A WEEKEND AT TRESTLES 2012 (Part VI): LAST OF THE MOHICANS, MON 26MAR2012 MOR

Location: Lowers

Crew: Francis, Michelle, Al

Conditions: Clean, offshore, sunny, warm, inconsistent, weird, 4-5+ ft.

     It’s 0545, but I still wake up with ease. Sebastian didn’t have bad gas last night, so I don’t have Argentine farts in my breath. I climb down and hear Michelle rustle around in her sleeping bag. It’s cold and wet when I step outside. There are patches of dark clouds with patches of light, and the wind is offshore but strong. I wonder if the forecast for a clear morning is off. My towel and wetsuit are still damp, so I jump in the wagon and put the heater on, throwing my wetsuit on the floor board. After drinking the whole weekend, I definitely feel like shit this morning. Light drops of rain fall against the windshield. It’s so easy to go back in the trailer and fall asleep, but how can I? It’s like going to Disneyland and not going on any rides, like going to Amsterdam and no smoking any weed, or like going to the porn shop without rubbing one out in the video booth. 

     Al walks up to my window. I roll it down. “Where’s Francis?” he asks. 

     “What, I thought he was sleeping next to you.”

     “He’s not there.”

     “Oh . . . he’s probably in his truck.”

     I step out to change and see Michelle looking at the waves. I tell her I’m going for it and that I’ll meet them in the water. I’m expecting the wind to change, so I need to paddle out while it’s still offshore. It’s light out by the time I walk up to Francis’ truck. His windows are foggy, but I see him in there, so I knock on his window. He waves at me but doesn’t open the door. That’s odd. I figure he’s really tired, so I continue my journey.

     It’s a disappointing walk. Yesterday, everyone was talking about how today would be it: post storm surf, south swell, clean, lined-up waves. The surf is jumbled at Churches. Middles is just as disappointing. The SS kicks in. I try to build the waves up in my mind, telling myself that that little, tapered shoulder is good for some turns, but I know it’s not. 

     Lowers is empty, and no one else is on the sand with me. Only at Uppers I see a couple guys. Another surfer stands on the sand with his board in hand, going through similar contemplations. How could Lowers be completely empty? I hate to say it, but if a couple guys were out, my attitude would be: Oh hell no, I ain’t gonna let them have it to themselves.   

     The wind dies even more; it turns calm. The sun comes out; it’s warm. But the waves . . . the waves are scattered: swinging wide, inside, outside, and so peaky that they look like traffic cones. There’s the initial drop, but the shoulder tapers away so much that it bogs out. Lowers never breaks like this. It’s already past 0700, but I’m still staring at this spot, not accepting that it’s terrible. I walk a little south to north middles and see a couple rights that look better. I paddle out there.

     Even at Middles, the attraction of Lowers is too much. I find myself heading in that direction. When I see a couple guys on the sand checking it out, I get territorial; I have to make this spot work. It’s a frustrating start, scratching out on my first attempts. My first left is peaky, and I’m sent down the line with speed. The shoulder mooshes out into nothing, but I still try to carve it. It was like turning on a flat surface. Skateboarding, but it was still fun. 

     Francis appears to my south first, and then Michelle and Al join us. We comment on the conditions: clean, but breaking really weird. Francis is the first to get a legit wave, a right that he catches all the way to shore. So does Al, and Michelle and I catch a couple boggers. She’s charging on the peaks which actually have some size. She’s one of us. 

     About three more guys join us, and despite the weird waves, one of them is still making it work, throwing spray out the back for a couple turns. I get a couple waves with some pumpy, connecting sections but no carves. 

     Francis says that he needs to head in to get ready for his job. The wind shifts to the south anyway, so I let Al and Michelle know that I’m catching one in. We wait for them on the sand, but they’re still going for more. 

     “What happened to you last night?” I ask Francis.

     “Oh. Al was snoring too loud.”

     “Really?”

     “Yeah.”

     We walk the soft, muddy trail, careful not to sink. “You should’ve just woke his ass up. That’s what I used to do. He’s cool with it.”

     

     There’s no breakfast feast. Gary and Seba are cleaning up the trailer, and I down seven mint Oreos with milk for a quick snack. Michelle and Al return and get cleaned up. Francis leaves, and now there are only four of us left to enjoy this sunny morning. Despite the winds, the surf cleans up, and Old Mans has some fun looking lefts. The sun’s shining even brighter. It’s Sebastian, Al, Gary, Michelle, and me sitting at the picnic table.

     I turn to Michelle and say, “So, I’m gonna see what your shit looks like. We have to go to the drain station and dump out the trailer.”

     “I didn’t shit in the trailer.”

     “You didn’t?”

     “No.”

     “Oh. . . .” I turn to Gary. “Did you shit in the trailer?”

     “No.”

     I turn to Al. “How about you?”

     “Yeah.”

     “Okay, I’m gonna see what YOUR shit looks like.” Although this is no accomplishment, because I’m quite familiar with Al’s shit.

   

 

     It’s time for goodbyes. I thank Gary for helping to clean up and wash the dishes, and we talk to Michelle about a possible surf trip up north in the future. When they leave, Al and I go to the dump site with Sebastian to drain the poop. The tank is almost empty, but the drain hole starts to overflow. The water looks like tomato soup with a few orange poop-nuggets and toilet paper floating in it. When Seba picks up the drain hose, a log falls out. Al starts cracking up. 

     We thank Seba again for everything, and follow him to the El Toro exit where he waves goodbye. On the way home, Al and I stop by Hokkaido Seafood Buffet in Long Beach and eat for at least an hour and a half for only $10.99 each. 

     Back in El Segundo, we’re dead tired. We take a nap, and I wake to him getting ready at about 1930. The Travel Channel’s No Reservations plays on the TV. This episode is about Venice. I’m still groggy, feeling lazy on my couch. We give each other a hug, and I ask, “When you think you’ll be down again?”

     “I don’t know, maybe not until next year.”

     It’s too soon to ask. He needs to get back to his life and so do I. His footsteps clomp away as he walks down the hall and down the stairs. He has a long drive.

     I sit back on my couch, staring at my phone. Kind of like my brother traveling alone, he enjoyed the company of Tim and his friends, but when they left, he was by himself. Now it’s my turn. I’m blessed to have good friends, and even though the surf wasn’t epic, this trip was more about the company and helping to establish new relationships. Everyone got along, and the energy was good all around, but typing away in this lonely apartment there’s still something missing. 

A WEEKEND AT TRESTLES 2012 (Part V): HUNKERED, SUN 25MAR2012 EVE

    

Location: San Onofre

Crew: Francis & Michelle

Conditions: Choppy, jumbled, stormy, 5 ft.

     After the morning session, I grabbed some eggs, chicken sausage, green onions, tortillas, and started cooking breakfast. Even though everyone was nice enough to offer help, I didn’t want anybody in my way. Michelle brought some chili from home, so I let her throw some in a pot. Within an hour, we had a full blown trailer party going on. It was Sebastian, me, Al, Klaude, Francis, Michelle, Cheryl, Silverton, and Gary. There was more than enough food to go around, and everyone was full, allowing me to dust off what was left. Michelle also came through with the Irish car bomb cupcakes and chocolate brownies. I kept a good eye on the weather to see if it would in fact rain. I got texts from my friends up north where the storm already hit. 

     The wind started to pick up, and gray skies were pushed our way. Before we knew it, we were bombarded by the storm. Stepping out of the trailer was met with strong gusts of cold wind and rain. Even though we came to surf and enjoy the campsite, this was one of the highlights of the trip. We had plenty of beer to go around, food, and music. There was strong conversation into the whole afternoon. The fridge constantly opened and closed, beers were reached for and passed about, meeting thirsty mouths. Even though it was a little crammed, we all fit inside. I crawled under the trailer into Sebastian’s crotch, where he farted right on my forehead. Al drank to the point where no one understood what he was saying, and I had to translate. Francis just had that glazed look over him, chilled and relaxed as always. I’d say it was into that five o’clock hour when things started to slow down. Silverton was racked out across Cheryl’s lap, and the beer was getting low. The weather never ceased or let up, and then I started getting into my demons. I thought about all the homework that I needed to get done, moving out next weekend, what was Lauren doing at this very moment, and I worried for my guests. Sebastian was leaving in about an hour, and we’d be crammed up in a three-man tent, bracing the weather conditions.

     Al looked at Francis who opened the fridge. “Francis, can you grab me one?” he said. 

     Francis took a deep peer into the shallow compartment. He grabbed one for himself and gave one to Al. “Last one.”

     Klaude and I talked about the weather forecast. “I need a second session,” he said. “I’m staying to the bitter end.”

     I watched Seba open the fridge and stare into it for about ten seconds before he shut it, and then he said, “How we doin’ on supplies? Looks like I’ll be staying here another night.” Sebastian’s heart is as big as his stature. He called his boss and said he wouldn’t be coming in tomorrow. “I can’t leave you guys in the rain,” he said. I’m lucky to have him as a friend.

     From there I barked out orders. I organized a cleaning and resupply detail. We restocked with food and alcohol, and on the drive back was the most welcoming sight ever. Over the horizon, past the clouds, was bright orange sky, and then the wind died. We stood outside, grateful that the worst had passed, but even better, we had a window for surf. 

The Show:

     Francis comes back from doing a recon by Churches and says that there’s a peak working over there. The main problem is that we barely have an hour of daylight left. I look at Michelle. She’s contemplating. I ask Klaude if he’s down for a second sesh, but he says he has to hit the road. Cheryl and Silverton are also packed up and ready to go. “Where do you guys wanna surf?” I say.

     Michelle and Francis bring up the Churches option, but when I suggest the choppy peaks right in front of us, Michelle says, “I’m down for that too.”

     I turn to grab my gear. Michelle gives a sigh which translates into: I can’t believe we are doing this. 

     Even though Klaude and Cheryl are leaving, they stay to watch us surf. I’m the first to hit the water. I really don’t expect much. Even though the weather has cleared, the ocean is still stormy. It reminds me of choppy, evening surf at El Porto. We’ve been drinking all day, and it affects my performance. My heart races more and more with each duckdive; the waves are a little bigger than they looked from shore. The peaks are so scattered and random that I tire myself thinking about my strategy. My people are on the shore are watching. I want to give them something to “ooh” and “aah” about. The next set is big, a sloppy five-feet at least, but I’m too far out to paddle into it. I don’t see Francis or Michelle anywhere. The current pulls me north, so I paddle against it. My frustration builds when a big wave forms right in front of me. I feel like I’m late, but I go anyway. I dig-in my left rail a couple feet down the face before the wave morphs and pitches me forward. I ditch my board completely, and feel it sling into the air as I plunge below. I resurface unashamed; it was actually fun. I can’t see reactions from the shore, but I have a feeling they appreciated that one. 

     Francis tells me he got worked paddling out, and Michelle waited for a channel to open up. They are both to my north, but I try to fight the current back to the camp site. I still can’t catch anything decent, while Francis takes a couple with ease, getting at least one turn on each for some distance. 

     Daylight burns out quickly. Michelle’s on the shore walking back to camp, and Francis is making his way back in. I catch a closeout and ride it straight. I turn around, pondering on a last wave, but the site is unwelcoming. Roars of whitewash roll in, one behind the other. At least I got a monster wipeout.

     Klaude’s on the shore, ready to greet us as we stumble in. “Good job,” he says. He’s smiling and patting me on the back, looking more stoked than we are for the evening rush, but his look says it all. He wanted to be out there, he would’ve been happy to catch some storm slop with us, side by side, like brothers in arms, but we understand. He has to leave, already behind schedule. Cheryl and Silverton bone out too.

         

     Francis and I stay loyal to the ritual, and drink a couple MGDs in the shower. When we get back to the trailer, the weather starts to change again. What we witnessed was just a mere lull, there are darker clouds ahead. We still have time to bonfire while Michelle volunteers to cook. As soon as we go in for dinner, the rain and wind picks up again. 

     The whole day’s activities catch up to everyone. Sebastian passes out, so I play with his belly button while he sleeps. Al doesn’t even want to drink anymore, Gary and Michelle seem to be holding up strong, and I’m trying to get everyone to eat as much as possible.

     Michelle makes pasta with chorizo with a garnish of cilantro. I warm up some of her chili and put some tortillas in the microwave to make sure everyone’s full. Afterwards, it’s on to mint Oreos and Chips Ahoys with bunny tracks ice cream. Michelle’s friends from a San Clemente campsite show up to say hi, and then it’s time to go to sleep. It was a long and brutal day, but thank Sebastian we got shelter. 

A WEEKEND AT TRESTLES 2012 (Part IV): CALM BEFORE THE STORM, SUN 25MAR2012 MOR

Location: Lowers

Crew: Al, Cheryl, Francis, Klaude, Michelle

Conditions: Sunny, south wind, choppy, inconsistent, 3 feet, semi crowded.

The night before:

     After last night’s session, my friend Tim brought some pizzas over to the camp site. He brought along his friends Barbara and Susan as well. Susan was part of Tim’s group that took a recent trip to Vietnam where they also met up with my brother. To see Randy in most of their pics made me realize how much I miss him. I wondered if he was all right traveling by himself, and if he felt lonely after Tim left. I can only imagine how much seeing a familiar face can lift one’s spirits to eventually be alone once more. Tim showed me pictures of them snorkeling.

     “Yeah, Matt. Your brother was the first one in the water,” said Tim. He skipped to an image of Randy, jumping off the boat at a forty-five degree angle. “He had this really sick dive. From here he straightened out head first.” 

     It brought me back to memories as a kid, spear fishing with my brother in Maui. He was always good in the water. 

     After Tim and his crew left, Silverton, Cheryl, Al, Sebastian, and I racked out in the trailer. At 0200, Cheryl’s cousin Michelle arrived with her friend Gary. I sat up, half-asleep, pointed out where to sleep, and tossed her a flashlight.

Rise and Shine:

     My alarm goes off at 0545. It was a brutal night. Sebastian and I are sleeping, crisscrossed on the top compartment. The whole night he was blowing Argentine farts directly into my face. They were pure and uncut, and I was inhaling, tasting them. I climb down, stepping over Michelle who’s sleeping on the kitchen floor, and grab my wetsuit off of the hanger. The wind is strong offshore; it’s cold. I hop in the wagon and turn on the heater. Taking a note from G of the OC, I stuff my wetsuit under the floorboard heater, hoping to give it some warmth. The phone rings.

     “Matt, it’s Francis. I’m at the gate, but it’s not open yet.” 

     A minute later I call Klaude. He puts on a fake sleepy voice then says, “Yo, yo, yo! I’m almost there!” 

     When they pull up, I tell them that I’m gonna start changing, and they park. Al and Michelle jump in the car with me, but I tell them that I’m just taking my time, enjoying the heater. I introduce Francis to Michelle, Klaude gives her a hug, and then we suit up. 

     The sun creeps up fast, but we’re still making good time. Al assists Michelle with her equipment while she grabs her longboard, and then we start the morning trek. This morning is similar to the previous mornings: strong offshore, choppy, and inconsistent. The shape is horrible at Churches, and Middles looks questionable, so it’s back to Lowers. 

     When we arrive, there are four guys at the peak. They see all of us doing the cobblestone dance to deeper water. Even though we’re far away, I can tell that they’re scowling at the site of us. Lowers is a little choppy from the gusts, but a three-footer A-frames right in front of us, and the guy going left sells it—there’s still good surf here.

     It’s a tense approach to the lineup. There’s no “good morning” or “how’s it going.” It’s clear. For them, it was a good time until we showed up. I sit on the outside, so as not to just insert myself into the lineup. Al and Klaude go towards the inside of the break, not taking the top of the wave right away. I forget who draws first blood, but I see Francis and Al get some inside rides. Still, nothing is swinging wide towards me. I wait until the guys at the top of the wave split the peak before I move in. I paddle out the furthest, hoping for an outside set, and for some reason my timing’s on point. There it is, the bump that’s too far out for anyone else. I feel my people behind me. Maybe not all of them, but maybe at least Klaude or Al. This is a special moment, any time one of your buddies gets that wave to himself, you know he’s fuckin’ stoked. Again, I’m faced with an A-frame. I can go either way, but taking off from the center I go left. That Lowers peak is an anomaly. It looks mooshy, but when it breaks it just pushes you right in. I see the whitewash spilling near my deck, but I’m propelled to the open face. After a couple pumps I get my first top-turn. I lose a little speed on it, but for where my surfing is right now, I am satisfied. The section walls up towards the inside, looking like it’s over three feet. Again, I go top to bottom. I hear someone yell, “Yeah!” from the inside. I get a third carve off the shoulder before I kick out. It was a long left. I see Klaude on the inside, paddling through the white wash. He gives me a thumbs up. I nod. I look at Al while shaking my head. I’m thinking, my morning session is made.

     When I look back towards the inside, I see Al and another guy looking at their boards. Al has his hands up, saying something about who went first, and then I see Francis paddle over. I can’t hear them, but I can tell that something’s not right. The guy paddles back to the peak next to me and catches one in. 

     I’m feeling confident after my first ride. There’s no being shy and sitting wide. I sit on the outside again, and the technique pays off once more. I select the left and work on my turns. When I return, Al says, “Did you see what happened?”

     “I saw you talking to that guy on the inside.”

     “Yeah, well. I was paddling for a wave when he was paddling out, and then he turned around last minute and tried to catch it, so our boards were tangled.”

     “Okay?”

     “I told him, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,’ and then the guy pushed me.”

     “Oh shit.”

     “So I pushed him back. I was like, really? Do you really want to get into a fight at seven in the morning? He was shaking. I told him to get out of here, and then Francis was more intense than me. He paddled up and told the guy, ‘Get the fuck out of here!’”

    

     For some reason, Al finds himself in these situations quite a bit. If it’s not up north, it’s down here. The last time we surfed Uppers together some guy yelled at him too. However, as I’ve said before: Al is a beast; he can handle himself, so I don’t worry about him. Especially since he’s packing eight-plus inches in his wetsuit; that says a lot.

     After the first forty-five minutes, the wind swings south and adds more texture to the water. The peaks shift unexpectedly, and more people show up. My placement and timing is off, as I miss a lot of waves. Klaude still works the inside, and I see Francis and Al taking a lot of rights. On one right, Al zooms past Klaude and throws out a good little backhand bucket, but the snake of the day award goes to Michelle. I’m too south of the peak when it breaks, and Al is in the center of it with priority. Regardless of it, Michelle paddles in on her longboard and drops in on him, taking away his line.

     Our group leaves the water at different times. Al and I catch our last ones in and watch Michelle and Francis still going for it. There are barely six guys out now, and Francis gets two back-to-back rights, unchallenged, unmolested. Al and I watch in acknowledgement. Walking back to the trailer, we comment on the weather. It’s supposed to rain. 

     “No, it doesn’t look like it’s gonna rain any time soon,” says Al. 

     “Yup.”

A WEEKEND AT TRESTLES 2012 (Part III): SEA OF DREAMS, SAT 24MAR2012 EVE

 

Location: LOWERS

Crew: Al, Cheryl, Sebastian, and Al’s surf mentor John

Conditions: Sunny, clean, calm, glassy, 3 feet, consistent, uncrowded.

     Rick has to head back to LA, so he’s trying to get as much surf as possible. He says, “Let’s grab some beers, head over to Churches, and paddle out again.” 

     I’m thinking there’s no way. Don’t get me wrong. I admire Rick’s surf stoke. The only person that comes in second place stokewise is Francis, but we literally just got back from O-side. 

     When Al and I return from a supply run, Seba is the only person at the campsite . . . alongside Silverton and Cheryl. We do the meet and greet. Seba has met them before, but it was very brief. When the rest of the guys return, they say that Lowers was maybe a little bigger than this, referencing the Old Mans break at San Onofre. 

     It’s another sunny afternoon with a steady south wind. We’re at the picnic table drinking beers, when I reach for the Pringles can and knock over my beer which spills on Cheryl’s pants. I apologize over and over again while Al makes me feel like a dick, commenting on how I’ve created this awkward moment. Asshole. . . . 

     Rick leaves, and Cheryl suits up to attack the San Onofre lineup. I don’t blame her. The waves look fun, but I’m hoping that the winds will die more as the evening approaches. Francis drifts in and out of a minor coma in the beach chair next to me while the rest of us sip our beer, repeating the makings of yesterday.

     Al’s surf mentor John shows up with his little son Adam. In the meantime, I ask Seba if he’s ready for an evening session.    

     “Man, it’s too fuckin’ cold,” he says. “I’m cool just hanging out here and drinking beer.”

     “You sure? I can wax up your board right now. I ain’t trying to pressure you, but we can get you on a couple waves today, guarantee. The water’s not that cold.”

     Seba hikes his pants up and walks out to the water’s edge, comes back and says, “Nah, I think I’ll wait for the summer.” 

     


      
    When Francis wakes up, he has to go. “I’ll try to be back tonight with Klaude,” he says. 

     Cheryl’s back by now, staying in her wetsuit. John suggests surfing Lowers. He says that it’s small but A-framing, and that there are only a dozen guys out. On a day as small as this, a dozen seems like too much, but he and Al barely get to hang out, so I want to be a team player. 

     The four of us start our trek to Lowers, but Churches is already looking good. As we hoped, the wind died down, and the little two-footers give a glassy reflection as they stand-up and peel. Their shoulders form down the line, good for at least two turns. Cheryl and I look at each other while the other two continue pace. I know what she’s thinking. Here we are going to Lowers where there are a dozen dicks, and we’re passing up an empty lineup. What are we thinking?! 

     Middles isn’t doing anything; it’s a lake. As we near Lowers I can see more black dots which surpass the dozen-dick estimate. A wave swings wide and breaks south of Lowers. “That’s my spot,” I tell Al. He and John head straight towards the main pack while I sit off to the side.

MADE THE WHOLE TRIP:

     My mood is shot. Yes, Lowers is in fact going off. It’s consistent, breaking in one spot over and over again. Peaky three-foot A-frames are being split by rippers on both sides. There’s a guy on a short green board in a full suit and hoodie throwing the tail out. I count the heads. “One, two, three . . . eighteen.” There are eighteen motherfuckers out on a two-three foot evening at Lowers. How the fuck am I going to get in there? I watch John catch a right. He looks good, stalling on the high line and then dropping in with speed. I hoot him on as he passes. Al too, he catches an inside right, cracking a bit of spray out the back. 

     “Wow,” says Cheryl. “It’s so good over there.”

     “Yeah, but it’s just to fuckin’ crowded.” I paddle further south. “I’ll be over here.” 

     I’m over it. I know myself. I hate crowds. I’d rather surf a shittier peak to myself than compete for waves. A random peak shifts wide, and I have it to myself. I get two turns on a soft, pumpy three-footer. It’s the first legit wave that I’ve caught in a while. It’s classic, looking down the line seeing the building shoulder. It’s how Trestles should break every single time. I see Al as I paddle back. I raise one finger to indicate my ride. 

     With a mouth full of metal, he smiles back and paddles over. He whispers something, using his hand to shield his voice.

     “What?”

     He shakes his head and paddles over closer. “Nathan Fletcher,” he says.

     “What? Who?”

     “The guy with the hood.” He tugs down on an imaginary bill, as he says “hood.” Al paddles back into Lowers.

     On the next wave I watch Mr. Fletcher on a right, backside. The wave is barely three feet, but he leans back into the curl and gets a baby barrel while doing a rear handgrab into the face. Yeah, that has to be him all right.

    

     I’m sitting wide, and no waves are coming. By now the wind is nonexistent. Again with the classics. The sun is low, reflecting off of the glassy surface like it’s an indoor pool. From San Onofre all the way to the horizon is nothing but blue sky with a few, scant streaks of white. It’s warm and quiet, with only the white noise that good waves make. The ocean is no longer blue, but a bright orange from the big orange in the sky. Even the sand and vegetation behind me gives off a hint of orange. I watch another A-frame roll by. I have to get in there.   

     I sit at the top of the wave next to two guys. It’s so consistent that they split the next peak, leaving me to my lonesome. The second wave of the set is just as big, and I choose to go left. It’s my first time officially catching a Lowers wave. Not just at Lowers, but I am at the top of the break on a set wave. I feel the tilt before I drop. It’s so easy; there’s no pitch. As the wave moves towards the inside it stands, giving a walled section for speed. It looks like I’m gonna miss the section, but I pump, reach the face, bottom turn,  shift to the tail for a quarter carve up top, and redirect the nose down the line—marvelous. I repeat. The face is so dark, blocked out from the sun’s rays by the back of the wave. I kick out, look at Al. I try not to grin. I can’t help it. 

     Back at the peak, I see a guy next to Cheryl. My word, it’s Sebastian. I paddle away from my spot to sit next to him. “Guy! I thought you said you weren’t gonna surf?” 

     “Yeah, I know. I just wanted to paddle around.”

     “I wish you would have told me. If you wanted to surf we would’ve paddled out over there where it’s easier. Did you wax your board?”

     “A little.”

     I feel the top of it; it’s too smooth. I take a closer look. There’s barely anything on it. “Fuck, there’s no wax.”

     “Don’t worry, dude. I just want to sit around.” 

     I’m a little torn. He’s my boy, I love him, but man . . . I just got a good wave. I’m hungry for more, but I don’t want to leave him. I give him a few pointers, a crash-course on duckdiving, how priority works, and then a wave swings wide again. “Hold on.” I paddle for it. 

     I see John flying down the line on the next wave. A minute later Cheryl paddles up to me and says, “I think Sebastian almost ran over John.” I see the both of them on the inside.

     John says, “Hey, I’m sorry. I told your friend to watch out, but I didn’t know it was Sebastian.”

     “Oh, I’m sure he’s all right.”

     Sebastian’s arms are awkward with his beginner’s paddle as he approaches.

     John looks at Sebastian again and says, “Sorry, I didn’t know it was you.”

     “Nah, it’s cool,” he says. “I’m a total Barney.”

     “Matt,” says John. “You need to take advantage of the peak!”

     “Just go, Matt. I’ll be fine,” says Seba. 

     Paddling back to Lowers I see the pack has thinned out. Surfers are doing the cobblestone dance, heading towards shore. I do my count, “One, two, three . . . ten.” I catch a right this time. I see Cheryl paddling for a wave as I’m coming back. She stands up too soon and misses the wave.

     “Oh my god, it’s so good right now,” she says.

     “Go to the top of the wave, Cheryl! There’s room!” I still hang out with Seba in between waves. 

     Back at the lineup, Cheryl’s sitting in front of the pack, and she catches a right. It’s a slow roller, an easy three feet— a set wave. I watch her disappear then reemerge on the high line. She takes it all the way to shore. 

     When she comes back she says, “Matt, I just caught the wave of my life!” 

     It’s a first for us. We both got our first official Lowers’ waves. The sun is down. I count seven heads in the water. Cheryl’s on the shore. 

     Al says, “I’m catching one more in with John.”

     “I’m staying here as long as possible.”

     “Really?”

     “Hell yeah. How often do you get to surf Lowers with just a couple guys out.”

     “Okay, me too then.”

     There’s etiquette in the lineup. The Oakley surf team is there in their Oakley wetsuits, shredding. I’m at the top of the wave with one of them. As the next wave approaches I say, “I wanna go left.”

     “Go for it!” says the stranger.

     My frontside carves still need some work, but that’s not even important at this time. I’m so in the moment. Stress free waves at Lowers, easy lefts to die for, carvers, soft open faces that say, “So what will it be today?” Carve is all I can do. Bottom turn, top-turn, arch, and redirect. That’s the sensation I’ve been missing. Just having that speed on the top of the face and transferring it onto the tail and arc; there’s that moment of fluidity in the motion, meant to be, life, this is what surfing is about. 

     I see Al and John walking back. The ocean is no longer orange; it’s silver. Churches and San Onofre is almost pitch-black. I can see the lights from the nuclear reactor. The remnants of the sun’s rays give off a light blue, leaving the water a metallic tone. Still, waves are coming in; there are four of us. On my last waves size doesn’t matter. I squint, trying to see if the bumps in front of me are worth paddling for. I tell myself that they’re too small. I paddle anyway. I drop in surprised, barely able to see the white spill. I’m riding a black, smooth stone, but my rail melts into its surface. I can only tell it’s the face when my board disrupts the water’s integrity—a splash here, a splash there. Two guys remain in the darkness as I make my exit. Looking back one more time, the waves are shadows and the rest a faint of silver. It’s a session I’ll never forget.

A WEEKEND AT TRESTLES 2012 (Part II): SEARCHING, SAT 24MAR2012 MOR

Location: North Oceanside

Crew: Rick & Francis

Conditions: Gloomy, offshore, low tide, tiny.

     Last night, Rick suggested that we check out O-side in the morning. I know Rick, and if anyone’s a master of dawn patrolling, it’s him. I wake up at 0600 in the fart cabin. Someone turned off the heater in the middle of the night thank goodness; I was roasting in my fart sack. I open up the trailer door to a cool, offshore morning. Rick’s already boiling some eggs on his Coleman stovetop. “Matt, you want an egg?” he asks.

     “No thanks. I ate a lot last night.”

     “You know, Matt, they say it’s not good to eat so much in one sitting. It’s not good for your stomach.”

     I know he means well, but I still wave off the egg. I grab my wetsuit, and Al walks up as I’m about to change.

     “I don’t think I’m gonna join you guys,” he says. 

     “Of course you’re not!” My reply is a little snappy. 

     Al looks at me in silence, I sense that he’s feeling guilty.

     “Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s a gamble. It might not be that great. Besides, Seba’s in there too. I’ll let you know what it looks like.” I return to the picnic table and find three hard boiled eggs in the pot.

     Francis takes one and says, “You gonna eat?”

     I know the other one’s for me even though I told Rick I didn’t want one. I grab it and start peeling it, delighted to find how soft and warm the yoke is.

     Once we’re on the road, Rick retells his tales about surfing down south when he was younger. I’ve heard these tales a million times, and for Francis this has to be his second. O-side’s just as gloomy, but the offshore wind is much lighter. Only two guys are out surfing. We watch until we see an outside set just under three-feet peel through. It’s small, but it looks good.

     “Well, that’s all I need to see,” says Francis. 

     We change and head back to the sand. We follow Rick’s lead and try to pick the right sand bar. Another peak A-frames and gives some nice, lined-up faces. “Oh my god!,” I say. Now I’m high stepping, making silly faces at Francis, and laughing. “If I can get one turn this morning I’ll be happy!"

     I’m the first to hit the water, freezing in my 3/2. I paddle out, way out. I turn around and see my other two battle buddies, but they stop short.

     “I think you’re too far out,” says Rick. 

     We’re stoked, waiting for the set. So we wait. And wait. And wait some more. I have no idea what happened. Those nice peaks that we saw earlier are nowhere to be found. Every time a bump surfaces, we all call it out and paddle for it. We scratch, and then it breaks past us towards the inside. Rick is the first to get a good ride. He catches one going left all the way to shore. 

     When he resurfaces I hear him call out, “I got a little barrel!” Again, from the inside he catches another left and gets one hit off the lip. 

     Rick and Francis trade off a few rides here and there, but I’m struggling. Every time I pop up, the wave is already running away, so I mostly go straight. Still though, the wind’s off shore and the conditions are clean, the only problem is the lack of swell. 

     The nice, outside waves break too far away from us. We point them out at the Jetty and to our north. Rogue, three-foot lefts peel where we can’t reach, a joke from Mother Ocean.

     The best part about this session is the showers. They are empty, and the water’s piping hot. Rick brings his cooler over and hands me and Francis a beer. The three of us are posted in there like it’s a sauna, letting the spray of water sting us with post-surf Budweisers in hand. We stay in there so long that Francis’ wetsuit fills to the point that it looks like he’s wearing bell-bottoms.

     Rick offers to take us to one of his favorite spots in O-Side for coffee. According to him, this is another low-key spot that must remain nameless at all costs, so I’ll keep it that way in his honor. In front of this coffee shop we can see the surf, and Rick is right about keeping this place off the radar. Despite the lack of swell in North O-side and San Onofre, clean, three-foot peaks A-frame and line up with smooth, open faces. We can’t believe how good it is here, and it’s not even crowded. For shits and giggles I take a couple photos and text them to Al, writing: Firing the whole time, too tired to keep going. 

     Rick wants to continue the grand tour and check out a local surf shop, but I tell him that I’d like to return to our guests, especially since Cheryl and Silverton are on their way.

     When I see Al back at camp, he says, “How was it?”

     “Dude. . . .” I shake my head and fake my tiredness. “It wasn’t like, big, but it was an easy three feet. Just consistent, down the line.”

     He looks like he’s listening attentively and says, “Cool,” and walks away. 

     I wait another ten minutes before telling him that the pic was from somewhere else, and then he spends the next five minutes telling me how much of an asshole I am.