MEH…., FRI 06APRIL2012 MOR

    

Crew: Rick & Dave T.

Time: 0700-0800

Conditions: Inconsistent, high tide, small, mooshy, offshore, 2-3 FT.

     After my first duckdive I realize how cold the water is. The sun is out, but it’s not helping. By the third duckdive, the inside of my left ear aches. I pass Dave on the inside. “What’s up, Dave!”

     He nods and smiles.

     Rick catches a left in front of me. We make eye contact on his way back out. Today’s surf is forecasted to be small. It’s the last of the NW swell, and it’s showing. There are scattered peaks, but they crumble a little fast, causing the small shoulders to run away. The longboarders are paddling in early and getting the longest rides.

     It’s not that crowded, and Rick leads us more towards 42^nd. “Matt,” he says. “I’m not really that stoked on this board.” He holds up his new, yellow fish.

     “Well, maybe you just need to take it out on a good day. Like a consistent three feet at Churches.”

     A wave breaks towards the outside, and I’m the only one in position for it. It’s a left, but the section is too fast for me to beat, so I stay behind it the whole time. Most of my rides are fizzling and straight.

     There are a couple gems, in which Rick is recipient to. He comes back after a ride and says, “Matt, that left I got actually held! I got two hits off of it!” He’s always stoked. He also points to the smoke stacks and says that the wind’s changed; it’s blowing off shore now.

     I see the billows of white smoke blowing out to sea, but I don’t see it helping the surf. When 0900 rolls around, Rick and I are on the sand. “Rick, I think I’m gonna call it.”

     “Nah, Matt. You can’t go now. Look, it’s off shore.”

     I look back out at the same waves with the same shape.

     “The swell’s going,” he continues. “This is it.” He shoves his fish in the sand hand heads back. “I got quarters, Matt.”

     Back at the car, I’m done changing into dry clothes. He and Dave are on the sand. I waive at Rick when he turns around. He waves me forward, motioning for me to get my ass back out there. He gets the message. Dave throws me a peace sign, and they both paddle back out. I’ve had my fair share of mediocre days lately, especially after HB’s skunk session. I’d rather handle some things at the house.

     Back in Lawndale, my inflatable mattress I ordered off of Amazon.com arrives. I’m stoked. I let my ex have the bed, and since then I’ve been sleeping on the floor or on my couch—over five weeks. I spend most of the afternoon reorganizing my room. 

Introducing Smokey the dog. He snores louder than I do.

     Later that night, Rick posts on Facebook that the surf got better after I left. I wonder if I made the right call, but every decision can’t be the right one. All I know is that I’m gonna sleep comfortably for the first time in a long time. My next task at hand is bigger: I need to get used to living with myself again.

HIGH TIDE BLUES, THU 05APRIL2012 MOR

    

Location: HB

Crew: Solo

Time: 0715-0845

Conditions: Inconsistent, high tide, burgery, swampy, offshore, 4-5 FT.

     HB can be excellent on a high tide. I’ve seen it. Francis and I have seen it. During a drastic tide change, we surfed both low and high tide to the point of exhaustion, and it worked the whole time. So even though a high tide was in the morning forecast, I thought it would be a good gamble.

     It’s 0630 when I leave Lawndale and hop on 405S. I’m making good time for a change, but I’m tired as shit, dipping at the steering wheel. When I enter the state parking area, there are only a few cars about. Also, there is zero sign of surf activity: no surfers walking with their boards, dawn patrollers, or other cars pulling in. I tell myself it’s because it’s Thursday morning. Of course it would be empty. I’m already wearing my wetsuit, so I throw on some wax and sunblock then hit the sand. I can see some exploding whitewash in the distance, so it looks promising. There’s a small group at the river jetties and two guys north. Once I reach the water, I’m not sure what to make out of the surf. It’s consistent, but it’s not breaking like classic HB. The lines are long, and the shoulders at the end of them are mooshy. The SS kicks in, and I think I’ll be able to get some rides regardless. 

     I have to duckdive quite a bit of waves, but I still make it out in decent time. My first wave is a right. The drop is steep, but after that the whole shoulder mooshes out. I’ve been watching the Rip Curl Pro, so I try to imitate the pros by staying in the pocket where the power is, but even that part fizzles away. Other surfers paddle out, and they’re not doing any better. The session is a tease: drop in and bog out. Although, there is size. The waves that break on the outside are big, but they reform, break, and moosh out again. I call it quits at 0900. I’ll never come here again during a high tide if the swell’s not big.

ONE CARVE, WED 04APRIL2012 MOR

Crew: Fransowce

Time: 0715-0850

Conditions: Inconsistent, high tide, 3-4 FT with occasional 5.

     I’m supposed to meet Francis at first light, but I’m running late as usual. Actually, I wake up just a little late. It’s this new drive that throws me off. What used to be a short cruise around the corner now involves 405N and a long stretch of Rosecrans Avenue; it feels endless. To think I cursed the stop signs in El Segundo. I finally hang the right off of Highland Avenue and the left into 45^th St. Again with the free parking spot. Francis’ last text said he’d be somewhere between 42^nd and 45^th. Once I’m on the sand it’s easy to spot him. 

     He paddles into a right. The section’s closing, but he does a little foam climb to make it. Forehand, he pumps to the open face and gets a carve as the wave closes around him. 

     My warm up should be slow and smooth, but I can’t wait to join him. When I get to the lineup, I’m frustrated because Francis paddles further south, so now I have to chase his ass even further. We haven’t surfed together since Trestles. “How’s work?” I ask.

     “Good. Did you see what happened on the news at Santa Monica?”

     My expression is blank. “No.”

     “Oh.” He looks out at the horizon and looks back. “There was some kind of student protest or something. They pepper sprayed the students. There were like thirty ambulances there. We were one of them.” He takes off on the next wave.

     I’m having a harder time. I scratch out or miss a couple that break on the outside. My first wave is a closeout. My second one is a lined-up right. I see Francis on the inside making his way out. He can see me. I paddle, and as I’m popping up my right foot gets hung up on the wax, so I plunge into the water head first. It’s lame, so lame. The other surfers around me saw it. Embarrassed, I climb back on my board and paddle towards Francis. “I just ate shit on a good one,” I say. 

     The rest of the session is inconsistent for me. Francis paddles around, works the inside and outside, catching various rides: some closeouts, some ride-worthy. I try to do the same, but can’t get anything with an open face. Most of the surfers are pulled north by the tanks while Francis and I fight the drift, never passing 45^th. I work my way back towards 42^nd when I get my first good wave. It’s a racy left. The shoulder’s running away, so I pump past the crumbling sections. Surfers scattered towards the inside are in the foreground of the shoulder. I’m building speed, looking like I’m setting up for something massive. I’m sure a pro would take this opportunity to do an air, but . . . that’s not gonna happen. When I get to the shoulder I dump all my speed on the tail and turn. I must’ve been going fast because I feel the stress on the fins, like they’re skipping underwater. This might be a bad thing, as it’s not a fluid turn, but it still feels good. I don’t know if I got any spray or not, but the sensation of going fast and suddenly coming to a halt is exhilarating. I end the turn with the nose of my board at the seven o’clock position. The ride is over, but the feeling lingers. When I meet up with Francis again, I say, “I got a good one just now.”

     “Yeah? Okay. I think I’m gonna go in after my next one.” His “next one” comes right after he says that. He gets a right that’s worthy of two turns. He kicks out and comes back. Yeah . . . last one my ass. He catches a couple more and waves goodbye from the sand. 

     My last wave is a closeout, and I catch it all the way to shore. I only have one carve to take home with me. It’s enough. 

THREE WAVES, FRI 30MAR2012 MOR

Crew: Solo

Time: 0730-0850

Conditions: Closeouts with some shoulders, 3-4 FT.

     There’s a free parking spot on 45^th. There aren’t any sets at the moment, so I can’t tell what the surf is offering. After I change, I do the familiar trot down the hill and into the lot. Once I’m on the sand, I can see that the peaks are a little scattered and holding a bit better than yesterday. This time, I warm up a little, rotating the major joints and doing a couple cat-and-cows. The small waves I duckdive on the inside have some shoulders, a good sign. The crowd’s also thinner, so I sit in a vacant gap in the lineup. Within a few minutes, I get my first wave.

     It’s a mooshy four-foot bump, but I paddle-in right behind the shoulder. The speed catches me off guard. No, I did not expect anything at all this morning, but I’m propelled down the line of a wave that is shaping up. The peak is still moundy, so I draw my bottom turn and cut the top turn below the highline to make sure I don’t stall-out. It’s the first legit, backhand turn that I’ve had in a while. A surfer’s paddling over my wave as I’m speeding towards him; he has front row seats. I bottom turn and take a little off the top again. God damn it feels so good. My arms are outstretched, I’m loosening up, and I’m winding up for a third. On the last turn, the wave is losing size, and I make my cut just a little too high and go over, but it doesn’t matter. Paddling back to the lineup, I’m rejuvenated with surf stoke. Two-and-a-half turns transforms me into something else. Two-and-a-half turns ago I was a crabastic piece of amphibian shit (Full Metal Jacket 1987). I may have not been feeling like myself lately, but I get a glimpse of it on that wave.

     So now I know there’s potential out here. My focus as of late has been to work on my frontside turns, so I really want a left. On the next set I get one. I’m pumping down the line, setting up a good carve, but the section stands up, taking away the canvas. Instead, I bottom turn and climb the face as it’s going vertical. This is usually where I eat shit. I’m falling down with the lip, looking at the nose of my board, expecting the purl and whiplash that follows. My weight shifts to the tail. I feel the impact of my landing force my knees to bend. I’m waiting to dig a rail and get sucked under, but I actually stick the landing. My nose it out, and I’m sliding forward in the foam. Solid.

     I have no idea if that looked cool or not, but it felt critical, one of those waves that I shouldn’t have made. I’m even frothier than I was earlier. My next waves are pure closeouts. When it’s time to feed the meters, I put in for another hour. The sun’s out now, but the prospect of another decent ride eludes me. I get stubborn on a walled-up left. All I want is one frontside carve, to feel my speed translate into an arcing turn off the face. Just like earlier, I’m pumping, setting myself up for a gouge. The lip’s already curling, but I climb the face anyway. My board hits the lip as it throws-out. My board flies into the air, and I’m pitched forward. I don’t even fall on the wave. I land on my back in the flats. I resurface unharmed. My ego is still in check. For some reason I embrace wipeouts. It was a good one.

     I’m danger-close to receiving a ticket. Disrespecting the sport of kings by paddling-in is lame, but I have no choice. I’m almost in the shallows, paddling for anything to take me the rest of the way. A small wave bumps-up higher than expected. Its shoulder is a clean three-feet, so I pop up; I can’t believe that it’s lining up. I pump, gather speed, stomp on the tail, and get a carve all the way to the base of the wave before it closes. The water’s sucking out over the sand, and I expect to face-plant. I step off the rail, but still don’t touch the bottom when I submerge. Unscathed and surprised by the inside ride, I walk back to the car dripping wet, wearing nothing but a wetsuit and a smile.