DUES IN BARNEYVILLE, TUE 24JULY2012 MOR

Crew: Bri

Time: 0800-0945

Conditions: 1-3 FT, overcast, warm, light onshore, low tide.

Pre Blog:

     If you don’t know what DBD is, it’s Duckbutter Depletion, which basically means that my balls are drained dry of semen. Briana, who’s eleven years younger than I, has been wearing my ass out AKA fucking my dick off, yo. Geezus. . . . So June 15^th was our first date, we became official on June 24^th, so we planned to celebrate our one month (yes, I know it’s corny) anniversary by starting it with a surf sesh. I had the decision of taking her to San Onofre, but that would be a helluva drive. And then there was Sunset, that’s really beginner friendly, but there’s also a million people there. And then of course, there is Porto, where I learned to surf. 45^th Street used to be where you surfed once you’ve made it, but until then, you started off at Barneyville: the south side of the Jetty. Gradually, you’d work your way up to the smoke stacks, the tanks, and then finally you’d be able to sit outside of the 45^th Street peak where all the hardcore Porto locals would surf. . . . That was years ago, back in 2006. I believe that since then, there’s been a shift or a transformation. The sandwich shack is now the best and most crowded peak, second to Rosecrans. The bathrooms (Shitters) would be the next crowded peak at Porto followed by 45^th which takes a place at third. With that being said, everything between 45^th and the jetty is still considered Barneyville (unless the Jetty is firing in the winter), and that’s where I planned on taking Bri.

#

     Thank goodness Bri was tired last night. I fed her after she took a shower, and she was out like a rock. This came in handy since I’m on DBR status, Duckbutter Recovery. Being that the low tide is scheduled to be around 0800 again, we take our time waking up and head to Porto after they start charging for the meters.

     I try to explain to Briana the differences between the cobblestone breaks at Trestles where she first surfed and Porto’s beach break.

     We get one of the first parking stalls on the left. I stay true to the summertime ritual of boardshorts and a rashguard while Bri uses her wetsuit. Just as we’re about to walk down the steps, I see a local guy I haven’t seen in almost a year: Ray. He’s a longhaired Asian dude who drives a grey Prius. Even my brother knows him from the times he’s surfed this spot. “Ray!” I say, “what’s up, it’s Matt,” I assume he’s forgotten my name, “what’s up, man? I haven’t seen you in forever.” We shake hands.

     “I know. I injured my shoulder really bad. I’ve been out for a while.”

     I tell him that my brother asks about him and that he’s waiting for him in Bali. I introduce him to Bri.

     I tell her the story of how I got in his way one time before Ray and I were cool with each other. There was this set wave by the smoke stacks. Ray turned to paddle for it, and I was in his direct line, about to be run over. I was making my way out, and I paddled to the side of him, barely leaving a hair’s width of room. As I paddled, my arm caught his leash, stopping him in place from sliding down the face of the wave. “Fuck, I’m so sorry!” I said.

     He just glared and gave me that “motherfucker” look. It’s funny how people meet sometimes.

#

     “Be careful on the inside,” I tell her. “It’s shallow.” I go over the “hand helmet” technique and tell her to cover her head if she eats shit.

     She looks out at a walled, three foot closeout. “I’m a little nervous.”

     “Eh, you’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

     When I told Bri my true age, she had a confession of her own. She said she had never surfed a day in her life until our first date, and that she only told me she surfed to get the date with me. So basically, that last camping trip I took her out on, she caught her first wave. But this isn’t Trestles. This is Porto, a little less forgiving. I have to handle her with kid gloves.

#

     Just like the fun session I had at 26^th Street when Surfline said it was crap, this morning at Porto is actually pretty fun. It’s definitely small, but I’m still paddling into these lined-up two-footers that are good for trimming or a solid turn—single shots.

     A random three-foot rogue wave starts to form on the outside. Bri is way too deep, turning her board around to catch it. At Middles and Churches, she got away with this every time, but Porto’s different.

     “Watch out!” I say.

     She doesn’t hear me. It’s ballsy, I’ll give her that. The wave tilts her at such a sharp angle that she plummets forward into the white wash. The NSP shoots up and out from behind her, straight into the air. She resurfaces, gets back on her board, and attempts to turtle dive the next two waves, taking her lickins.

     I remember the dues I used to pay. I accepted them, but I can’t help but worry about her. I hate to say that I’m more concerned because she’s a woman, but . . . I am. I mean, who am I to say that I was a natural when I first paddled out on a longboard. One foot white wash and going straight, I felt I was a force to be reckoned with. Have I forgotten the days when I couldn’t even make it out to the lineup, when I’d end up defeated, soggy, and wet, sitting on the sand next to Rick’s nine-footer that he let me practice on? Other surfers would walk by, avoiding my eye contact, knowing I just got conquered. Is she no different than how I was?

     “Are you all right?” I ask.

     “Whew . . . yeah. I swallowed some water.”

     I don’t even want to tell her how dirty the water is here. “Did you swallow a lot?”

     “No.” She coughs. “Just a little.”

     I try to call her into waves, but the waves I select aren’t even breaking. She makes a tremendous effort to turn the NSP around but paddles for nothing. On the next wave I call out for her, she gets pitched again.

     “Yeah,” she says, “I think I’ll just try to get some on my own.

#

     It’s pure Barneyville here. I know this because there are four other guys and one chick, all struggling, scratching, and falling. They lie all too far on the rear of their boards, leaving their noses sticking high out of the water as they paddle.

     I’m trying to show Bri how easy these little waves are. Even though I’m on my 6’3 JS, my timing is on, and I’m getting these little one-to-two foot shoulders into the shallows. A random three-footer breaks on the outside. I pop-up going left. I pump, bottom turn, and get a slow sluggish carve off the lip. Blame it on the JS. I probably could’ve gotten away with the Tokoro this morning. I return to the lineup stoked, realizing that I’m having more fun that I did at HB the other day.

#

     My board’s on the sand now, and I’m lying on the tail of the NSP, trying to paddle and steer Bri into some waves. We’re going nowhere because the board is too short, and when I try to push her into a wave, the damn leash keeps getting caught on me. We look like buffoons, lying on a 7’10 longboard together. No . . . I look like the buffoon thinking that I’m actually helping.

#

     I’m back on my JS. We have about fifteen minutes left. Bri paddles into another closeout. She’s too deep. I hold my breath, but I don’t see the board shoot out. She disappears until she stands up towards the inside.

     “You got that?” I yell out.

     “Yeah,” she smiles, “I got that one on my belly.”

     Again, she does the same thing on another wave, two rides under her belt.

#

     I give her words of encouragement on the way back to the wagon. I’m proud of her, and even though surfing doesn’t define our relationship, I hope that this is something that we can share together even more in the future.

#

     The rest of the day is a blur. We go straight from El Porto to Carl’s Jr., order two country burrito meals and eat them during the matinee of The Dark Knight Rises. Only twelve bucks, I’m doing muthafuckin’ matinees for the rest of my LIFE!

     We go back to the house and do things that would make my best friend think twice before using the spatula or eating on the kitchen table. 

     I’m about to be gone for two weeks at a military school, so I want to make this first anniversary count. I take her to a nice restaurant and bar in Downtown L.A., really low key. She’s amazed. She appreciates me. That’s all that matters. Her smile glows all night. People stare at us everywhere we go. I’m not used to having someone this stunning on my arm.

#

     So this is a slice of my life, starting with surfing but extending out of the water where feet hit the pavement without sandy footprints, and where people eat three course meals with different sets of forks, knives, and spoons. I thank you for sharing this experience with me. 

FOILED AGAIN, MON 23JULY2012 MOR

Loc: HB

Crew: Solo

Time: 1000-1200

Conditions: 3 FT+, warm, inconsistent, worse with the tide, slight current, choppy.

     With Briana at home, I have a chance to wake up early and dawn patrol it at HB. Klaude mentioned checking out Zeroes, but . . . I’ve invested in this damn state parking pass, and after losing on the HB gamble so many times, I knew I’d be due up for a good, solid session. That’s the way it works, right? You keep getting skunked, you keep going, and you keep eating shit until . . . you score.

     I hadn’t gotten down on Modern Warfare 3 on PS3 for a minute, so I played as soon as Bri left for work. At midnight I told myself that I’d better get to sleep, but I had just unlocked the thermal sites for my MG36. Up until that moment, I was getting my ass kicked, but with those sites, I just kept picking people off. I was able to slow my heart rate, aim, and even though they were shooting at me, I took them out first. My best game was with 22 kills and 9 deaths, first place. This was a good omen for good surf. I didn’t stop playing until two in the morning.

#

     It’s 0600 when my alarm goes off. I’m beat, tired; I’m on Duckbutter Depletion status (DBD). I check the tide on Surfline. Low tide’s at 0807. No sense to go on a super low tide, I’m thinking. I wake up at 0800.

     It’s a late start. I’m mad at myself, but I’d be even more upset if I didn’t go down south to surf at all. I head down 405S, exit Bolsa Ave., and head down PCH to get a glimpse of the surf on the way to north HB. Bolsa Chica looks small. I can’t tell what’s happening at Golden West, and then I give up looking. It is what it is, and I know I’m paddling out regardless. Surfers cross the street, heading towards the pier. Some are heading back, wetsuits pulled down to their V-cuts with white boards under their arms. How nice it must be to live across the street from the surf.

     When I park, I walk to the water to snap a couple pics. A pack of surfers sit close together at the river jetties, and only one guy sits at my favorite spot. He catches a right and gets a turn before it closes out. The tide's on its way up, but it’s still fairly low. A four foot set comes. It’s walled, but the smaller waves look like they have potential. 

     I turn and head back to the wagon. Today has to work, everything has to come together. The swell’s not too big, but that’s all right. I just need some little two-to-three foot shoulders to crank some turns on. Carves, that’s all I want.

#

     Again, I stick to boardshorts and a rashguard. I sit north of the guy I saw earlier. We both scratch out for waves, but he takes the next right. When sitting outside doesn’t work, I sit a little in, but the waves are a bit too pitchy. The other guy gets a couple more, so I decide to paddle north of him to see if I can get lucky too.

     Out of nowhere, a four-foot wave rolls in. It’s not walled; it’s a solo bump. I paddle out to meet it and drop in at the peak. I’m behind the section, but the speed from the drop has me rounding the white wash. I climb the face, shift my weight to the tail, and attempt a grinding carve, but when the wave goes vertical I get stuck on the lip and fall down. I resurface upset. I got a bit overzealous on that one, maybe too aggressive for my first legit wave of the morning. I want another one.

#

     Into the first hour, I realize I’m not the only one with the same idea. With a late low tide, other surfers are showing up, pointing at me and the other guy, and then paddling out to join us. Lucky for us, the current is too much for most to handle, and they all get swept away except for a small handful of surfers.

     The break where I’m at goes dead. The slight change in tide makes a difference in the conditions. The ocean gets choppier, and the peaks shift to the south. North of the river jetties, a four wave set rolls in, giving good, down-the-line lefts. Our pack fights the current and heads in that direction.

     The guy I talked to earlier gets a late drop right at the peak. I think he’s gonna get caught behind the section, but he negotiates around it and gets to the open face. When I look out the back, the next wave of the set is heading to my north. I paddle to meet it, but I’m too deep. The pitchy lip is just about to curl before I can pop up, and right in front of the guy who just got a ride, I purl my board and eat shit. When I resurface, I’m right in the impact zone. The next wave of the set is coming. I duckdive it, thinking I’ve cleared it, but I watch my board go up, backwards, and over as I’m caught in another BMS Sandwich situation.

#

     Half way through the second hour, the waves get even more inconsistent. Every surfer has gone, save for two guys who paddled out to my north. I pray for one wave, just one solid wave like the one I blew this morning so I can redeem myself. A three-turn wave would make my day and erase every negative thing before hand.

     I have no choice but to catch a closeout to shore. I don’t know how I can get skunked so many times in a row at this spot. Maybe I need to start surfing the pier.

DOGTOWN SESH, SUN 22JULY2012 MOR

Loc: Venice

Crew: Rick and his brother John

Time: 0700-0930

Conditions: 1-3 FT, terrible shape.

     There was a time when I surfed the south side of Venice Pier, strictly because of the free parking in the residential area. I was tired of being butt-raped by the Porto meters. I caught some fun sessions here, but they were few and far between. I had gotten skunked so many times in a row that I wrote Venice off and decided that my best bet was to conform to Porto’s meters.

     Last week, Rick asked me to join him for a paddle out at the north side of Venice Pier. “It’s for an old friend I went to school with,” he said. “It would mean a lot to me if you could come.” I thought about it. I just had a solid session with KK surfing local, but Venice? . . . There are so many horror stories about surfing there.

     Even my friend J, who’s the nicest guy in the world who just relocated from Hermosa to Venice, said that some surfers told him, “Get out of here,” and another guy was like, “Show this guy where to surf.” J said he held his ground, but I couldn’t help but shake my head upon hearing this. In the end, Rick’s question was another defining moment in a friendship.

     “It would mean a lot if you could come,” he said.

     That’s all I needed to hear.

#

     Rick texts me at 0600 with, “I’m leaving the house.” I brush my teeth, grab the Tokoro, my hot water jugs, kiss Briana on the cheek, and head out the door. He calls me once I’m at the end of Washington Boulevard. “There’s parking on Pacific,” he says.

     “So you’re surfing on the north side, right?”

     “Yeah, north side. I’m unloading the van now.”

     “Okay, see you there.”

     I find parallel parking on 26^th, tightly between two cars next to an apartment building. It’s a tight squeeze, especially without a sidewalk. I’m mindful of the cars zooming past just a foot away from my car.

     I decide on trunks and a wetsuit jacket again, despite the morning overcast. My feet strike the tar alleyway on my way to the sand. A network of small apartments with cars crammed in every driveway serve as a different surrounding. It’s not Manhattan Beach, but it’s not the hood either. It’s just different; it smells different. The trashcans here are visible and out in the driveways. Something’s different in the air. This isn’t my territory.

     At first view of the pier, not one single surfer is out. Even the Venice Jetty is empty, probably because it’s a fucking lake out there. I feel like a fool with my Tokoro and retro boardshorts. I should be on a longboard. Even worse, I can’t see Rick anywhere. In the distance, there are four heads at Venice Breakwater. I assume he’s there.

#

     I’m close enough to see who the surfers are, and I don’t know a single one of them. A dark Latin guy kisses his girlfriend on the sand before grabbing his funboard and paddling out. He’s trunking it, bareback. Balls, I’m thinking. While I warm up, I watch to see if he catches anything. The tide’s so low and the swell’s so weak that he’s catching shallow whitewash on the shore. Next to the rocks, some occasional rights are breaking, but I don’t see anyone get down-the-line rides.

     My feet are wet, and I’m expecting to be jolted by chilly water, but it’s the opposite. The water’s still warm enough to bear in trunks. I paddle out and wait. The guys by the rocks go in, and a longboarder chick joins me just to my left. The session starts with a couple closeouts. There are a couple faces to work with, but the sections wall-up so fast, that I can’t do anything with the lip before they shut down. Still, these waves count for something, as the guys sitting to my south start encroaching on me.

     The next lull is long. Rick’s nowhere to be found, and I wonder if it makes sense to stay out here any longer. If he’s anywhere, he’s not here. He’s damn sure not further up north.

     After the next wave, I walk towards the jetty. Nothing. As I near the pier, I spot his infamous blue E-Z UP, the one that toppled over an entire family at Churches that fatal, windy afternoon. When I see the Hurley towel and umbrella, I know it’s Ricks. He’s in the parking lot parked next to John. Rick’s daughter Jane is also there, watching him fumble through his van for more things to bring. I take off my top and head over.

     I assist by carrying a cooler. “I thought you’d be out at 0700?” I say.

     “Yeah . . . there’s not much out there.” Jane tugs at his shirt.

     I understand.

     Another E-Z UP is set close to his. Family member’s of the deceased show up. I tell Rick that I’ll surf with him, but that I plan on leaving a little after 0900.

     The rest of Rick’s family shows up. “Page wants to get her belly button pierced.” he says. “Not until she’s eighteen.”

     John and Rick change into their wetsuits. I decide to bareback it so as not to deal with a drenched top. There’s a small crowd surfing off of the pier. Fast little lefts roll next to the pylons, creating racy little waves. This one guy is ripping them. The wave is fast, but so is he. He pumps and makes his way down the line, cranking out one finishing move as the lip crashes down. He even goes for a closeout barrel, turning into a blurry silhouette under the falls before the explosion. He’s a local. 

#

BMS Sandwich (Board-Me-Sand)

     The inside is a little treacherous. With the fast, rising tide, waves are jacking and walling up as they hit the inside sand bar. John times his paddle out, but I just work my way out without thinking. A small bump morphs into a three-foot wall. It’s round and pitchy, but worst of all is how shallow the water is now since it’s being sucked up into this punchy beast. I duckdive the wave, get flipped upside down, and get held down with my back against the sand as my very own board crushes me. It’s like Zangief’s finishing piledriver move, where his opponent crashes into the ground in slow motion, held there, getting extremely fucked up.

     I resurface, playing it off that I just didn’t get raped and make my way to the outside. Rick wastes no time and heads towards the pier to mix it up with the locals. I suppose he gets a pass since he’s a Venice alumni who was part of the Dogtown surf and skate scene back in the day. John and I sit a little further north. I get a couple weird glares but no words are exchanged, so I treat it like any other day.

     I paddle into a right that actually holds shape because it’s a smaller wave. I get two baby, check turns off the lip before the ride ends. Not bad for a day with mostly closeouts.

     John gets a really long left. I don’t know how he managed to pick one out of the closeouts, but it looks good watching from behind. I’m a firm believer in the possibilities of being old and still ripping. Rick still eclipses my surfing, and John’s no walk in the park either. He pulls off a floater before the ride closes out. Spectacular.

     I say bye to John and paddle over to Rick, letting him know that I have to go. When I’m back on the sand, a huge crowd of people have formed for the paddle out, both young and old.

#

     Back at my car, a Black chick walks by in a sarong, sees my board and says, “How was it?”

     “It’s okay. The waves are getting bigger with the tide push. The water’s warm.”

     She smiles and says she’ll probably get on it later. This is definitely a beach community.

#

     Even though the waves weren’t good, and I didn’t get to do the paddle-out for Rick’s friend, I at least showed my face and was where I said I’d be. Rick’s friend wasn’t even fifty yet. Nothing lasts forever, and that goes for all friendships and relationships. It’s best to cherish each other while we can.

LOCAL DELIVERY, SAT 21JULY2012 MOR

Crew: KK

Time: 0630-0845

Conditions: 2-3 FT, semi-consistent, onshore, warm, peaky.

     Surfline said the forecast was going to be 1-3 FT, poor conditions. I pushed a breath out my nostrils and thought about other things I could do on Saturday morning. KK shot me a text, asking me what my plans were. Despite the negative forecast, he said he’d be surfing local. I thought about it. It would truly be a session just to hang out with a friend, with weak dribblers close to shore. It was one of those decisions that defines friendships. To surf or not to surf, that is the question.

#

     Morning sex . . . it really works out this morning because now I’m up early when I can eat a small breakfast, take my time packing, and still make it to Manhattan Beach at a reasonable time. Since Briana has a lot of reading to do for school, she comes along to do her homework on the sand. This morning isn’t as warm as yesterday. HB was already seventy degrees, but at 0600 it’s still sixty-five. I look at Briana and say, “Yup, it’s definitely gonna be a wetsuit day.” I pull off my 3/2 Rip Curl wetsuit off the hanger in the backyard.

     I don’t bother looking for street parking because I don’t expect to stay past 0800. Today’s board selection is the JS, my longboard. Even though it’s a 6’3, it’s pretty meaty and easy to catch waves on. I don’t like to use it anymore because it feels corky and sluggish on the turns, but for weak surf it’s my best option.

     We reach the sand. Klaude’s still on his way. Briana sets up shop with her beach blanket while I warm up. To my surprise, the breaks around 26^th Street are sprouting random peaks, even to the north and the south. I’m thinking that this might actually be fun. The wind is already on it, but the peaks are still pushing through, soft but lined-up. The usual vets are out there: Don, Ross, Roy, and company. I give Bri a kiss and paddle out.

     The water’s nice and warm like yesterday, but still cool enough to warrant a wetsuit. The inside is consistent with torrents of white wash, but I still manage to push through. The main peak is crowded, so I sit to the north.

     My first right comes. Even though it’s a weak wave, just under three feet, it lines up towards the inside. I pump, bottom turn, and try to hit the lip, but my backside hack has no power to it; it ends up being more of a check stall. I try again, same results. I used to be able to get decent turns on this board, but it’s a different feeling from the DMS and the even chippier Tokoro, but I’m still grateful for the wave.

     When I kick-out it puts me at the main peak. Just then, an outside wave forms, a solid three-footer, and I’m in prime position. I lower my chin and paddle into it. I shouldn’t be making this drop, but the JS is so easy to catch waves on. The rastafarian Orlando backs out as I go left. It’s lined up perfectly, but I’m too far up on my board when I pump, purling it into the face and falling. The wipeout goes down on the list of perfectly blown waves. Silence follows as I resurface. The other surfers won’t even look my way, a confirmation that they witnessed my debacle. I’m ashamed; I can’t help it. I crawl back on my board and paddle north to sit at another peak.

#

     Roy’s wearing his wetsuit. I can overhear him talking about how hot it is. He disappears and returns ten minutes later, trunking it. I’m like, “Fuck this.” I catch a wave in. Just as I reach the inside, I see Klaude making his way out. I tell him that I’m changing out into my boardshorts. He follows suit.

     Back on the sand, we walk towards Briana who’s lying on her stomach, wearing black work out pants, a black shirt, and a white DC beanie. I finally get to introduce them to each other. I’m doing my best to really cut down on my list of friends, no more flakes or bullshitters, only accountable people from now on. I’m saying this because I’m stoked for Briana to meet all my real people.

     I throw on my Hurley Phantoms which double as walking shorts. KK has his multicolored rainbow . . . I-have-no-idea-what-brand shorts and Rip Curl wetsuit jacket.

#

     Once we’re back in the lineup, he goes through his morning greetings with all the locals. I don’t know them as well as KK does, but I hope that surfing with him has got me some local points too.

     It doesn’t take long before we both catch some waves. Even though it’s semi crowded, we manage to get a good handful of rides. Klaude gets a really good left. He catches it right on the peak because I duckdive it on the shoulder. When I turn around he’s gone. Further down the wave, he’s skylining over the lip. The look on his face is serious, and I can tell that he’s pumping and trimming, making all of his sections and going down the line. Roy paddles over the shoulder as KK passes him. He takes the wave all the way to shore.

     I need to get me one of those; it’s the only thing on my mind. I paddle where KK was sitting and get a couple fun rides. Every time I try to work my way towards Klaude to congratulate him, another set comes and disperses everyone. When I finally do reach him, he catches another wave.

#

     I’m left out the back with a small crowd when the next set comes. I scratch for the first wave, but someone’s on my inside. I glance out towards the back and see the second wave building. I’m all alone. I paddle out to meet it and swing around, almost positioning myself too far on the outside to catch it. I’m stroking and kicking for what seems like a long time, still not sliding down.

     I hear KK yell, “Go, Matt!”

     I finally get the drop going right, directly in front of Klaude and Roy who are paddling towards me. I pop-up, wipe the water off of my face, draw a line to avoid them, and set up my bottom turn. Even though the JS is sluggish, I extend my arms and climb the face, grinding out a turn just under the lip. It feels slow but fluid; I’m beyond stoked, served with the sensation that fuels my surfing addiction. I set myself up for another top turn before the ride ends.

     When I paddle back, KK looks at me. He’s blind, but if he can in fact see me, he’s looking at a huge smile on my brown smudge of a face.

     I reach him. “Everyone was hooting for you on that one,” he says.

     We comment at how surprised we are at the surf conditions. Surfline is off.

     I get another standout wave going left. The section’s about to close in front of me, but I manage to draw a highline, building speed as I come down with the section. It’s a long wave, and it turns small and rampy at the end where I do another layback-snap attempt. The turn feels good. The tail gets loose as I do it, but I again fail to recover when I layback.

#

     Back at the peak, KK and I discuss how long we want to stay out here. “What do you think?” he asks.

     “Shit . . .” I look at my watch, “at least another hour. It’s so good now.”

#

     Fifteen minutes later, Klaude is looking in my direction over the small crowd of surfers, laughing into the air. I paddle over. “You know what I’m thinking?” he says.

     “What?”

     “We jinxed it.”

     I hate to say it . . . but he’s right. After I commented on how good it was earlier, the tide just drowned the whole break out, and the wind made conditions even choppier. I struggle for my last wave but eventually get a closeout to shore. I look back and throw a shaka at Klaude. I’m out.

     Roy’s done rinsing off at the showers. He throws me a shaka and says, “Laters, Matt!”

     I throw one back. Turns out he’s a nice guy after all.

#

     This session made me wonder. Here I’ve been, going all the way to HB just because of Surfline’s forecasts and ratings. Meanwhile here in the South Bay, the surf may not be big, but it’s rippable and fun. It reminded me of back in the day when I used to surf nothing but Porto. I didn’t even know a surf forecast existed, and I swear I had the most consecutive, stoked sessions in my life during those times. I guess Surfline can’t predict everything, and even though south facing beaches are only a drive away, sometimes the surf is still good in your own backyard, despite what the experts say. Not only was the surf good, but it was good scoring it with a friend. The consistent and reliable Klaude, another one of the new Francises.