GROM CITY, WED 06JUN2012 MOR

Loc: 26th

Crew: Solo

Time: 0800-1000

Conditions: 4 FT+, consistent, crowded as hell, clean, glassy, offshore.

     What the fuck is wrong with me. I’m late. I’m always waking up late. I celebrated getting out of class last night by stopping by Rocks bar in Long Beach since my friend Nikki bartends there. I was surprised to see how empty the place was, so I stayed longer than anticipated. Also, since Tuesday is free jukebox night, it was hard to leave since I got to play all my jams. I played “Back of the Van.”

     “Who is this?” asked Nikki, as she turned from the register with her brows pointed downward.

     “Ladyhawke.”

     “I’m shazamming you’re music. Where do you get all this stuff?”

     I laughed. “Surf porn. I’m telling you. You gotta come through for surf porn night.” I stayed until a quarter to one. I also knew I had to leave because she was looking really good, no longer like someone who’s “just a friend” should look like. She’s 5’10, tall and built like an Amazonian, or like those athletic chicks that practice beach volleyball at six in the morning. It was hard to focus on the TV whenever she turned to face the register. Her long, black hair stopped just above the waistline of her jeans, jeans filled to the rim with flesh, pushing out the back pockets but never overflowing. “I gotta go,” I said. I gave her a hug that was more like a pat on the back. 

#

     It’s 0730. I meant to get up earlier. I pop an Advil for my headache. I check my phone and see that Rick tex’d me: “Going off at Jetty with a few heads out.” That text was two hours ago. Fuck. . . .

     The sun’s already blazing full blast outside my window. It’s warm out, so I grab my wetsuit jacket and boardshorts; I’m trunking it today. If it’s good like Rick says it is, there’s no way I’m going to Porto this morning. I imagine the line of cars going down into the lot, people double parked waiting for cars to leave, and the different clicks of surfers within every ten yards. It’s like that scene from The Outsiders when the camera pans through the drive-in movie theater and you see the Greasers and Socs. No, there’s no way I’m dealing with that this morning. Maybe at first light but not when the hive is stirring.

     I park at the meters and grab my DMS. Once I reach the sand I’m the witnessing a beautiful sight. Classic South Bay is the first thing that comes to mind. The 26^th Street tower is working. Big, peaky A-frames are rolling through, peeling, giving long rides. The weather’s so clear and sunny that the water’s a dark blue, the way it should be. The surface of the ocean is pure, unmolested glass, only disrupted by the waves and the surfers. The surfers . . . it is so fucking crowded. The main peak is grom central. School’s out, and it’s obvious. North and south of 26^th has a couple empty spots in the channel. Other than that, the prime take-off spots are littered with people.

     I paddle out just south of the tower, next to other guys that don’t feel like competing. At least it’s warm enough that I’m not freezing my balls off. The next set comes, and I’ve got side row seats to the surf show. Fuck that. I need to be in the show. I paddle closer and sit next to Vietnam Vet Mike. He has a longboard with the 1^st CAV emblem on it.

     “It’s fun out here, isn’t it!” he says.

     “Yeah, I wish I got here earlier.”

     Another surfer chimes in, “Nah, man. You showed up at the right time.”

     Mike signals me for the next set coming my way. It’s a right. I paddle into it, slide down, but it’s a closeout. I’m in the impact zone, stuck in roaring white wash. I duckdive and resurface short of breath. My head hurts. I’m an idiot for letting myself get a hangover on a day like this.

     The set disperses the crowd, so now I’m sitting outside, just north of Mike. Again, the next set comes. It’s perfect, A-framing, and I’m right on the peak. I paddle and kick; I’m about to pop up. I look to my left, and there’s a local grom going for it. He slides down as I pull out. It’s his wave.

     Frustrated, I paddle north next to Bruce and the older locals. It’s still a competition, but it’s more manageable. I get my wave of the day which is a juicy right. Because of the size, the drop-in is fast. I set up for a bottom turn, fighting against the pressure that wants to keep me squatted and pressed at the base. I climb the face and hit the lip as it starts to curl. Before, this would feel critical, but I’m pulling more of these off, so I recover, already thinking about the next turn.

     It feels good, satisfying. I paddle back to the lineup, stoked for one set wave on a crowded day like this.

#

     One wave is a straight-up wall, but I go for it anyway. The wave bottoms-out fast. I almost stick the landing, but the sudden drop into the flats makes me fall backwards. I’m in a bad spot. I resurface and see Bruce sliding down on the second wave. I’m without my board and treading water, waiting to see if he’ll run me over or not. I see the urgency in his eyes, the quick look down the line to see if he can alter, and finally the change of direction up and over the lip. Sorry, Bruce.

     When my session is over, I notice that my DMS feels a little heavier than usual.

#

     It was a beautiful day for surf and conditions, but it’s like that Lower’s Syndrome: you can be at a place with perfect waves, but there’s no guarantee that you’ll be the one surfing them. There were just too many people out there. 

MON 04JUN2012 MOR

Crew: Rick & Shan

Time: 0630-0845

Conditions: 3 FT, inconsistent, crowded, gloomy.

     I meant to surf HB because of the new south swell, but on Sunday night Rick told me some bad news about a family member. He said he was taking a couple days off from work, and that he’d be surfing on Monday morning. All I could say was, “See you there.”

#

     I celebrated the end of my work weekend a little too hard. I should be up and at the beach already, but it’s 0545, and I’m the phone with Rick. He’s already checked out both the jetty and 45^th. “You on your way?” he says.

     “Yeah, yeah, ummm, just loading up the car.” I try to make it sound like I’m not groggy. After I hang up, I get all my gear together in a hurry and drive out to Porto. I score free parking on Highland and 45^th. Shan also hit me up yesterday too, so I send him a text and let him know where I am.

     It’s a gloomy morning, and the usual peaks are working: sandwich shack, shitters, 45^th (less consistent), and the tanks (even slower). On the sand, there’s no sign of Rick anywhere in the lineup. I see his van, but I don’t see his bald head where the packs are. I continue my walk north. Nothing. I wonder if he’s at Hammerland. When I make my way as far as the tanks, I see him running towards me.

     His yellow fish is hard not to notice, and he’s dripping wet, saying, “I just surfed the jetty and got a couple waves. Thought I’d check it out over here.”

     I give him a hug.

     “I have to call work, Matt. Just paddle out, don’t wait for me.”

     Eh, I’m in no rush, and I think it means a lot to paddle out together, no matter who you’re surfing with. “I’ll wait,” I say. As I’m sitting down, stretching, I look behind me and see Shan doing the same thing. “Shan!”

     “Oh, Matt. I thought that looked like you, but I thought it wasn’t.”

     We catch up. I haven’t seen him in a while. Rick joins us again, and we paddle out at 45^th. Either it’s inconsistent or there are too many surfers that make it seem inconsistent. Or . . . it’s both. I’m having a hard time catching anything, but I try to switch my focus by talking to Rick and Shan where I can. The bathrooms are working. There’s a left that keeps lining up, but there are so many guys there. The current pulls north, but I work my way south to fight it. Rick and Shan let the current drag and keep them at 45^th, but it’s too crowded there for me.

     Rick leaves to take his daughter to school, and then Shan disappears not too long after. Once I’m alone, I get my first decent wave. It’s a left. I drop in, pump, check turn off the lip, pump, and get a carve on the shoulder before it fizzles out. The sensation of the wave rejuvenates me with life. I paddle back to the lineup optimistic and hungry for more.

#

     Surfing Porto is like a love-hate relationship. I’ve written it off so many times, but deep inside I love this place; I always will. But on this morning, if you’re not willing to put yourself inside the pack at the bathrooms, the shitters, or Rosecrans, you’re not gonna catch anything. The secondary peaks aren’t working as well. I let myself drift to the tanks, hoping for something. My last wave is a shapeless wonder that pushes me on to shore.

     When I get home, it turns out that the OC has south wind fucking it up, so either way I made the best decision to surf local, not just to save on gas but to also be there for a friend. 

Francis and Klaude also stop by after a long drive back from their Pacifica surf trip weekend. Right here they're having a revelation. "Why didn't you tell me you had these feelings before?" one asks. . . .

LIKE MEDS, FRI 01JUN2012 MOR

Crew: Francis

Time: 0700-0800, 1 hr.

Conditions: 2-3 FT, inconsistent.

     I haven’t surfed since Oceanside last Sunday, and it’s because school has been a bitch. Two classes during a six week semester are a little hard to handle. Too much reading and writing without enough time. However, since I have to work this weekend, this Friday is my last chance to get some waves until next week, so I have to paddle out no matter what.

#

     I told Francis yesterday that I’d paddle out early, but again, I hit snooze until 0630. I look at my phone. He shot me a text at 0600 that the tide was high. He’s already there. So as not to be a flake, I grab my gear and head out.

     On Fridays the parking at 26^th St. sucks ass, so I have no choice but to park at the meters. On my way to the sand, I can already see that the surf is having issues with the high tide. It’s clean and glassy, but the waves are only breaking close to shore. However, there are a couple spots that still push waves out despite the tide. I look for Francis, and he’s easy to find, as he’s trimming down the face of a mooshy, three-footer, reentering off the high line, bottom turning, and pumping for more distance. My warm up’s a quick one since I only have an hour before the meter maids come in for a raping. We see each other as I paddle out, and he waves.

     I’m back on the DMS because I think I’ve outgrown the JS. I’ve been riding it for over a year now, so it’s about time that I’ve progressed to something else.

#

     The locals here know what’s up, that’s why they’re sitting “here” and not where the shore pound is. There’s this magic sand bar that works when it’s not working anywhere else. A mooshy three-footer forms. It has a long section behind it, so it’s not peaky but the right-hand shoulder tapers down, leaving a smooth, building fcw. I pump down the line to the inside section, where it stands up and goes fast. The shoulder’s soft and open like a blank canvas, the kind of shoulder that’s perfect for carving. I bottom turn and thrust my tail into the lip. I hear the unmistakable splash of water as I reenter when the wave closes out. I paddle back to Francis.

     “I heard that one,” he says. He splashes the water and makes a swooshing sound.

     Francis gets more waves than I, which is normal. I get a couple, but the consistency gets worse towards the eight o’clock hour.

     “Staying out?” he asks.

     “Nah, I can’t. I gotta get a haircut and get ready for work.”

     We give our goodbyes, and I move on to start the rest of my day. It was only an hour of surf, but those couple sprays that I got off the lip will be enough to hold me down for the weekend.

THE UNEXPECTED, SUN 27MAY2012 MOR

Crew: Rick and Canales

Time: 0630-0930, 3 hrs.

Conditions: 3-4 FT, consistent, zero crowded, glassy, clean, offshore.

     I wake up in the middle of the night to take a piss. It’s 0430. When I come back to the tent, Rick’s still passed out. I expect it to be a morning of sleeping in.

#

     “Matt, wake up!”

     “What, huh?” I lean over and prop myself up on my right elbow. Rick’s head is in the tent, and he’s staring at me.

     “The wind’s offshore, Matt. We need to get on it while it’s good. Let’s go to Oceanside. Get up.”

     “Okay. . . .” I look at my watch. 0530. With the way Rick’s moving you’d think it was noon. The look in his eyes is wild like he’s been up for hours or has been on a caffeine binge, and then it hits me. Canales doesn’t surf. It’s not fair to leave him here or force him up. He came for the reunion, not for water.

     I step outside the tent and find pots with hard boiled eggs and coffee. Rick’s been up for a while.

     “Yeah, we’ll only be there for like two hours,” says Rick in the distance.

     I look over. He’s talking to Canales who’s is still lying down with his beanie half-crooked, covering one eye, dazed. I feel like telling Rick that we’ll just chill here, but he’s all over the place, loading his gear and prepping for the morning. Okay . . . we’re going.

#

     Rick gives Canales the full tour guide treatment during the drive down south. The same tour guide speech that I’ve heard him give myself, my brother, Francis, Canales, and again myself every time we take this drive.

     When we get to the surf spot, I expect nothing. This whole weekend has been small with surf in the background of other things. Besides, I’ve already seen the reports and the forecast. Nothing is breaking down south. The South Bay is actually better Trestles, of course on the weekend that I plan a camping trip. Typical. Even the offshore wind doesn’t give me optimism. We need SWELL.

#

     We’re standing on the sand . . . and I can’t believe it. Not a soul is in the water. Expected. The wind is so light that it’s almost dead. Expected. It’s glassy. Expected. There are unridden, three-foot peaks going unridden, lining all the way up to shore. UNEXPECTED!

     “Look at that,” says Rick. “Looks fun huh?” He gives me a smile which is half stoke and half mockery.

     Yeah, yeah, I know . . . I know, Rick, I know. I’m the grumpy asshole that didn’t want to get up and drive down here for two-foot slop. Yes, Rick. I was wrong, I’m an idiot, and by all means I need to stop doubting your judgment. I look at a four foot wave peel away. I say, “Well, that’s all I need to see!” It’s go time. We march back to the whip, and the only thought I have in my mind is to suit up as fast as possible.

     A couple groms are on the sand, laying out their boards.

     Rick says, “Good morning. Looks fun out there!”

     “Yeah,” one of them says, “we’re gonna paddle out a little later.”

     A little later? Why the hell would they wanna do that?

     We do our best to accommodate Canales. Sure, it’s barely 0630, but we set up a beach chair with a cooler full of beer and some snacks for him. “I’ll be fine,” he says.

#

     I brought my JS because I didn’t expect the surf to be good, but it’s not a bad thing. I’ll be getting waves for sure now. The paddle out is easy, but we can’t decide on where to sit. Some lefts break close to the jetty, and yet there are peaks further north. We accept that this is a natural surf phenomenon of indecisiveness when you have a whole break to yourself, so we just stay put.

     Rick paddles away, gambling with his instincts, predicting a peak somewhere else where I’m not, but I get lucky. A peak forms on the outside right in front of me. I paddle to it and go left. The waves are so clean. They aren’t round, but they’re not mooshy either. The face is so smooth that the spilling lip looks like it’s moving over an immovable, glass surface. The section builds in front of me. I pump, bottom turn, and try to get a carve off the lip. I do, but I notice a difference. I’ve been on my chippy DMS board lately because the JS was broken. Now that I’m on the meaty JS again, my carve feels slow and sluggish, like I’m a second behind where I want to be. I redirect and make my way down to the next section, ending the ride with one more turn.

     Rick says, “I seen you hitting the lip, Matt, but you really need to get a good bottom turn to whack it off the top real good.”

     I nod in agreement, knowing that this is easier said than done; it always is. Rick’s right, and I’m always working on improving my turns every time I paddle out. More practice.

     After the first hour, he goes in for a snack. When he comes back he says, “Canales wanted to get in the water too.” He motions towards the shore. Canales is struggling, holding the board upright in an attempt to beat the whitewash.

#

     I can’t say that the surf is super consistent, but since no one else is out here, it feels like it is. We have all the waves to ourselves, so I must catch as many as possible; I have to, it’s the only way. Pump-pump-carve, pump-pump-carve, is the mantra of the morning. My arms are burning, I gasp for air every time I resurface from a duckdive. I feel like shit. Yup. The carne asada and Tecate diet is catching up. It’s shit fuel for surfing. 

     Even when the wind switches sideshore and creates texture, the shape is still good, but some guys begin to paddle out towards our north and create a small pack. At the three hour mark we go in. From the shore we look at the ocean. It’s onshore, the waves are being knocked down, and the shape’s gone to shit. Yeah . . . Rick chose an excellent window.

#

     Back at the campsite, everyone leaves. I reserved the spot until Monday morning. I usually do a morning sesh before I pack up, but there’s no surf at Trestles. I make myself some tacos and eat a solo lunch.

     My best friend Manolo swings by and invites me to hang out with his family at Old Mans. The surf is flat, but it’s a beautiful evening. I whip out a book and enjoy the sun before we head back to camp. After he leaves, things get lonely. I wonder if it’s worth staying another night. I’d have to drive to Oceanside again in the morning and on top of that, the swell is dying down. I say fuck it, pack up, and hit the road. School starts on Tuesday, so I may as well get prepared for that. 

     Even though I cut the trip short, it was good seeing everybone. Everything can’t be just about surfing. Life is about relationships and connections too, and to score at Oceanside was a nice cherry on top. Until we meet again. . . .