MEANT TO BE, FRI 24AUG2012 MOR

Location: Churches

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 2-3 FT, overcast, glassy, bath water.

THE PLAN:

     It’s Thursday night, and I’ve got dinner plans with my homeboys that I haven’t seen in a while. Since we’re meeting up in Mission Viejo, I’m already thinking about surfing HB in the morning and then heading to Trestles to staycation it the whole day, might as well if I have to be in that area anyway, right?

     At around 2000 I get a call from Khang, asking me if I’m going to surf tomorrow. I ask him if he can surf the whole day, but he says that he’s only free until 1300. I contemplate. Surfing with Khang would take me away from my initial staycation plan, but at the same time I weigh the value of friendship. Sure, I could go down south and get a good soul session in, but I haven’t surfed with Khang since I left for the East Coast.

     We decide to surf Huntington. “I’ll drive this time,” he says. “You always drive.”

     I thank him, and we plan to dawn patrol it. Start time: 0530

#

THE EXECUTION:

     It’s 0500 when my alarm goes off. I barely got four hours of sleep, but I only hit the snooze button once. First thing’s first. I brush my teeth, eat a small bowl of cereal, drink some water, take my vitamins, pack some gear, and sit in my car outside. I shoot him a series of text messages that go like this:

0539—I’m chillin in the car, parked in front of the house.

0603—Guy, you awake?

     He’s not answering his phone. I’m assuming that he’s had a hard night of partying or something. Without missing a beat, I go back in the house and grab extra equipment for a day trip. After I start the car, I send him one last text at 0623, letting him know that I’m on the road.

#

THE PATROL, 0711 HRS:

     I don’t know what happened since yesterday. The swell was supposed to taper off a bit, but I didn’t imagine it would be like this.

     I’m standing in front of my HB surf spot. The inside is churning like yesterday, but the waves are half the size. It’s low tide, so I think about my options: come back to see if the tide push helps, paddle out later, or keep driving.

     It wasn’t my plan to leave here this early because there’s still morning traffic. There are surfers in the water, but they’re moving north with the current. At the River Jetties I see a few heads. One guy gets two turns on a sloppy, white-washed left. In front of me, the guys are stagnant. I wait and wait for any sign of life: a set, a random peak, a rogue wave, someone to sell me a good ride. A body boarder catches a foamy wave. The overcast skies are uninviting. I hope that the traffic’s not too bad.

Mephitidae Carnivora:

     I don’t see any surfers at Lowers. I’m about to exit the freeway when I take one last look, and there are about twenty heads out. I swear the only thing that keeps Lowers empty is the dark. When I pull up to Churches, it’s flat. Three guys are sitting at the bottom of the wave, near the campgrounds. Six guys are at the top. A set rolls through, a little bit bigger than two feet but definitely not three. I hop in the car to see what Old Mans looks like.

#

     Gawd damn it’s crowded . . . it’s so small and it’s so crowded. The northern peak isn’t working, but there are surfers everywhere from there on. I’ve seen this place more crowded, but I’d rather battle it out with nine other guys where the surf can’t be much better or worse.

MONKEY TIME:

     I’m already thinking that today’s gonna suck. I’m gonna be here all fucking day like I planned, and I’m gonna be stuck, scratching out on one-foot waves. It looks like Churches shut off a little bit with the tide coming up. A Small peak breaks at the top of the wave. A longboarder goes right; three guys paddle battle for the next wave swinging wide. After this . . . nothing. The gray clouds enhance my vibe.

     Make the best out of it, is what I’m thinking. I make it a point not to rush, taking my time changing into trunks and rashguard. The Vertra goes on, and then I wax up Zippy. A surfer returns to the truck parked next to me.

     “How was it?” I say.

     He’s dark and still dripping wet, wearing the same summer getup. “It was okay, but you’re gonna need a big board.”

     I thank him for his advice and head to the sand.

#

     In my white rashguard and neon shorts, I’m gonna stick out in the group of black dots. That’s the first thing that comes to mind while I warm up. Two Marines march by wearing ruck sacks.

     Instead of paddling out from the south end of Churches where it’s easier, I walk out right in front of me. The cobblestone dance takes longer than expected, and I fight to make my way to deeper water. First, I sit wide-left, to the south. I’m sitting way inside, behind some longboarders.

     I take a moment to look at the water. There’s wind in the North O.C. but not much here. The surface is smooth and glassy with just a small hint of wind.

     A right comes my way. I paddle into it. It’s good for one pump before it closes out. Five minutes later, another one, but the same thing happens. There’s a long lull, so I gradually work my way closer to the middle of the wave.

#

     I’m sitting just inside the main pack, to the south. A set rolls through, but I have to kick-out because someone’s already on it. Eventually a couple waves swing wide. I go left, but it’s nothing but a trim fest. I hate crowds, so I paddle through them and sit on the north side.

     I wave forms, and it’s breaking wide to the right. Someone from the main pack goes right, and I’m in perfect position for the left. It’s a small wave, but it’s good for a fun drop and a pump to the highline. From there I sink my weight down and pull off a finishing turn. I’m still slow at turning this board, but it still feels good. When I go back to the lineup, more waves start swinging wide, and I keep catching them all to myself. What a surprise. I usually get nothing but rights at Middles and Churches, and here I am scoring lefts all to myself; I love lefts.

     The guys sitting at the main peak next to me have their heads over their shoulders, looking back at me every time I kick out. They’re all on longboarders. Even though they’re seeing me get all of these waves, none of the come to invade my spot.

     I only have to back out of one wave for a longboarder from the top. None of the waves reach three-feet. But they are so fun. The rides are a little shorter than Old Mans, but here they stand up just a little bit more. With the clean conditions, my rides are small, little, two-foot, smooth, silky shoulders. I can see the cobblestones as I ride over them. Every once in a while I get a turn. Instead of trying to get power on them I try to be more graceful and smooth, but I’m still gonna need some time to work on that.

     After an hour and a half, the tide makes things inconsistent. The wind picks up and makes the surface conditions choppy. The lone peak that I was surfing earlier is now a group of six surfers sitting all around me. I paddle further north to get away, and then a long lull hits. Impatient, I catch some white wash in.

#

     Back at the car, I’m still smiling ear to ear. Even though the conditions got shitty, I did surf for two-and-a-half hours and scored a lot of waves. As I’m changing, I’m debating on what to eat. A Machaca Plate from Cafe del Sol sounds good, but then there’s Carl’s Jr., and a breakfast burrito would sound really good. Also they have those French toast sticks . . . mmmmm, mmmmmm! Instead I decide on the supermarket.

     There’s a wild look in my eyes when I walk through the glass doors. After a good session I could eat a camel, and right now I look like a junkie about to get his fix. Everything looks good. I grab two plums, a banana, Wheat Thins, a chicken salad, Lunchables, and some dark chocolate chips. Back at the car, I devour EVERYTHING.

#

     I park back at Churches underneath a tree. It’s overcast still, and the waves are getting worse. I whip out my laptop and start catching up on my surf blogs. It’s so nice to be able to this sort of thing. 

BARREL PROBLEMS, THU 23AUG2012 MOR

Location: HB

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, overcast, offshore, bath water.

Pre Blog:

     Since I’ve been back home, I haven’t really had a moment to myself. Don’t get me wrong. Friends, family, and loved ones are important, but it’s still healthy for everyone to have their self time. After a hectic Wednesday, Thursday would be my first day to myself with an open schedule. With school starting on Monday, I needed to capitalize on my free time. I knew I had to catch up on some surf blogs, maybe hit the gym, and do some groceries, but all those are secondary to my main priority . . . SURF.

#

     It’s Wednesday night at my mom’s house, and I’m looking at the surf forecast. There’s a tropical storm down south causing a south swell that has a lot of east in it. Also, there’s a minor northwest windswell. I overhear the local news in the background, and the weather lady says to go to OC if you want good surf and that the wind will be light. Well . . . slap my knees and call me ashy. We got surf reports on local TV.

#

     I really wouldn’t mind dawn patrolling, but I got home late last night. I went to sleep around 0100 and set my alarm for 0515. I snooze until 0600. The surf syndrome kicks in, and I start justifying my late start: Low tide is around 0700, so I’ll catch the perfect window with the tide push.

     After the Zippy fish sessions in San Onofre, I bring the Tokoro and Zippy just in case. The drive’s smooth until I pass the 22. Once I hit gridlock traffic, I regret not taking Bolsa Road down to PCH. It takes forever to reach my exit.

     It’s an overcast morning. The crappy atmosphere spells skunk. I have no idea what the wind is doing, but when I step outside the wagon, I feel some offshore gusts. The parking lot is vacant of any signs of surf life. I walk to the shore to take a look first. A couple is walking back with their boards in hand. I’m trying to make eye contact, but they’re avoiding me. I want to ask how the surf was but then I start getting self conscious. Are they gonna think I’m some kind of weirdo? And then again, people ask me shit like that all the time, and I don’t think anything of it.

     I have no idea what to expect, but when I clear the sand the first thing I see is the River Jetties. They are working. The inside is churning white wash, and the waves are a little hollow on the low tide. I don’t want to say that the barrels are spitting, so I’ll just say that the waves are coughing. None-the-less, I see the plume of mist heaved out of the tubes. River Jetties is south of my spot. Directly in front of me, I can’t really tell if it’s good or not. Even though the wind is offshore, the surface conditions aren’t clean; there’s something about this swell that’s creating morning sickness. It doesn’t look as good as River Jetties, but there are some peaks. The sections build and wall up on some of the waves, but there are some marginal shoulders. Surfline called the swell at two-to-three feet, but it’s more like three—to-four with an occasional five.

     After all the driving I’ve done, I’m not going further south. That’s a fact. It’s either this or nothing.

#

     I’m wondering if I should trunk it or put on my 2/2 short sleeved wetsuit. Zeros was cold, San Onofre was hot, so I have no idea what the temp will be like here. I decide on the 2/2, grab the Tokoro, and hit the sand.

     I walk a little more south before I paddle out. A pack of surfers slowly drifts north, and I pick a gap to the left of the main body.

     Lying on the Tokoro is awkward after riding Zippy. I feel sluggish as I try to get my momentum going to glide across the water. The nose of my board looks narrow to the extreme, like the tip of a number two pencil. With a new awareness, I wonder if this board is too small for me.

#

     I’m huffing and puffing at the lineup. My rear deltoids are on fire. I only duckdived two waves, but it took a little out of me. This place is definitely not like Old Mans. 

     One of the guys in the pack to my north takes off late on a right. I expect him to go down the line, but he tucks in close to the wall of water and gets a little shampoo action. He kicks out and looks at my direction. I smile and nod, using body language to tell him I saw that. Damn he made it look so easy.

     I’m waiting for HB to do its thing: small bump, hit the sand bar, double up, fast, pitch. I start to head towards the bumps but keep scratching out. I move a little more towards the inside and get a steep, four-foot left that tapers down after the drop, but it’s fast. I can’t even remember that last time I caught a wave like this. HB demands a lot, so I scrape and kick as hard as I can. The drop is pretty vertical. I angle myself down, fade out a little, and pull back in to the face to get down the line. I have so much momentum off the drop; the speed catches me offguard. Guys in the pack watch me. There’s so much speed that I don’t need a deep bottom turn. From midface, I project up towards the lip, shift my wait towards the tail, set my rail, and draw a tight carve back to the base of the wave. I somehow manage to redirect down the line. Now the wave is barely three feet, but the end section is still fast. I put as much English as I can on my finishing carve and almost ass plant into the water. To save myself, I put both of my hands behind me into the wave. It’s a borderline lay back snap, but since I do it on accident, it doesn’t count . . . but it feels fucking outstanding. . . .

     I paddle back beyond stoked. Anyone that knows me knows that I’ve been working hard on my frontside turns. The smile on my face spells reassurance. No one in the pack is watching me anymore.

     Back at the lineup, I’m burning up in my wetsuit. I can’t believe it. Even though it’s overcast and I’m miles away from San Diego County, the ocean is like fucking bathwater. In this wetsuit, I’m boiling.

#

     Not all the waves are perfect, nor am I in good position for all of them. Even though the shape is weird, there are a few signature HB peaks that roll through. I’m talking isolated, stand alone peaks, moving in all by themselves . . . I love catching these.

     My timing is off. I paddle out to meet it, but it’s already doubling up in front of me, leaving me the option to drop in J.O.B style or duckdive it. I choose the latter. . . .

     I’m out of position on numerous occasions, but I’m not upset. I’m just glad there are waves.

#

PUSSYLIOTH:

     I’d like to think I’m charging. Am I not Donny Duckbutter, the O.G. Dumprider of the DRC? Have I not been to Bali and braved the conditions despite my barney status? I’ve had massive wipeouts that friends can attest to, prop worthy even to strangers.

     So I’m going for these waves. I’m confident, deep on the peak, but the drop is so vertical that I straighten out. There’s no way I can make it. On the next wave, the drop is so steep that I purl as I straighten up and get pummeled by the lip. Mother ocean suplexes me into the sand, onto the top of my shoulders, and then . . . I have a motherfuckin’ epiphany, a sad one at that.

     Am I charging? . . . Fuck no. Gawd damn . . . if you’ve been reading this blog for any amount of time, then you as the reader and I as the writer both know how long I’ve been fooling myself. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m not charging. I’m not even riding the wave right. The low tide has these waves going hollow, especially for how deep I am in the take off spot. I can’t go fucking straight because these waves are meant for barrel riding only, unless I purposely hunt for the shoulder way off to the side. The mental image is ingrained in my mind from the pop up. To my left, the lip is curling, but there’s no time to fade out and pull in. It really is J.O.B style. You just gotta get up as fast as you can and hug the face on the way down. That being said, why the fuck has it taken me this long to realize this?

DISCLAIMER: THINGS ARE GOING TO GET REALLY KOOKY RIGHT NOW UNTIL THE NEXT PAGE BREAK. . . .

     Is it my fault for watching Who is J.O.B and Modern Collective one too many times? Mind you, this is the voice of a surfer who’s never been barreled.

     If you’re a barney or borderline intermediate like me that hasn’t been barreled before, how do you imagine it? What kind of images does your mind associate with the word “barrel?” I’ve always thought of the ideal: the steep drop, the building section, fading out, pulling back in, check turning in the pocket, crouching, and just letting the water cascade over you. Yes, I know I should be embarrassed for even writing this, but these are my humble, true thoughts. I always imagined that I’d just pull in and get barreled, and maybe after all this time I just needed the right wave. BULLSHIT. I’ve seen guys get barreled even at Porto. There ARE barrels. Sure, maybe they’re not perfect, but the beach breaks can get hollow for at least some kind of cover up, even in the summer if the swell’s good.

     I’ve been going at it wrong all along. You don’t just fade out, pull in, and get barreled. Fuck no. That’s some auto pilot type bullshit. You might as well equate that to accidentally getting barreled. I’ve accidentally gotten pinched, but not barreled. 

     After eating shit on that wave, I realize that the commitment starts from the paddle. I can’t go straight anymore because the wave is too round. Pop up, hug the face, and try not to shit your pants. That’s it . . . that’s what I need to do and should’ve been doing all along. I imagine that I’ll have to be a master at wiping out in the tube. It’s going to take a while.

     Knowing this, I will admit that I’ve barely scratched the surface. A new door is cracked open giving me a slice of what’s on the other side. I guess I’ll just have to put my foot in first and see what happens, but as of right now, I haven’t crossed the threshold yet.

#

     The Old Mans’ sessions reminded me that surfing is about having fun, so despite my epiphany I don’t get too hard on myself. The tide’s coming up, and the waves are turning more into spillers. There will be another time for phase two.

     The rights aren’t lining up as well, but I do get one solid backhand crack off the lip. I forgot how good the Tokoro feels on my backhand on a good wave. I get mostly lefts, and I get the rides that I’ve been frothing for. I’m really easy to please, and one good frontside carve is worth its weight in gold to me. Most of them are single shots, finishing turns before the close out section. I’m getting better at shifting my weight and using the rail to draw a line. Half way through the carve I put more ass into the motion, whipping the tail at the end of the arc. To date, these are the fastest, tightest frontside turns I’ve ever done. Even my arms are swinging with my body to get as much torque as possible. This is a barney’s dream, this barney’s dream. I wonder if I’ve got Zippy to thank for this, slowing down my surfing and bringing me back to fundamentals.

#

     My last couple waves are steep drops. I’m closer to the shoulder, and I see the wall going vertical. In the back of my mind, I know I should be pulling in and stalling, hoping for some cover-up before the hollow section spills. But really, is this what I should be doing? Should I not be doing what comes natural to me as a surfer, what’s fun, what freedom of expression I can muster up in that fraction of a second? Instead I do what feels right and pump to the open face. I’m not gonna force the issue.

     The next wave is such a late drop that I’m knocked off balance. I gain control at the base of the wave, but my feet are wide apart. The wave is too fast, so I can’t readjust, and I ride the wave out like that.

     A surfer paddles by me and says, “Man, I thought you were going to get barreled on that one.”

     I think back to the drop, dissecting the milliseconds where I must have done something wrong. I exhale and smile. “Nope. Not today.”

CURSE OF THE NSP, WED 22AUG2012 MOR

Location: Old Mans

Crew: Briana

Conditions: 2-3 FT, hot, light onshore, consistent, crowded.

     I don’t know why I set the alarm for 0545. After hitting the snooze twice, I set the alarm for 0645 and conk back out. I wake up on my own. Sun’s creeping through the blinds. Something’s not right. I look at my watch: 0745. “Fuck.” My internal tirade starts. What happened to the alarm? I check my phone. The time was set but the alarm wasn’t turned on.

     I’m on a tight schedule. After this trip, I have to drop Bri off at her house and then help my cousin move back to her dorm at CSUF. I need to be in the valley by 1230.

     My energy’s off at the rushed session. I have to surf everyday that I’m here; to have accommodations in the San O/Trestles area and not surf is a travesty.

#

     This morning’s swell has more rogue waves than the previous days. I get one of them, catching my longest ride of the whole trip. Things happen so much faster on a thruster, but Zippy slows things down by expanding time. On my Tokoro, I would’ve bogged out into the flats after the drop, but Zippy has me pumping, setting up on the high line, dropping back in with speed, and turning on the lip. The wave is slow, so I feel slow, but I know that it’s Zippy’s speed that’s getting me across the sections.

     When I paddle back to the lineup, Bri is going for another late drop again. Her board shoots out from behind her again, just like yesterday. This time she resurfaces holding her jaw.

     “Are you okay?”

     She shakes her head from side to side. “My board hit me in the jaw.” She rubs it.

     “Do you want to go in?”

     She’s not responding, still gaining her bearings. She gets back on her board and paddles towards me. There’s blood under her chin.

     The NSP has claimed the asses of many. I know it had its fair share with me. Lauren needed stitches on her head. Boris got cracked in the eye when he fell asleep in the lineup after a graveyard shift and got pounded by a rogue wave.

     The control freak in me starts to come out. I try to give her pointers on shifting more weight to the tail if she’s gonna fall, cover her head on a wipeout, etc. I worry about her getting hurt, but I try to remember that getting whacked by your own board is inevitable when you first start surfing. “You’ll fall less when you get better,” I tell her.

     For the rest of the session, Briana catches waves on her Belly, still shocked from the incident. Red water trickles off of her chin. I tell her it’s just a little knick because I don’t want to worry her. The cut is small, but it’s deep.

#

     We catch our last wave in, pack, and head to Café Del Sol for breakfast. I spend the remainder of the day assisting family, and I don’t get home until 2300. 

     Even though the surf was small, these last two days couldn’t have been better. Again, I didn’t expect to have so much fun in tiny surf; it’s all about the board. I might have to buy a fish. Also, Briana got to work on her fundamentals, popping up on her own at a consistent level. I used to get a little upset at the thought of taking Briana to surf small waves where she can practice. My mentality has been performance surfing and trying to go when there’s size. Now, I’m happy to know that we can enjoy the surf together, no matter how small . . . as long as I have the right board.