THE RELEASE PT.6, SUN 13MAY2012 MOR

 Location: Churches

Crew: Jordan

Conditions: 2 FT+, light onshore, textured, inconsistent, sunny.

     I intended to wake up at 0530, but I stumble out of my tent by about 0600. Rick’s already awake, cooking some hard boiled eggs. I join him by the stove and take a look over the ocean. It’s clean like yesterday, and it’s also small like yesterday. A couple of longboarders are sitting at the top of the wave, but north Churches is already filling with groms who are practicing before their contest. Jordan will also be competing this morning in the WSA event, her last event of the year. She’s in second place, and a good result today might put her in first.

     I really want to surf, but looking at the conditions, I don’t want to go through the same thing as yesterday morning, especially after coming off of an evening session at Lowers. Rick makes some hot water for cocoa and coffee, giving me something to sip while I spend the majority of the morning watching the tiny waves.

#

     It’s 0800, and Rick’s family has joined Jordan’s family to watch her compete. Her heat’s about to start in twenty seconds.

     “Hurry up and get out there,” her mom says. Jordan’s sisters run up to her to relay the message. Her three competitors are now walking in deeper water.

     Jordan passes us and says in an unconcerned tone, “Don’t worry, I don’t have to rush.”

     As soon as her feet touch the water, the other three chicks are already paddling out. The first set comes, and all three of them get some points. Meanwhile, Jordan just starts to paddle. It’s a missed opportunity.

     The twenty minute heat goes fast. Jordan forces a right. She’s behind the section, but she climbs the face for an attempted floater. She falls. We gasp at this. If she would’ve pulled it off, it would’ve been a good score. Even though she’s far away in the lineup, I can read her expressions: frustration, anger, anxiousness. She paddles towards the inside and gets a fizzler of a left. Just then, the next set approaches and starts to break on the outside. She misses it.

     The announcer says, “Four, three, two, one!” and the blare of the horns follow.

     Jordan paddles with her head down back to the cobblestones. I feel bad for her.

     Most of my friends started surfing a little later in their lives, like I. Actually, most of the DRC has a head start on me. I caught my first legit wave when I was twenty-three. I’m a surf geek, surf nut, surf collector, and a surf enthusiast. Innersections plays on my TV more than anything else. Even when I intend for it to be just background noise, I always end up watching everything from Joel Parkinson to Mikala Jones before I become unglued. If there’s an ASP Tour event on the web, you can guarantee that I’m glued to that as well. What I’m saying is, most of the people I know wished they surfed more as a kid. It’s the “hoop dream” for surfing, to have competed at a young age, get a sponsorship, and even though the chances are slim maybe even make the tour. Dreams, all dreams.

     If I or any of my friends had a heat of any sorts, we would’ve been out there sitting in the water twenty minutes before our heat. Instead, we’re a bunch of old novices (except Rick and Francis) blowing a load over something as simple as spray from a carve. We have no legit barrel stories and may never catch air in our lives. We accept this.

     The drama’s too much for me to handle. Jordan’s an awesome kid, and her surfing is so much more advanced than my imitation grown man surfing. I know she’s upset, but I’m not the right person to find the right words for her. “Rick,” I say, “I’m gonna go suit up.”

#

     The event site has the best waves, so I paddle just south of it to be closer to the energy. Two groms are on the inside, and some girl’s dad sits close by. The morning’s glassy conditions are deteriorating, and the onshore wind picks up, creating texture over the surface. I catch a handful of rights, but the wave is so small and weak that I can only walk the nose and trim.

     Jordan’s walking towards the campsite with her towel draped over her. She sits on the picnic table cradling her head. When she paddles out by me, she says, “I lost.”

     “Yeah . . . you’re heat was mostly a lull.”

     “I lost my second place. I’m fourth now.”

     I pause . . . searching. “Just don’t be hard on yourself. You don’t have control over the waves. That’s still really good for you to place that high.”

     She looks at me in acknowledgement and turns her attention back to the horizon, paddling towards the possibility of a ride. She doesn’t complain or want any pity. I admire her resilience at such a young age.

#

     By noon, only Rick and I are left. He’s still packing up his van, but he sets up his Hurley umbrella, hands me a couple beers and says, “Just hang out here for a little while, Matt.”

     I’m buzzed wearing my hooded sweater and sunglasses. The winds have gotten stronger in the last couple hours. A blast of wind sends the umbrella flying down the beach, heading straight for two kids lying on a towel. I should be jumping out of my seat, charging the sand, and diving to grab its pole. Instead, I hold my beer in my hand, wondering where the umbrella will stop. The kids’ father lunges out of his beach chair and grabs it. I get up and apologize. It’s embarrassing, and I’m an asshole. I’m an asshole because I had zero sense of urgency and because I’m thinking this is Rick’s umbrella, not mine. When Rick comes back, I tell him what happened.

     Minutes later another strong gust blasts the side of my head. I drink my beer in the sunlight and look to my left. Where the fuck is the E-Z Up? The family that was lying down, sunbathing in the sand is now under a white canopy with poles sticking up. It hits me then. The fuckin’ E-Z Up flipped over and landed on the family. A teenage kid with pale white skin and red hair pulls it away. I scan for Rick and see him talking to a guy with an RV. “RICK!” I yell. No response. “RICK!” When the E-Z Up gets pulled away, there’s a woman holding her head, and the rest of her family is tending to her. “Sorry,” I say to the kid, as he brings the canopy my way.

     “You need help putting this away?” he says.

     “No, no, that’s fine. Is she all right?”

     “Yeah.”

     If I was embarrassed earlier, I’m beyond that now. I bring the shelter within the confines of the fence and track Rick down. He goes over and apologizes. The adults in their family shoot cold glares in my direction as I pack up my chair and cooler.

#

     When Rick leaves, I drive towards San Onofre and park under a tree. A decision has to be made. I miss my bed. I miss playing my PS3. I also miss clean underwear, but I know that it’s all about the south swell right now. I could go home, surf HB tomorrow and come back to Trestles on Tuesday when the swell peaks. But do I really want to sleep in my wagon? And gas, do I really want to burn all those miles driving back? An OG call has to be made. How bad do I wanna surf? . . .

THE RELEASE PT.5 (triple sesh), SAT 12MAY2012 EVE

Location: Lowers

Crew: Francis

Conditions: 3-4 FT, light onshore, clean, sunny, not crowded.

     There’s no doubt in my mind that we’re surfing Lowers in the evening. I tell Francis that the wind usually dies down with the setting sun and that the crowd usually thins out. Refilled with stoke, I stand in place full-suited with board in hand while Francis tries to wiggle in his damp wetsuit as fast as he can.

     “I wish there was an easier way to get in a wetsuit,” he says.

     A smile comes across my face, but I remain silent. For me, silence means many things. In this case, anyone that’s familiar with my mannerisms knows it’s impatience. It’s just past 1800, and I’d like to catch a solid two hour window.

#

     It’s a classic sunny evening at Trestles. Because of the day’s mediocre conditions, barely anyone is surfing. The usual sight of surfers walking the path, talking, laughing, and carrying their boards is nonexistent; it’s just us. As we approach Lowers, we see guys going down the line on the A-frame. We count: 1, 2, 3, 4 . . . 13. I turn to Francis and say, “We’re surfing until we can’t see anymore.”

     He smiles.

     Something occurs to me. “You’ve never surfed Lowers this late, huh?”

     “Nope.”

     Twigs crunch as we squint from the low sun. I turn to Francis again. “All you can eat sushi!”

#

     We approach the lineup from the south. Francis eases his way closer to the middle of the wave while I sit wide to the south as usual. Nothing’s swinging my way. Even though thirteen people at Lowers is very minimal, it can still be a little competitive to catch one at the top of the wave. The next set clears the main pack; everyone scrambles: two catching waves, the ones in the way backing off, and the guys that scratch out or duckdive. I take the opportunity to sit at the top and find myself alone to catch the next wave. It’s a washy, forgiving, four-foot right. Even though the waves at Lowers are soft and mooshy, the drop is nice and fast which sets you up for a good first maneuver. I bottom turn and hook the lip, cutting back into the pocket. I almost lose the section, but I pump, make it to the face, and get another turn before kicking out. I’ve actually noticed that this is becoming a bad habit. Even though there is a time and place to cut-back, I’m beginning to do it every time, which causes me to fall behind the section. I guess learning a new maneuver can be like a new toy, when you just can’t put it down or stop playing with it.

     When I get back to the line Francis says, “How was that?”

     “Good!” My face is plastered with satisfaction. “Best wave this whole trip thus far. Longest one.”

    

     There are still some lulls in between the sets, but the crowd thins out a bit more, and with the dying wind I can’t help but be stoked to be here. On the next couple sets, I get out maneuvered and out paddled by the other surfers. Frustrated, I take a gamble and paddle clear across the pack to sit wide where the lefts are. Just as I’ve been lucky in the past, a random left swings exactly where I am, much too far for anyone to chase. It’s a good down-the-line left. I pump and set myself up for a carve before falling on the last turn. Again, I’m ear-to-ear. I love it when those gambles work. It’s like when a play out of a “time out” comes into fruition and gets you two points; this was my two-pointer. But it’s hard to keep secrets at Lowers, and everyone shifts over to where I just caught my wave.

     I lose track of Francis, but every time I look back he’s either bobbing in the lineup or paddling back from the inside, much more activity than what’s happening for me. Either way, my session’s been made.

#

     It’s so dark that I can barely see the set that’s approaching. I look back. Francis got a long right and is already doing the cobblestone dance back to shore. It’s just me and two other guys. I’m wondering if I should paddle for the set or not. The sun’s been gone for a while, and only faint traces of orange reflect small triangles on the ocean’s surface. The wave’s getting closer. I turn to paddle, but it breaks right on me. I couldn’t tell I was too deep.

     It’s a satisfying walk back to camp. Three guys trail way behind us making the similar walk. Lowers is such a crowded wave, and any time you catch a Lowers wave, and I mean a LEGIT Lowers wave, not from the side or the inside but at the top of the wave, it’s special. Tonight we can say we surfed a world class break.

#

     Everyone’s at the camp, immobile as stones around the flames. It looks like they’ve been there forever. Francis and I show up dripping wet. “Hey, Rick!” I say.

     His eyes widen. “You guys just got out?”

     “Yeah, we surfed Lowers.”

     Jordan sits up and says, “How was it?” Her marshmallow begins to burn over the flames, but she pays it no mind.

     “Eh . . .” I raise my eyebrows and give a slight nod. “It was fun.”

     Rick forces us to eat a little before we take our man shower together. He cooked chicken, pork, steak, and cabbage. I only eat a little in case anybody’s still hungry. At the showers, Francis and I drink our Coors Lights, giving the ritualistic cheers over the separator. We laugh through the walls and take our sips. Even though I can’t see him, I know he’s smiling.

     We go back and sit around the fire a little longer before Francis takes off. He has training tomorrow morning. “I wish I could stay,” he says. “I don’t really have to go.” He struggles with the decision. “If you stay until Monday, you might catch it when it’s good.”

     “Yeah, I’ll let you know what I do.” I give the guy a hug, and he drives away. 

     Rick leaves the fire, and it’s just me by myself. I guess today wasn’t so bad after all.

THE RELEASE PT.4 (double sesh), SAT 12MAY2012 NOON

Location: North Oceanside

Crew: Francis, Jordan, Jimmy, and Rick

Conditions: 2-3 FT, howling onshore, sunny, hot, mooshy, choppy.

     Francis and jump in the wagon to meet up with everyone in O-Side. Our expectations aren’t high, but we are just hoping that it’s rideable. I don’t care if there’s texture; I just want some kind of shape that’s worthy enough for one turn.

     When we arrive, we take a look at the conditions. It’s a beautiful, hot summer day. There are some bikini’s walking around worth jacking off to, and a lot of families are barbecuing and drinking, but there’s one major problem. . . .

     The wind is so strong that it’s taking away the little of what shape there is. Even though there are a small handful of surfers, the peaks run away and crumble before any of them can even turn. It’s choppy, gutless, mooshy, and weak, but I’m hoping that there’s a chance we’ll get lucky.

     Jimmy is the first one to paddle out. He actually wears trunks and a rash guard. It seems like a good idea, but I think the wind gives too much of a chill factor. Jimmy’s in position for some waves, but the shoulder mooshes out and reforms into an unrideable mound.

     Rick and Francis follow behind. Some Marines are surfing too. They’re beginners because they’re lying too far back on their boards. Still, they’re smiling. To them, they are absolutely surfing, no doubt. They’ll be able to go home and say, “I surfed today.” They’re too new to realize that the conditions are terrible.

     I’m in the best position possible for the sets. I shoulder hunt, pick take-off spots with the greatest potential for distance, but still . . . the shoulders bog out into nothing.

     Francis gives up and body surfs. Rick tries to keep the energy up, hooting me on everything I catch. He’s on a longboard, and he doesn’t do much better than I.

     I’m the last one in the lineup, trying to force something, but there’s nothing to force.

#

     Back on shore, Francis and I are heading towards the shower. “You want a beer?” I ask.

     “Nah,” he says, “I don’t feel like I earned it.”

THE RELEASE PT.3, SAT 12MAY2012 MOR

Location: Churches

Crew: Francis, Jordan, and Rick

Conditions: 2-3 FT, clean, glassy, inconsistent.

     Last night Rick set up a tent for Francis and I. He doesn’t want us sleeping in our cars. It’s nice of him. Francis and I wake up to Rick’s voice. He’s on the phone. “Firing,” he says.  I don’t know who he’s talking to, but I unzip the tent and stumble out. Rick’s holding his phone to his hear. He looks at me and raises his eyebrows. I look out over the ocean. Finally, it’s fucking clean. No wind, just glass—overcast glass. A little two-footer breaks on the south end of Churches. It’s small, but it’s clean and rideable. “You better get out there before it turns into a zoo,” says Rick. 

     With quickness, dump out yesterday’s sushi, suit up, and grab my board. Francis pokes his head out of the tent. “Clean,” I tell him. I’m rushing. Jantzen sits up out of his sleeping bag (he’s sleeping out in the open) and lifts his beanie as I move past. He looks out at the lineup. It doesn’t look impressive, but I’m just stoked at the conditions.

     Four longboarders are at the bottom of the wave. Two of them catch some decent rights. A three-footer breaks in front of me. I duckdive it. I’m thinking that this is the day I’ve been waiting for: clean conditions, down the line waves, glassy, and no wind. And then the lull starts, a very long one. The longboarders I just invaded are sitting stagnant as well. Nothing is coming. North Churches, next to the top of the wave looks good, but there’s a surf contest there, so we can’t get any of that.

     By the time everyone else paddles out, I still haven’t caught a thing. It’s too inconsistent, too small in between the sets, it’s . . . disappointing.

     “Don’t worry, Matt,” says Rick, “let’s do a run to Oceanside.”

     I nod.

#

     Francis and I tough it out the longest. We’ve been in the water for two hours. I can’t recall anyone else getting good rides, all I know is that I didn’t get any waves worth mentioning. Francis and I head in and shower up, hoping that this afternoon has something better in store for us.