around here all day feeling like shit. Here we go. . . .

     My relationship with my girlfriend is now in its final stages. Still, I wake up to Rick’s call. He’s at the Manhattan Beach Starbucks, telling me that he’s going to check out Hermosa with Gary. He says that the swell at Porto is still macking and that it’s walled. 

     By the time I load up the car, Rick gives me another call. He’s at Knob Hill. “It’s only chest high he says. Go and check out Porto.” I’m perched by the rocks on the bike path at 45^th. The lots only a quarter full, and there are only a few heads in the lineup. Everyone popping-up is forced to kick-out or go straight; it’s just a little too walled. The shoulders only form when the wave is already half way to shore. 

     At 26^th I’m looking at the surf with local old-timer and Vietnam Vet Mike. It’s about a foot smaller, still a little walled, but it looks more manageable. I call Rick and tell him I’m gonna paddle out here. Khang pulls up just as Francis calls. I also send a courtesy text to Shan to let him know where we’re surfing. 

     I’m on the DMS board. I’m trying to adjust to this smaller board; it’s time. I’ve had a lot of time riding the JS since my brother bought it for me last Christmas. It’s a beginner shortboard, 6’3, narrow as hell, but with a little meat on it. The DMS is a 6’1 and much thinner. 

     Don and his league of extraordinary rippers own the main peak, so Khang and I sit just to their north. One of them gets a little cover-up, going left, riding the highline. I have to kick out on my first couple rides. I’m still getting my board wired, as I fail to adjust going backside, accidentally going over and out the back from the speed. I do get a decent left. It’s a really long ride, but it’s all pumping, fading out, keeping momentum, and taking it to shore. On the inside, I watch Khang get two turns, ending his left with a little wrap-around cutback. I acknowledge his ride, but he dismisses it; he wants a better one. 

     Francis is easy to spot, but he sits just north of 33^rd. For the whole session, we never get in reach of Frans; we just wave our arms to him the whole time. I do see him on some waves, so I understand that he doesn’t want to move. 

Wave of the Day:

     Khang and I have been watching Don’s marauders score nice lefts all morning. There’s that guy with the orange and white wetsuit. He’s a little older, but he throws-out heavy buckets on every one of his turns. Khang says, “Dude, those four guys are the ones that rip the most . . . and Randy.”

     “Yeah, that’ll be us one day.” I say this jokingly because there’s no guarantee that we’ll ever fill those shoes.

     “For sure.”

    

     Even though we’re not in prime position, a wall forms in the distance. Khang’s a little too deep, but I can make it to the shoulder. A surfer on my outside is positioning for it, watching, and hoping I don’t get in. 

     One good thing about the DMS is its length. Those couple inches make a difference. I don’t pop-up too far in front, and I find my back foot right on the tail where it needs to be. 

     I make my way to the open face, and the wave begins to stand up. It almost looks like there’s potential for some cover-up, but I’m already carve-committed. There’s a bit of a breakthrough here. Usually my forehand top-turns are flat, resulting in lost momentum. For the first time, I rebound off the lip with speed and find myself being projected back down the face. I pull it off again a second and a third time. I don’t really count the fourth turn because it was at the end of the ride and not as good as the last three, but I’m beyond stoked. I know this is a special moment. I yell out to myself with only the oncoming whitewash as my audience. It’s the best wave I’ve had at 26^th in a long, long time.

     It felt like I only had that inside, rear, rail section in the face of the wave, like I was surfing with less of the board. Maybe that was the key? I didn’t put emphasis on pushing the tail through the lip to generate spray, but these were my fasted, frontside turns ever. 

     Khang gives me a thumbs-up in the distance. I return a smile, approvingly nodding my head with my eyebrows raised. “Dude, that was a good wave,” he says. “You got like four turns.” We both catch a couple more waves. He gets his wave of the day, but I miss it. Paddling back towards the outside, we see a 26^th St. phenomenon. A huge wave rolls through the main break; it’s peaky. When it hits the sandbar, it turns hollow, and the lip starts throwing out. In the ten o’clock sun, we see sunlight refracting off the building shoulder, the transparency of the sun through the lip, and the illumination inside the hollow tube. It’s one of the cleanest barrels I’ve seen in the South Bay. Khang says, “That is hands-down the best wave I’ve ever seen here.” I don’t know what happened to Don and his band of thieves, but this wave goes unridden.

     Khang says he’s going for one more, and Francis is still in the distance, most likely scoring. I get a decent carve on another wave. It’s walled, and I only get one turn on it, but it’s a wide, C-like arc. I have another first time experience, actually feeling the fins on this turn. It’s hard to describe, but at the bottom of the carve, it feels like the fins skip underwater, like there is some kind of drag or they get caught. Time to look into fin technology perhaps?

     Khang gets his wave. I struggle to get another good one, so I catch a closeout and do the funky chicken for the locals on the strand. I catch Khang at the showers. Frans is still in the water. “We’re definitely getting better,” says Khang.  

     Back at the house, the day takes another turn. Lauren and I have a serious talk, discussing any possibilities to save our relationship. In the end, I’m not happy, but she is determined to move-out. March twenty-first would have made three years. She was the first woman I ever shared a home with, and it’s been heart wrenching to see our relationship disintegrate before my eyes. This little, one-bedroom apartment was once a happy home. I can imagine how hard it will be when her stuff is gone. To think I complained about her piles of disorganized clothes when I’d do anything to keep that pile here in this house. We had a nice life here in El Segundo, and what now? It’s back to the old me, I guess. I used to live in a shit hole, a studio no larger than my living room. It will probably be that all over again. I’ll move to a bad neighborhood where the rent is nice and cheap. I’ll put most of my shit in storage, only taking the bare necessities. I’ll probably be sleeping on my couch which will double as my bed. I’ll spend more time sleeping in my car overnight at different surf spots to escape from myself. I’ll be plagued with those dreams, dreams of us being together again, only to wake-up lonely as ever within my tight confines, while her fragrance still remains on my pillows. I’ll visit friends, seek consolation, hear the usual, “You’ll be all right; all you need is time.” I’ll say, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know,” but then I’ll come home to a lonely cell. . . . It’s gonna be a rough journey ahead. I hope surfing can save my life.

    

SOUTH BAY TOUR, WED 08FEB2012 MOR

Crew: Fransauce & Khang

Time: 0830-1000

Conditions: High tide, offshore, 5 ft, mooshy, inconsistent.

     This morning was supposed to be big, so I told the fellas that I’d be checking local first at about 0700 and that I would go to PV if it was closed-out here. They agreed to meet.

     I have a hard time falling asleep. My relationship is the worst it’s ever been. On top of that, I have school and military duty this weekend. It sucks, everything sucks. There’s nothing like trying to operate with a fake smile on your face when you have no peace of mind. I’ve had a rough time getting up early to surf lately, but I stumble out of bed by 0645. 

     First, I pull in to Porto. The inside is consistent whitewash. The sets are an easy six feet, and even though they are mostly walled, there are a few soft shoulders. I even step out to the rocks to watch it another ten minutes. It still looks pretty brutal. I think to myself how I’ve surfed my share of days like this; I have nothing to prove. All I really want is shape so I can practice my turns, and even though there are rides, they are mostly closeouts. 

     Khang texts me and says 26^th is legit. I head over there and park on the hill. Surprisingly, it’s nearly a foot smaller here and not as consistent. I watch it for another ten minutes, but I’m picky this morning. The shape is better on the inside. Khang texts me; he’s suiting up. I only realize that he parked right by me when I see him trotting down the hill. Even though surfing local is convenient, my mind won’t let me rest until I see what PV is doing. 

     I glance at the Manhattan Beach Pier, and it looks like the size tapered off more. My instincts tell me that the north part of the bay is bigger. Stubbornly, I work my way through the traffic lights: Hermosa, Redondo, and Torrance. When I stop to take a look at Hags, it’s empty. Fuck. I stop at The Cove. The waves are breaking more towards the inside because of the tide, and all I can see is Indicators. It’s working, but it doesn’t look that big. I drive further to where I’m sitting right on top of surf. There are a bunch of longboarders out, and the tide is making everything slow. These long, dick vein looking, lines start rolling in; it looks soft. Three other guys are by me watching it. They’re all grumbling.

     Driving back to Manhattan Beach, I contemplate on surfing El Porto or 26^th. I have a feeling that Porto is better, but my change tray only has a couple quarters. At 26^th I can’t see the boys anywhere. The conditions seem to have gotten better. Despite the high tide, some pulses break on the outside, and there is some shape in between the walls. On my DMS, I duckdive the waves easily. My first wave is a left, but it’s too racy. Right after that I see Khang. I wave at him, and he paddles up. “Man,” he says, “I just got dropped-in on in the worst way by some fucking eighty-year old guy.”

     “Fuck, did you say anything?”

     “No because he was of the local guys’ friends. I just read your blog too thinking about how Wagner was probably overreacting, but now . . . I can see why.”

     I tell him not to let it upset him. We all get dropped-in on from time to time. He also tells me about his weekend adventure down south. He scored at Cardiff and Del Mar. “It’s so good, but it’s fuckin’ crowded,” he says. He gets the next wave, and I get the one after him. It’s a really long peak, but I’m right on the shoulder. As I pop up, I’m surprised by the speed of my board; it feels different. I do a little check-turn on the lip and try to gather myself. Pumping down the line, I do an ugly carve on the open face. 

     When I paddle back out, I’m by Francis now. We talk for a little bit, and then I get a fast right. Again, I’m off balance; the speed is throwing me off. I hit the lip once but fail to regain my composure for another. Khang paddles up and says, “Duuuuuuude, I got fuckin’ skunked again!” My next wave is a right that I eat shit on. It happens so fast, I blow it but can’t remember how. 

     Francis leads the way back towards 26^th since we drifted to 33^rd. From there, I get my wave of the day. It’s another long peak, and I’m a little deep for the shoulder, but I go anyway. I’m pumping the whole time. I’m surprised at how much speed this potato chip has; I expected it to be slower than the JS. I beat three sections, surpassing the falling lips. I kick-out strong, still standing. It feels triumphant to exit a wave like that, to go from boning out to exiting all slick and shit. No turns, but it was a long ride. 

     The waves get really inconsistent after this. Even Francis puts both of his hands up, gesturing, where the fuck are the waves? When the waves come, I’m either too deep or too far out. Khang’s already on the shore. “Nicole’s on the sand,” says Francis. He catches a closeout in, and it takes another ten minutes before I get mine. It’s a closeout too, but halfway in, I do the funky chicken all the way to shore. 

     I had a feeling that I should’ve just paddled out at Porto this morning, but I couldn’t help it. I’ve scored at PV before, and I hoped it would provide again. I’m still glad I went to take a look. Now I know. Four-to-six feet with a six-foot high tide isn’t good for PV. I can make better judgments next time.

THIS USED TO BE MY PLAYGROUND, MON 06FEB2012 MOR

Crew: Fransauce

Time: 0830-1000

Conditions: High to mid tide, offshore, 5 ft+, WALLED.

     I haven’t seen Francis for a while, so when he said he was surfing this morning, I had to join him. Shan hit me up too, so I told him where we’d be at.

     I have to drop off my sister at the airport for her annual trip to Maui, so I head to 26^th right after. I see Francis’ truck parked by the lifeguard station. After circling around for parking, I finally change and make my way down the hill. Even though I’m far from the ocean, I see Francis on his board with the red trim; it’s so easy to spot. He’s going frontside, pumping furiously down the face of a fast, racy wave. When we meet up, he tells me about his recent trip to Pacifica. Apparently, the water’s twice as cold over there and the waves twice as big. The crowd’s not too bad, which isn’t a surprise because a good wave hasn’t come our way yet. To our north a big right seems to be working. I say “seems” because waves always look better wherever you’re not sitting. Even to the south, the left by Marine looks better. None-the-less, we stick to our guns . . . or should I say, I stick to mine because Francis drifts south, and I don’t see him for the rest of the morning, but before he left he said, “I don’t think I’m gonna stay out here much longer.”

     I try . . . I really try to make the best out of things. There is size; that’s definitely not an issue, but maybe there’s too much size? It’s a shame that this sand bar can’t hold 5-6 feet. The walls don’t look like they have shoulders, but I want them so bad that my mind tells me I have a chance. On every wave that I pop-up on, I can only go straight. On the way back out, a three-wave clean up set comes through. It’s been a while since I’ve took some on the head like this. My brother would be ashamed, but they are so dumpy and easily six feet, that I ditch my board and go under. I usually try to duck, but I’m right in front of the lip. 

     Everyone has the same look on his face: the disappointed lowering of the brow, the look at the watch to kill time, the pointless paddle a couple feet over, and the aimless gaze at the sky. Nope, the surf/shape gods aren’t answering today. On my last closeout, I figure it’s not worth another go-round. I love surfing, and I need to be in the water, but sessions like this do nothing for me.

NO CROWD, NO PROBLEM, SUN 05FEB2012 MOR

Loc: Huntington Beach

Crew: Shan

Time: 0800-1030

Conditions: High to mid tide, mixed conditions with walls and shoulders, 3-4 ft, inconsistent, and EMPTY!

     Gas isn’t cheap nowadays, so I’ve cut down a little on the surf trips. However, I planned to surf HB on Sunday since the swell was increasing another foot. Even though Manhattan Beach was supposed to be bigger, I didn’t want to deal with the bigger crowds. Also, I’m tired of riding walls; I need some turns in my life.

     I send out the bat signal Saturday night. Klaude says he’s staying local to coach a basketball game. Khang and DK are in San Diego for a Super Bowl party. Francis is up north. Rick can’t go, and Dais is going to Santa Barbara with his girlfriend. Cheryl shoots me a text, asking where I’m gonna surf. I extend the invite, but she says, “Thanks for the offer. I think I’ll stay local. Huntington’s waves are so fast.” I missed Shan’s call on Friday, so I call him to see if he’s free.

     It’s 0715 when I pick him up. He’s living in his RV for the weekend that’s parked off of Rosecrans. I can’t remember the last time I surfed with Shan, but a lot has changed since then. We catch up with each other. He tells me about Veronica, and I tell him how Lauren and I are doing. He also fills me on his photography travels. Over the last couple months he’s surfed Honolua Bay and Pipe. 

     Turns out Shan bought an RV, the ultimate SBV (Surf Bum Vehicle). He says he’s taken it up north and surfed different spots along PCH, but that he hasn’t surfed in three weeks. I admit that I contemplated buying an RV when I was in Iraq, and in a way . . . I’m jealous. And then again, I do like space. There’s something about cooking eggs and bacon, butt naked in a big kitchen, with your balls hanging out that spells: FREEDOM.

    

     I brag about the state parking pass that I bought, but as we drive closer to the entrance, we notice that all the lots are packed with cars. They’ve even put a LOT FULL sign on the street. The state employee tells us there’s a marathon, and that all the lots are closed. So far for the parking pass. 

     Keeping stride, we park a couple blocks away. There’s no rush because we need the tide to go down. It feels like an easy Sunday. Like last week, there’s only a faint hint of offshore wind. The sun’s out, and it’s warm. Shan still ops to put on his booties and gloves. I imagine what my brother would have said at the sight of that. 

     My expectations are low. Even though we’re not at the water yet, I have a feeling that it’s not as congested as the South Bay. As soon as we hump over the sand, we see a vast and empty lineup. There are a few heads at the river jetties and a few dots north. The lot closure and marathon interferes with parking so much that it keeps the surfers away. We watch the water for a bit. The peaks are scattered, not making one spot standout more than the other. Unfortunately, the waves don’t have their peaky, defined, HB signature because they’re a little walled, but they still have corners at the end; you just need to be in the right place.  

     When we get to the lineup we notice we’ve drifted. “Watch the current,” I tell Shan. He hasn’t surfed for three weeks, so he’s in for a workout. 

     The tide keeps the waves from standing up. My timing’s off on my first attempts, scratching-out because I’m not deep enough, and then there’s a lull. “It was bigger when we first got here,” says Shan, but I have to remain optimistic. I’m sure there’s something. It’s inconsistent, but the first pulse comes. I get on the shoulder for a decent left. No turns yet, just trimming. A half-hour later is when the window starts to open. I get the jump on an outside wave, and I’m right on the shoulder before it jacks up. It’s four-feet, and four-feet at HB is fast. I do a small turn and set myself up for a carve. The extra foot makes a difference, as I’m bracing a lot of momentum going back up the face. I start my downturn onto the shoulder, but it’s a little too vertical. I lose balance from the speed and fall backwards, keeping my feet on the board. It looks like a deflated layback snap. Only if I knew how to shift my weight better, the potential for this rippable wave is unreal. 

     Shan and I spend most of the morning apart. I use the current as exercise, staying in front of our assigned tower. Other surfers pass by, letting the current take them. Shan’s trying. He’s paddling, but every time a wave comes our distance increases. I let him have a couple. I pass up my priority and tell him to go. He scratches out or waits too late. “I’m still trying to figure this place out,” he says. When I first surfed here I got my ass kicked, plenty. This is a different wave, so I understand. 

     The offshores are helping. I catch a right which is a pure wall, but the wind is holding it up. I climb the face twice, doing shallow little hacks on the lip. 

     My wave of the day is a really long right. No bullshit, like five baby turns all the way to shore. I don’t want to exaggerate. It’s just under four feet, and my turns are small because I keep expecting to bog out, but I don’t. Usually I try to put a little English on my backhand to throw a little spray, but I’m more surprised that the wave is pushing me down the line and that I’m not stalling over the lip. It’s a lazy effort on my part, probably due to having the place to ourselves. In a way it’s refreshing—no crowd, no pressure, no rush, just fun.

     At about 1000 the wind switches to onshore, but it’s still light. It’s the lowering tide that affects the shape. Walking back to the car, we see surfers just arriving. Shan and I are lucky we caught the right window.

     We head up the street for some chicken pho that’s only $3.50. We also order a side of spring rolls, and the bill is barely over ten bucks. Shan spots since I drove. When I drop him off, he invites me in his RV for a beer. I awake hours later, naked, with a sore anus. Actually, that part’s not true.    

     Klaude calls me later and says he got a couple long rides at 26^th. Rick says that the shape was good at Porto, but that it was a zoo. Right now, what I need from surfing is isolation and peace. HB gives me just that. Also, the shape helps. It was a good call.