DAMN SURFLINE, WED 18APRIL2012 MOR

Crew: Rick and Francis

Time: 0630-0900

Conditions: High tide, 3-4 FT, inconsistent, south wind, choppy.

     Rick and Francis were pumped up for today, maybe even the whole South Bay. Surfline rated today to be the biggest this week with a fair rating. Perhaps I shouldn’t blame Surfline. I mean, it wasn’t a “good” rating, just fair, but I think the expectation of a 3-4 FT fair rating just raises expectations. Rick suggested hitting it up at first light yesterday. I agreed. It made sense to catch things before the high tide.

     It’s 0620, and I’m driving down Vista Del Mar. I can see that the water has a lot of texture and chop; it doesn’t look clean at all. I spot Rick in the lot and park next to him. When I step out, he’s already giving me the disclaimer: “Matt, it doesn’t look as good as expected.” I take a look out. Fuck . . . there’s a south wind, and it’s making the waves crumbly. It’s the same . . . it’s been the same here for a while. Whatever. We decide to make the best of things and paddle out. Rick runs off while I’m changing, and then Francis arrives.

     We paddle out to the same damn spot which is anywhere between 42^nd and the sandwich shack. As I’m making my way out, I see Rick on his yellow, Zamora fish going left. He draws a high line but falls. Even though the inside is churning from the tide, I paddle all the way to the lineup without getting my hair wet. This may be considered a stupid feat, but I’m proud. I wait for Rick to acknowledge how I still have the same bed head from the parking lot, but he’s not impressed.

     It’s another cluster fuck. I can’t stand crowds; I never could, but at Porto it’s always expected. Once upon a time, that’s what The Smoke Stacks and The Tanks were for: to escape. Now, we all must suffer together. 

     Rick’s competing for waves, backing out and getting some, always a good amount. I get a couple, but they moosh out towards the inside. Francis sits in the middle, like a genius, where it’s more consistent. 

TWO!:

     Fuckin’ A. I’m sitting in the lineup, right . . . next to two other guys. A mooshy peak bumps up right in front of us. I’m in between both of them, but they fail to react quick enough. I turn-and-go as the wave’s about to break. TRIUMPH! I hug the face sliding down, but unlike last night’s wipeout, I maintain my balance. As far as hugging the face goes, I feel like I make the sections easier, and I move faster than if I go straight and then bottom turn. I stay on my rail hard with the standing face right next to me. I top turn off the shoulder and do a novice-level cutback that brings me to the foam pocket. I stay there and wait for the section to stand up again. When it does, I pump and crank another turn off the top. Fuck, I love lefts. Finally, two god damn turns. As I’m setting up my third turn, there’s a guy paddling into the line I want to draw. To avoid slicing him, I stall my reentry and end up bogging out. We resurface next to each other. I’m pissed, but . . . well . . . fuck it. It’s not worth being mad about. I shake off the negativity and paddle back, stoked. Rick looks at me, and I throw him a shaka. “Ahhh, man!” I tell him. “I got a pretty good one.”

     “I know, I saw that one.” He tosses some water into the air. “I saw you get a little bit of spray.”

     I don’t know if this is sad or not, but should I be ashamed of being so stoked off of one wave sessions? Well, it doesn’t matter. I am fucking stoked.

    

     I can’t get another good one to save my life. As the tide raises higher, the waves moosh out even more. The crowd now focuses towards the middle, and there’s less on the outside. Rick and Francis go in to feed the meters while I have to paddle in since I can’t catch a last wave. 

     Rick has to leave but suggests that Francis and I stay a little longer. 

     Francis looks at me and says, “What do you say, Matt? Another hour?”

     I look out at the small, gutless peaks and say, “Ehhhhhhhhh. Ehhhhhhhhhh.” I think about how I left early last time when Rick said it got better. Apparently, everyone said it got better around nine. “Okay, sure. Another hour.”

     We paddle south of the sandwich shack where there’s a little left, but the mooshy waves lack power. Francis suggests we go back to the same peak as this morning. He gets more rides than me which is expected, while I catch a couple boggers. I’m frustrated. A guy next to me scratches out and yells, “FUUUCK!”

     I face the ocean and give an awkward smile to the empty sky; I’m uncomfortable next to him. 

     He continues, “FUCK, I HATE THIS PLACE!”

     “Yep, yep,” I say to myself. Yeah, I feel his pain, but . . . there’s no sense getting that upset about it. I mean, it’s Mother Nature. What can you do? Surfing a different spot might work, especially if you’re that upset about it. I paddle back to Francis, and we’re both laughing about the guy’s breakdown. 

     Back at the showers, the guy is there rinsing off. “Surfline was off,” he says. “They said high tide was at eight, but it was actually mid tide.”

     It’s awkward conversation. Francis and I nod our heads and say, “Yeah, yeah . . . Oh!” 

     “Yeah, but Porto sucks anyway,” the guy says before he storms off. 

     Francis looks at me and says, “Maybe he should longboard?”

     I go home, rinse off my wetsuit, and Smokey starts to drink from the house as I fill my rinsing tub. I spend the whole morning catching up on my surf writing that I’ve fallen way behind on. My shoulders ache from all the surfing. Rick just text me and said that Porto looks fun again. Despite my recent complaints, I might have to check it out. God, what a drug!

    

RARE (double sesh), TUE 17APRIL2012 MOR

Crew: Dais, Klaude, and Rick

Time: 1830-1945

Conditions: High tide, 3 FT with occasional 4, inconsistent, mooshy.

     Rick called me after work and said he might check it out. I told him I might have a look at it but didn’t commit. When I got the text from Dais that he and KK would be paddling out, there was no way I could refuse. Not only have I not seen Dais in a while, but I barely get to surf during the week with Klaude at all. It’s probably been months.

     I park south of the bathrooms and can’t get into my wetsuit fast enough. Even though the conditions aren’t pristine, there’s just something about warm, sunny, California weather that makes a surfer paddle out regardless, especially with the sun so low on the horizon. Even though I just ate five tacos at the house, I paddle out on a full stomach and meet Dais in the water. We catch up a little. He tells me that Khang’s knee is getting better and that he’s working again, able to walk but in pain.

     Klaude’s towards the inside where it’s more consistent. When he joins us, I tell them that I’ve been doing much better. For some reason, I’ve made some major progress in getting over the breakup. After a recent get together, I’ve realized how blessed I am to have so many friends that give a shit about me and also the many blessings I have ahead after getting accepted into the MFA program. I’ve got over a serious hump. Maybe Pabs and Klaude were right: surf, surf, surf as much as possible!

     Rick sneaks up on us, and now we’re four deep. Unfortunately for me, I struggle to catch anything, while everyone else is getting rides. Dais gets a wave that reforms on the inside, Klaude gets one of the set waves all the way to shore that I completely miss, and Rick . . . he always gets waves.

    

     I finally find myself alone and in position for my wave of the day. Since the waves are mooshy, I try to catch them late. As I’m paddling into it, the lip sends me down faster than expected. I hug the face and turn into the wave to ensure that I make the section. My hand drifts in the face, I lose balance, and I fall forward into it. I resurface, pissed off at myself. A guy down the line backed out because he thought I was on it. I use that negative energy to catch another one, but nothing comes my way, or if it does, there are too many heads in competition for it. 

     Klaude leaves first, then Dais, and then Rick and I surf until it’s dark. Even though I didn’t have a good session, it was nice surfing with the fellas. I also feel fortunate to live somewhere where I can surf until the sun goes down.

DOWNTURN, TUE 17APRIL2012 MOR

Crew: Solo

Conditions: High tide, 3 FT, inconsistent, mooshy.

     Since I have school on Tuesday’s and Thursdays, that’s when I usually gamble on HB, also to save money on gas. I compared the forecast and tide at both HB and Porto. Since it’s been high tide lately, I didn’t want to go to HB, especially with such a small swell. I figured that there still might be some shape locally.

     It’s sunny, and the conditions look good, but they aren’t glassy, smooth, and clean like the good old days. Fuck . . . I look out there and I’m just thinking, man it’s been so fucking long since I’ve seen this place GOOOOOD. I remember glassy mornings with scattered peaks everywhere. Shit, I remember when the sandbars were good by the tanks and the smoke stacks. When I first started surfing here consistently from 2006-2008 (before Iraq), I swear there were more peaks. Anyway, all I see is the shitters and the sandwich shack working again. It’s the same funky peaks that are rideable, but just not “ideal.”

     I’m getting my surfer arms back, so the paddle out is getting a little easier again. Because of the tide, a lot of the waves break too late for those sitting outside. Surfers are scattered, working the inside, middle, and outer peaks. I pass on a lot of waves, scratch out, and catch closeouts. There are a lot of surfers, particularly longboarders, faces I haven’t seen before. I can tell by their paddle that they’re new. Usually there aren’t this many beginners out. It’s a lot of competition, but eventually I get a left. It’s a set wave, about four feet, and when I hit the lip I come back down with a lot of rail. My nose points straight down, and I’m moving with a lot of speed. It wasn’t much of a gouge, but it felt like a good downturn.

     That morning I was stoked for that one wave. Looking back . . . I need more. I think it’s time to start gambling down south again, or maybe a trip to Trestles as long as the radiation’s not too bad.

THE FOG, MON 16APRIL2012 MOR

Crew: Francis

Conditions: High tide, 1-2 FT, inconsistent, foggy.

     After Klaude said that 26^th has been looking good lately, I thought I’d give it a try. I let both Shan and Francis know that I’d be there. I sent out a final text, stating that I couldn’t see the conditions because of the fog.

     I already have a bad feeling because there’s no sign of surfer life, save the one guy that said hi to me as he walked down the hill with his board. Other than that, there is no rush of cars, filled parking lot, or the usual traffic of people checking it out. Looking down the hill, the fog is so thick that I can barely see the sand, and I’m too lazy to walk down for a recon, so why not just paddle out.

     The conditions are clean, and the fog is beige, reflecting off the sun and sand. Despite the perfect wind and glassiness, the waves are only breaking close to shore. North of 26^th, I can make out some of the regulars, Manny for sure, but even where they’re perching doesn’t look too great. The guy who said hi to me earlier paddles out in front of the tower, and I follow suit.

     It’s sad . . . I’m scratching out the whole time, chasing inside waves. Francis arrives, and there is still no sign of Shan. We are hoping that the conditions will improve with the lowering tide. More surfers come out, but everyone’s in the same predicament. Francis manages a decent wavecount, but I can’t really say how good his rides are. 

     No decent waves, no turns. Shan calls me on the way home and says he took a look at it, but he didn’t paddle out because it didn’t look motivating. If it was good, I would’ve rubbed it in, but . . . since he didn’t miss anything, I can’t blame him. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to say, “It was GOOOOOOOOOD.”

TAPS, FRI 13APRIL2012 MOR

Crew: Solo

Conditions: High tide, 3-4 FT, inconsistent, stormy, raining.

     Friday called for rain, but when I awoke it was still dry outside. In the Porto parking lot, the orange horizon prepared itself for the arrival of the sun. While stretching on the sand, I noticed that the clouds over the ocean were a darkening gray, giving a sheet of moisture and limiting visibility. I felt a few drops of rain as I walked in the shallows, finally lying on my board to paddle out. Once at the lineup, the rain started to come down. I expected a scenic morning: a gray ocean while the sun shines over the Manhattan homes behind me, but the clouds in front of us soon became the clouds behind. As the rain intensified, more people left the water.

     Six of us remained, just a bunch of surf addicted, wave lovin’ heathens . . . good people. The waves weren’t clean, still that long peak with the taper at the end. I managed to get some trims on the face without turns, but the surfing itself took the backseat to the atmosphere. Thunder boomed up above. Nervous, I turned to the guy behind me. He never dropped his gaze in the distance. Fuck it, how often to surfers get zapped by lightning anyway? The rain turned into pelting. All around us was nothing but a blanket of gray in the dark blue sea, and drops of water popped up and shot down, so consistent that it made a static, white-noise sound. But on my wetsuit it was different. I felt the pelts through the neoprene, but as the rain hit it, it made a “tap, tap, tap” sound. I thought about that tapping. 

     Lately, I’ve been in the array of an abysmal funk, struggling to accept the changes in my life and struggling to let go of the past. I’ve lost my mental freedom, losing moments of the present, stuck in my head, but still there was that “tap, tap, tapping” on my wetsuit. There I was, listening to that noise, which should have been heard from indoors—a gentle tapping on the window as one sleeps, cozy and warm, like a microwaved burrito under the blankets. Nah, not me. It’s early Friday morning, and I’m in the ocean with a few dudes, wet from both above and under water. The tapping. . . . I felt like it was nature’s way of tapping me on the shoulder saying, “Hey, don’t forget, Matt. Don’t forget to live.” I paddled around, positioning myself for the wave, and the tapping continued. “Matt, this is you, you belong here.” I popped up right where the wave tapered off, pumping, drawing the highline, pressing my front foot to push myself back down the line with speed. I made a section where the lip was about to crumble. I pumped again, bottom turned, climbed the face, and turned off the lip with fluidity, never losing momentum. I felt the nose of my board swivel past six o’clock. Aggressive. Fast. By the time I redirected the wave was done. A couple guys paddled out in front of me after my ride. I smiled to them and myself. 

 

     The tapping continued from my paddle all the way until I sat again, motionless in the lineup. Just a continuous “tap, tap, tap.” It said, “Yeah, don’t you forget this.” I smiled again, this time at the tapping.