AKA SKUNKY BREWSTER, FRI 20JULY2012 MOR

Loc: HB

Crew: Solo

Time: 0630-0845

Conditions: 2-3 FT, consistent, low to mid tide, clean, sunny, warm, walled.

     Briana went home after work on Thursday, so as to give me some quality time with my cousin Sherwin. I picked him up from LAX at 2245, and thank goodness he flew United because I was able to skip all the other terminals and made the immediate left to his baggage claim. I wanted to take him to BJ’s Pizza for happy hour, but it was already running late. It’s the same every time I see him. Despite being apart for two years, it’s like I just saw him yesterday.

     “Couz,” I said, “I got food at the house. I’m gonna cook.”

     “I like In-N-Out. I get’m.” He smiled, revealing his top snaggle tooth on the left side. “I’ll get one for Manolo too. It’s the least I can do.”

     “You sure?” I realized that there’s no In-N-Out in Oahu, and as tired as I am of In-N-Out, this was a rare opportunity for him.

     He caught up with Manolo back at the house, and when Manolo went to bed, we stayed up and talked a little longer. Instantly I was brought back to the days of our childhood, being a freshman in high school, when my grandparents would drive over every other night to talk story with his grandma, my grandma’s sister. Sherwin and I would walk through Pualu place, a small subdivision in Napili off of the Honoapiilani Hwy. The smell of pineapple fields, soil, and mountain moisture filled the air. We talked about girls from school, prayed for pussy, and wondered why they were doing in their houses with the lights on. Years later, here we are on my couch as grown as men, still talking about pussy. I set the couch for him.

#

     I go to sleep at 0115 and set my alarm for 0430. I hit the snooze a couple times, losing the all-importance of Sherwin’s flight at exactly 0600. There’s a knock at the door. It’s 0445. “Shit.” I open the door. “Sorry, couz. Don’t worry. We’ll be out of here in a second.” My car is pre-packed with my surf gear, except my hot water bottles. I get him to the airport at 0515. He’s in a rush, carrying a laptop bag and a map case for his seminar. We hug.

     “Couz, if you like, come San Diego. I get the room.”

     I smile and tell him to text me so I know he made the flight on time.

     It’s still dark on the way to HB. My cousin’s layover actually fits perfectly for today’s plans. According to Surfline, there’s 2-3 FT swell in north OC, green rating. I called Cheryl yesterday, but she had to work. Khang’s still out from tattoo recovery. I contemplated on calling Shan but said “fuck it” on account of how flakey he is. Over it. This morning is strictly a solo session, and if the conditions are right, this could be a good score, like back in the Fran-Saucian times.

#

     Someone on my blog recommended exiting Bolsa Chica and taking the coastal route to HB, so I give it a shot. I take Bolsa too far, so I have to U-turn and take Warner to PCH. The drive seems out of the way, but I can see why this route is worth it. I can see the waves breaking at Bolsa to give me a sneak preview of what to expect. It’s small. Dog Beach is small too, but when I reach Golden West, the peaks are significantly bigger.

     When I pull into the state lot, I park and take a shit at the porta potty. Of course, someone took a piss all over the seat. Piss drips from my ass cheeks as I pull my shorts up. Okay, that was a joke. I wiped the piss. 

     I figure I’ll get some pics for my blog, so I head to the water. The tide’s really low, but some small peaks are punching through. The perfect window, I’m thinking. I love catching the window as it’s turning good, and even though it’s shitty now, I have a feeling that this spot will turn on once the tide fills in. 

     It’s already seventy degrees, and it’s not even 0630 yet, so I decide on a rashguard with trunks. I take my time warming up. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, and the wind is swinging south from the offshore, but it’s still faint. Only a few heads are by the river jetties, and one guy is out in front of me. I brace for the cold as I get ankle deep, but to my surprise the water is warm. Even when I start paddling to full submersion, the temp is easy to deal with. From there I sit and wait.

     I scratch for some little two footers, but I can’t get into them. I miss a three foot wave on the outside and duckdive it. The other guy sharing the break has a couple waves under his belt, and I have nothing.

     My first wave is a closeout, and upon dismounting my board I find myself in shallow water. What’s disturbing is the shape. The sets look peaky, but right when they stand, more sections build on both sides, forcing them to closeout. More tide. We just need more tide.

Wave of the Day:

     About forty-five minutes into the session, a lone peak forms on the outside. It looks classic, the way that HB is supposed to break. It’s not tall, but it’s a small bump that will morph into something else once it hits the sand bar. I paddle out to meet it, swing around, and accidentally put myself right under the peak. HB is so pitchy that I usually like to take the shoulder. It jacks up so fast that I barely pop-up in time, almost purling. I bottom turn and climb the face, but the speed and size surprises me; it’s a solid four-footer. I should be posturing my body to crank out a turn and shifting my weight to push the tail and rail into the face, but I’m slow. Instead I trim my board into a high line, drop back in, turn at mid-face, and end the ride with a baby-carve at the dissolving shoulder. I don’t know what it is. Whether rust or inactivity, I should have rode that wave better.

“FUUUUCK!”:

     That’s what the guy yells out who’s surfing next to me, regardless of whether I’m there or not. I saw the whole thing. He paddled for a two-footer and scratched out, yelled “FUUUUCK!” and splashed the water around him. I thought this only happens at Porto. I understand his frustration. Even though the sets are rolling in, they are walled. The shoulders all the way at the end are still sprouting new sections into the shallows that wall-up and closeout.

     I fight the current to stay in front of my designated tower, but I eventually give in because my spot’s not working anyway. It’s a sad case. The conditions are perfect, perfect summer weather all around. Even the south wind isn’t messing things up, but the waves, the waves just don’t want to come in single, down-the-line peaks. I catch a closeout and call it a morning.

     So the void of not having a good session in a while continues, with my session at Zeroes being my best one as of late, about two weekends ago. I don’t know what it will take or what kind of sacrifices to the surf gods I’ll have to make, but I’m due up for another turnfest . . . actually. I know what sacrifices I’ll have to make. Balance.

SEARCH, TUE 17JULY2012 EVE

Loc: Bolsa Chica

Crew: Solo

Time: 1800-1930

Conditions: 3 FT, occasional plus sets, high tide, inconsistent, strong onshore, victory at sea.

Pre Blog:

     I missed this entire south swell. This isn’t like me. Usually I’m packed up and on the road early in the morning, at least heading to HB if not Trestles or O-Side. I can only imagine what this is doing to my surfing. It’s a sacrifice for my new relationship and being in the “honeymoon” phase, but I know that some man-time and surf trips must be in order soon. Even though I’m happy to have Briana in my life, I need to restore some balance. The waves are a huge part of what makes me who I am, and the last thing I want is to be someone else.

The Hunt:

     I drop Briana off at work and head south on the 5 towards HB. I meant to surf the last two mornings but couldn’t get up in time, but I’m stoked to see if I can get a good evening sesh. As I approach the state parking lot, I can see some flags and banners blowing hard from the onshore wind. When I park and step out, the wind doesn’t feel too bad. It’s a clear, sunny, summer day. I throw on my Jimmy Miller Foundation trucker hat and glasses and head towards the water. The sun warms the air around me as well as the sand that I walk on. Families sit around the fire pits, and beachgoers lie out on the sand. This is summer in the OC. Explosions of white water can be seen in the distance, but they are breaking in one long line. My fears are confirmed once I can see the break. There is size; that’s not an issue. The inside is consistent, and the marble foam is swirling and pushing fast to the north. I can’t see a surfer all the way from River Jetties to where I’m standing. At Magnolia, I see one guy paddling out. The waves are an easy five feet, long, walled, and fast. I eye a possible shoulder but know that I’d be at the next tower down by the time I reached the lineup. I do an internal debate. I want to paddle out, but it’s a bad sign if no other surfers are around. I can ask the lifeguard what he thinks, but I don’t. Still, waves are coming in fast and racy. The shoulder might be manageable if I can pop up quick enough and just pump. After fifteen minutes of contemplating, I head back to the wagon.

The Search:

     I call Rick and ask for suggestions. He says to check out Dog Beach or Bolsa. I haven’t surfed Bolsa Chica in years. My brother took me there twice in order to break me in, before surfing HB.

#

     The other breaks along PCH look the same. A guy paddles over a wave at the pier, visible over the bike path that parallels the highway. Surfers are sparse and spread so far apart that there isn’t an obvious pack anywhere.

Los Desperados:

     When I reach Bolsa Chica, I park at different towers to see what the breaks look like, but they are all the same: choppy and blown out. The only difference here is the size; it’s maybe a foot smaller, possibly reducing the current. I park at the northern most part of the lot. Four guys are by the river mouth. Even though the waves look like shit, there must be something out there worth paddling out for.

     As I change, a surfer returns to the car next to me. “How was it?” I ask.

     “Terrible. I didn’t catch one wave.”

     It’s not the news I wanna hear, but . . . I’ve already made this commitment to be out here. There’s no turning back now.

     Another surfer in the truck next to me says that he caught some fun ones, but that the current is brutal. “I started at Seapoint,” he says. “I got out at the tower,” he points north, “and I made three rounds back.”

     At least this guy sounds optimistic. I head to the water and start my warm up. There are a lot of fishermen lining the shore. A longboarder waits by the rocks for a lull. I run in, gaining momentum to start my paddle out.

     The current has me going north, half way to the next lifeguard tower by the time I’m passed the impact zone. The wind and chop is so strong the tops of the waves are parted into chocolate chip shaped swirls. The plus sets are long walls. I catch a couple closeouts, bringing myself further north with each wave. Fight the current, I think to myself. A couple other surfers drift towards me. When I work my way back south, it’s like I have bionic paddling since the current sweeps them away at the same time. I hold position for a while until I look back and see how fast I’m moving. It’s useless.

Waves:

     I get a closeout that reforms towards the inside into a little two-foot left. It’s more like a long, rampy section, so I pump down the line and attempt a layback snap. I don’t recover from the maneuver, but it’s still fun to practice it.

     On a set wave, I’m actually in position for the shoulder. I bottom turn and set up for an off-the-lip carve before the section runs away. It feels good.

     The tide rises and makes things swampy for the rest of the session. A longboarder paddles out where I am. He’s floundering on his board, struggling to find the sweet spot. I paddle south to fight the current for a bit. When I turn around he’s far away. Ten minutes later, he’s out of the water. Looking towards Seapoint, I can’t see anyone else in the water. I think about the fun, onshore, evening sessions at Porto, where peaks randomly sprout up for a fun couple of turns. This is not the situation. In the face of the onshore gusts, I wonder if this is a throw-away session.

     I head back to the car, change, and grab my camera for a couple sunset shots. One lone surfer on a red funboard sits in the water by himself, bobbing and drifting further north. His girlfriend walks along the sand, trying to keep up with him.

#

     Good waves and fun sessions can never be guaranteed. When I first pulled up to surf, I figured that those guys out in the lineup knew something I didn’t. They did. The truly addicted will always paddle out. Rain or shine, onshore or off, calm or stormy, the sensation of being on a wave is both paramount and irreplaceable. Those guys know this spot and knew what they were getting into as soon as they pulled into the lot, maybe before they even left the house. Still, they suited up and went out there, despite the quality of waves. Quality was never an issue. Standing tall on your board and going down the line, regardless of how short a ride, are all the things that matter.

MEET THE FRIENDS, THU 12JULY2012 EVE

Loc: HB

Crew: Solo

Time: 1600-1700

Conditions: 2-3 FT, occasional plus sets, high tide, inconsistent, light onshore, empty.

     A week ago Bri said that her friends from Oregon were coming to town and that she wanted me to meet them. Usually, I’m not “big” on meeting “the friends,” especially parents. I guess that means I’ve always been a piece of shit boyfriend. Let’s put it this way. . . . In the past I’ve met “the friends,” smiled, nodded my head in agreement, acted cordial, but it was like pulling teeth for me the whole time. When it comes to parents? . . . “Don’t even get me started, brah” (Lost Atlas 2011). Anyway, I’ve introduced Bri to a solid handful of my friends, so being that this is a relationship, it’s only fair for me to meet Sam and Shawna as well.

#

     Their flight arrives at Long Beach airport at 1415. Bri gets a text from them that they landed, but we’re barely passed the IKEA, going 405 S. As we’re pulling up to the terminal, I get the anxiety. Bri is from Oregon. I’m not sure how her friends will take to a dark, surf monkey like myself, but I do my best to play my part, step out the car, and greet them when they approach.

     I’m not prepared for the Amazonian onslaught that I’m faced with. Sam is light skinned with dark hair, and Shawna is a brown-skinned Filipina; they are both tall as hell.

     “Hi, I’m Matt. I’ve heard so much about you,” I say as I extend my hand for each platonic, asexual handshake. So far they seem nice. I apologize for the surfboard and junk in the back which leaves them squashed in the middle and passenger seat. They say they are hungry, so I drive us to Gyu Kaku in HB, where there’s a good happy hour and decent food.

     Bri and her friends catch up, while I systematically chime in between natural pauses in their conversation. I go to the bathroom to take a piss and take my time so that they have a chance to get solo girl time without the boyfriend at the table. When I come back, they are all looking at me with an awkward silence.

     “I just told them about our camping trip,” says Bri.

     “Yeah,” I say, “we had the tent shaking in broad daylight.”

     Sam and Shawna laugh.

     “Nah, I’m just joking.” I know I’m not joking.

#

     They need a ride up to Glendale, but first we take them to see the beach, so I drive us to my favorite HB surf spot. When we arrive, I’m so surprised at how calm the wind is. There’s a strange overcast of dark clouds in the distance, but the air is still warm. The water is clean for an early evening sesh, but the tide’s a little high. However, despite the swampy conditions a set breaks on the outside, a mooshy but lined-up three feet.

     I tell Bri that I’m going for a short paddle out, as she and her friends set up a beach blanket to sit on. Back at the car, I change into my shorts and wetsuit jacket. I hope to score some waves to myself.

     When I paddle out, I’m nervous. Bri’s never watched me surf from the sand before, and I want to put on a good show. The coolness of the water isn’t so bad, but halfway to the break, my stomach cramps a little from the food and beer. I turn around and wave. Bri waves back.

#

     I know the surf was good earlier before the tide came up. I can tell from the way that it’s breaking. Sure, it’s swampy, but occasional sets are still breaking through. Only if there was a foot less of tide, this would be a turn fest.

     My first left feels good. It’s one of those last-second pitchy waves that give a fast drop. I pump down the line and see the section about to close out. I bottom turn and force a front-side snap, but I go too high, and I don’t have enough rail in the face, so I stall and fall on the lip as it comes down. The rest of the waves are similar. I try to set up carves with bottom turns, but the waves are closing out by the time I climb the face.

     I’m burning up. I paddle in and hand my wetsuit top to Bri. I feel awkward because my bare, man-breasts are exposed for her friends to see, so I get back in the water as fast as I can. The lulls get longer. The outside sets that I saw earlier aren’t breaking because the tide has come up even higher. I catch a closeout in and head back to the girl party. Again, I feel weird standing there, dripping wet in my shorts with stiff nipples. I make sure to use my board to shield my penis’ showing through my shorts. As I’m walking away, Bri stops me and says, “But how was it though? Did you have fun? I saw you wipeout a couple times.”

     “Ummm, yeah. It was all right.” I face them, giving only a second of a frontal glimpse. “The shape was kind of messed up, but I’m still glad I paddled out.”

#

     As we leave the state parking lot, it starts raining. We have a long, brutal drive to Glendale. Before we get on the freeway I ask if anyone has to take a shit. They say no. It takes hours on the 55 and the 5. I’m so tired. Bri thanks me over and over for doing this with her. When we drop Sam and Shawna off, Sam gives me twenty bucks for gas. They have a mansion party in Hollywood tonight. “Be careful,” I tell them. “Watch out for horndogs and perverts, and don’t leave your drink unattended. Keep an eye on it.”

     Bri and I drive back home. Too bad the surf sucked, but it was still worth it. And as far as Sam and Shawna, I definitely got the hottest one out of “the friends.” I have work this weekend, but next week I hope to get on some of this south swell.