DON K. FISH (double sesh), SUN 16SEPT2012 EVE

Crew: Solo

Time: 1800-1945

Conditions: 1-3 ft, sunny, hot, glassy, low tide, racy closeout sections.

GUILTY:

     My brother told me a long time ago not to surf fishes right away, at least not until I get really good at riding a standard, shortboard thruster. “I’ll pick up bad habits.” That what he said. On the other hand, I’ve had Rick over the years, trying to get me to ride a fish, and for good reasons too. For one, it’s not always big in Southern California, and as for what I’ve witnessed myself, there’s nothing that sucks more than riding a potato chip on a tiny board, stubborn, unwilling to switch surfcraft.

     As I’ve griped about my only complaint about the Zippy, that I can’t seem to get loose on the turns, I asked Cheryl to let me use her customer Don Kadowaki. I don’t have all the dimensions, but it is easy to say that it’s all around dimensions are a bit tapered down from the Zippy. I’m hoping to experiment with it, see if I can still catch as many waves on it, and get looser on the turns.

     Even though I don’t have the money for another board, I am seriously thinking about finding a fish for my quiver.

NEW TOY:

     It’s blazing hot outside. As soon as I got home from HB, the overcast cleared out. Even the commentators at the Lowers event said that the morning was shitty but that the conditions severely improved. I’m supposed to dedicate the rest of the day to homework, but I’m distracted by the ASP event on the web. It’s pure glass out there. The surfers are getting long, down the line rights. Bright sparkles shine off of the water. So glassy . . . so, so glassy. Is it not the same air at Trestles that’s here in the South Bay? Is that not the same sun causing those sparkles on my laptop screen as the sun shining over Porto right now? I stand up and look outside. Not a leaf is swaying on the trees. I turn around and look at the pink and teal design on the Kadowaki fish. It looks like such a small and playful board. The rails look like the cream filling in a double stuffed Oreo cookie. Then it starts talking to me: “Taaaake meeeee ooouuut, Matthew. Taaaaake meeeee ooouuut. . . .”

     I pace across my living room. I stop in the middle of it and look at my open book on the coffee table. “But I have homework. I can’t.”

     “Yesssss youuuuu caaaaaan.”

     “No I can’t.”

     “Yesssss youuuuu caaaaaan.”

     I scratch my balls and sniff my fingers. They smell like shrimp. “Okay,” I say, “You convinced me.”

TRIAL:

     As I make my way through the El Porto parking lot it’s like driving through unfamiliar territory. The name of my blog is El Porto Surf because, well . . . this used to be my one-stop shop for surf. Now it’s the place that I don’t go to as much because I have a better chance to park for free at other nearby spots. I have a parking pass to surf HB, and I obviously have military privileges at Camp Pendleton. However, if it wasn’t for the affection that my friends have for other nearby spots, I would be here at Porto every time I surf local. It’s just that surfing has turned into something more than just the waves and the conditions but around the friends that you’re with—the experience of sharing surfing.

     It’s the evening crowd, but I still don’t recognize anyone. The parking lot is filled with both weekend beachgoers and people either changing out of or into their surf apparel. I park just south of the bathrooms.

     Stepping towards the railing, everything looks just like the webcast at Lowers, except . . . for the waves.

     But I can’t pass this up. There’s no way. Some longboarders sit sporadically in the lineup, all close to shore caught in the grasps of the lull. But besides that, the conditions are flawless. It’s an evening without wind. I can’t even remember the last time I did an evening session at Porto. It’s hot. The water’s too inviting, and even though it’s small, that’s what this fish is for: small surf. All I need is a shoulder. 

     My nipples are still raw; they’ve been really sensitive and susceptible to rash this summer. I wish they’d invent male pasties for surf use. I’d buy a pair; I know that.

     There’s nothing like putting on a fresh pair of boardshorts, especially a pair that you’re fond of. I got these Hurley reggae patterned ones that are brand spanking new.

     I walk to the 42^nd Street tower. The lifeguard just finished moving the flags closer to his station. I walk up to him and say, “Excuse me, can we surf outside the flags?”

     “Yeah, we’re just about to let people surf here.”

     “Is it breaking here?”

     “It’s been breaking over there best.” He points just outside the red flag to the north.

     “Cool. Thanks.”

     “Do me a favor. Surf right there and help push the swimmers towards the tower.”

     I laugh. I’m not sure how I can do this safely. I can’t just “buzz” the swimmers. “Okay,” I say.

     As expected, the water’s warm. I love glassy water in the evening; it’s rare. Anytime the surf isn’t blown out in the evening, you have to paddle out to experience it, especially in the South Bay.

     Another guy paddles out with me. He waves to his girlfriend who’s sitting on the sand. No one else has moved in our spot; they haven’t noticed the lifted restriction. The bumps form perfectly, small two-foot A-frames, but the tide is too low. By the time I pop up, the section’s already closing the shoulder, moving it beyond reach.

     Still, I go for waves; I want to unleash this board’s potential. I’m confident, kicking and scraping; I should be able to paddle into everything, but . . .

    

     It’s hard. . . . It’s not like Zippy. I can already tell. The loss of volume makes a huge difference in this small surf. I feel like with Zippy I’d be up and through the flats to at least do a finishing turn, but on the Kadowaki I’m behind. By all means, it’s to no fault of the board’s design, but this is small, low tide surf. I can tell that this board is looser, exactly what I want, but these aren’t the right conditions for it. I have to work harder to get into the waves than the Zippy, the waves are closing out, and the surf is small.

#

     Other surfers start moving in our spot, but it doesn’t make much of a difference; there’s enough for everyone. Most of my rides are similar; I can’t make the sections. I move further south where the peaks look like they’re holding up.

#

     There are a lot of people in the water despite the low tide closeouts. I figure everyone else couldn’t resist the weather or they frothed off the ASP event as well. A guy to my left turns to me and says, “Hey, did they start the event already?”

     I’m quick to respond, willing to talk to a fellow surf comrade. “Yes,” I say, “They just finished round—”

     “No,” says a voice to my left. I look. He’s talking to another guy beside me. “I think it starts tomorrow,” he says.

     Shit . . . awkward. I feel like an idiot.

     I paddle further south to paddle away from my embarrassment, leaving it where I was just sitting, never to return. On the way to the next peak, I see something amazing. There’s this guy on a yellow foamie paddling into the closeouts, I’m talking full commitment. He’s able to get into the wave early. As he hits the base of the wave, he grabs rail, crouching into the bottom turn, going for the closeout barrels . . . close-out-barrels. He’s in there for a good two-to-three seconds. He does it again. Here I am, unable to find a barrel if it reached out and pulled my dick, and on this mediocre day of surf, THIS GUY’S getting barreled. It doesn’t matter that he’s not making it out. He’s going for it.

     I paddle next to this guy who looks like Chris Del Moro. He’s surfing with a chick and another guy. They look serious. I try to catch the next wave, but the Del Moro look-alike gets priority. It’s too much competition for a small day. Further north I go again. This time, I sit way on the shoulder for the next peak. My hand slips on the pop up, and when I get up I barely make the section to get a sloppy rebound off the closing lip. It’s a missed opportunity. I catch more waves, but they don’t quite line up.

     It’s getting close to eight o’clock, and the conditions aren’t improving. I work my way back to the tower where I paddled out at, but a bump approaches on my way. I’m in prime position. I turn around and paddle back a couple yards to get deep. I see that Chris Del Moro look-alike is going for the wave too, but I have priority this time. We’re within arm’s reach of each other. I pop up. I know he’s sees me going, but he still pops up anyway. The wave morphs into a three-foot closeout.  I’m riding the wave right behind him. He eats shit on the drop and wipes out. I straighten out. What an idiot, I’m thinking. More like, what an asshole. It’s totally unnecessary to try to establish your dominance in these conditions. Not only that, but to eat shit too? Whatever . . . complaining about people dropping in is like bitching about the sun rising; it’s gonna happen no matter what. I hope that one day getting snaked so much doesn’t build up into me unloading on somebody in the lineup.

#

     It’s dark when I pull out of the Porto lot. When I get home I eat dinner and try to get some reading done. I’m behind on my studies, but I still don’t regret paddling out, but I still feel a little unsettled.

    

     I need some good waves to open up Cheryl’s fish on.

FAILED FORECASTS, SUN 16SEPT2012 MOR

LOC: Goldenwest

Crew: Cheryl, KK, Hideki, Patrick

Time: 0700-0830

Conditions: 4 FT+, foggy, windy, choppy, winter.

Pre Blog:

     Pop up, drop in, bottom turn, climb the face, top turn, shift weight, wrap around carve. The professor’s talking, but I’m failing to absorb everything he’s saying. Pump, pump, carve. Shift weight to the tail, cut back, bring it back. Clean faces, down the line, bash the lip on the ramp (because I can’t do airs). The professor’s still talking. I focus. When’s the last time I surfed? I can’t even remember. I’m so behind on my surf blogs. I had no idea the master’s program would be this intense.

TIME:

     Did I surf on Friday? I can’t remember. I’m talking about the fifteenth. How about Saturday? Did I surf then? I check my text messages to Klaude, CC, Khang, and Cheryl. There’s no evidence that I did. I check my pictures. Everything points to Sunday the sixteenth, so I recollect. . . .

THE CALL:

     It’s Saturday evening. I’m pumped at the forecast. There is supposed to be size in HB. Surfline’s giving it a green rating with some light AM wind. AM wind? That’s okay. Shouldn’t be too bad. Must go south, have to go south. Nothing’s hitting the South Bay. The Hurley Pro is setting up at Trestles; there’s no way I’m going there. Since it’s been a while since Cheryl’ had a seat on my surf trips, I offer her a slot. I call KK. He wants to surf Goldenwest because he has to be in Carson at 1100. I’ve been flaking on J lately, so I invite him too. I need a good session with some size. Zippy’s staying home.

THE EXECUTION:

     I turn on my phone and see I missed a text from J at 0200. He just wrapped up a poker game and won’t be making it. Flake. That’s the first thing that comes to mind. I’m human, so I’m upset. J’s seat could’ve gone to someone else, Christina maybe.

     Cheryl texts me while I’m loading up the car. She drives by. I go outside and help her crossload the gear.

     It’s 0600 when we’re on the freeway, making good time. It’s been a while since I’ve hit the road with Cheryl for surf. We catch up. She tells me about work, Silverton, and everything else going on in her life.

     “When am I gonna meet Briana?” she asks. “Does she even exist?”

     She’s the only one that hasn’t met her yet.

     We pull up to Goldenwest. The sun’s just above the horizon, illuminating the marine layer to the south, turning it into an orangish-gold. I’ve never surfed here before, so I opt for the meter parking instead of the residentials.

     A wind from the south turns my skin into tight goosebumps, but it’s not gusty so it seems manageable. We stand over the railing. Only three guys are out. The waves are breaking far away, but despite the wind there are some rideable shoulders at the end of the lines.

     Someone parks in front of us, steps out, and checks out the surf too. He looks familiar. It’s Patrick from 26^th. We’ve also run into him at Zeroes a couple of times. “What’s up?” I say.

     “Hey!” He walks over in his sweater with his hands in his pockets. “It looks better than 26^th.”

     Klaude walks up from across the street. The timing couldn’t have been any better. Patrick goes through the intros with Cheryl.

     Klaude turns to Patrick and asks, “You talked to Roy?”

     “Yeah . . . he said it’s glassy right now. No one out.”

     “Fuck,” says Klaude.

     Roy’s at Zeroes, but . . . we’re all pretty stoked with what we have here.

     KK goes back to change, and Patrick moves his car to park elsewhere. Cheryl puts on her spring suit. “What board should I use?” she says.

     “Hmmmm. . . .” She has my old 6’10 Becker and he Kadowaki fish. “Just use the Fish. There’s some size out there. You don’t want to be stuck on the inside with that thing.” I point towards the Becker AKA Old Faithful.

     I’m faced with my own decision. Trunks or wetsuit? It’s been hot as hell lately, and I’ve been deceived before; this wind isn’t fooling me. I know . . . once that sun comes up we’ll all be on fire.

     I grab my longsleeve rashguard and boardshorts. KK joins us within ten minutes, but something changes. . . .

BAMBOOZLED:

     That marine layer I saw to the south when we got here just sweeps in and blocks out the sun. With the marine layer comes the wind that brought it here. Bye bye sun, and  . . . we can barely even see the lineup where it’s breaking. If the surf looked slightly uninviting when we got here, right now it’s telling us to go the fuck home.

     The four of us walk down to the sand. The paddle out’s a lot further than anticipated, and it’s obvious that the current’s gonna be a factor. Patrick hits the water first. I turn to Cheryl and say, “If we get separated, just meet back here.” I point to the bathrooms behind us. I paddle out. KK’s almost done warming up.

     The boardshorts are looking like a bad choice. The air and the water are cold, but I’m working to get to the outside, so it’s not affecting me yet. I catch up to Pat, and we try to make it out together. I already feel the current pulling me north. Four-to-five foot waves are breaking in the fog, bringing roaring white wash our way. There’s some punch behind them. I duckdive, get dragged back a little, work my momentum back up, and do it again. I’m suffering from a Zippy fish hangover, but I try to ignore it, paddling harder.

     I’m breathing hard by the time I make it out. It’s just me, Pat, and some other guy. Klaude’s halfway to the lineup, dealing with the beasts. There’s no sign of Cheryl.

     Landmarking is futile. The bathrooms, the Goldenwest intersection, the cliffs are all masked by the fog. I don’t know how far we’re drifting, but I know we’re moving.

     The current brings us into a pack of surfers, or a pack of surfers gets pushed into us. I catch my first wave. Closeout. Bad choice. It’s another struggle to make it back out.

     Cheryl’s to our south with a look of relief over her face. “I was so intimidated,” she says, “I just sat and watched it for a while before I paddled out.”

     Damn, I feel a little bad. I dragged her ass out here, made her wake up early, all for this. Lucky I didn’t bring anybody else down with us. J chose the right day to flake. CC’s probably scoring at 26^th right now.

     Patrick gets the first wave that looks rideable. He goes left and kicks out. I get a right but draw too high of a line before my top turn, accidentally kicking out of the wave. From there, the wind grows even stronger, turning the ocean choppy. The shape goes to shit. The wind is even pushing bumps perpendicular against the waves heading to shore. I’m cold.

     “Did J trunk it yesterday?” says Klaude.

     It hits me. KK told me to ask him last night. “I forgot to ask,” I say.

     “See!” He splashes some water on me. “You always gotta ask.”

     I’m a bit perturbed, being that he could have made the decision himself to wear a wetsuit or not. “Well I ain’t complaining.” I paddle north to fight the current.

     The truth is that I am complaining . . . internally. I’m freezing. Klaude and I are the only two sausages without wetsuits. Klaude says he’s ready to leave. I’m stubborn. The session can’t be over yet. I didn’t drive out here for this. I need at least a couple solid rides under my belt.

     I catch another left. Closeout. I go pretty far on a right, but the whole time my footing is fucked up, and I can only trim on it. Klaude sees me on a left. The take off is critical, but it bogs out and dies.

     Everyone leaves. I’m paddling south, hoping for a last one, but it’s to no avail. I catch a closeout. The tide’s so high that it’s slapping against the rocks at the bottom of the cliffs. I don’t know where I’m at. It might be Dog Beach or just south of Seapoint.

#

     Back at the car, Cheryl’s nowhere to be found. By the time I’m done changing, she’s crossing the street towards me.

     “I couldn’t find your keys,” she says.

     She followed KK where he gave her a hot water bottle. When we’re done changing, KK’s coming back across the street with his friend Hideki who I haven’t met yet. Hideki recommends a place called The Secret Spot that’s nearby.

#

     The line to the counter is long. Even worse, there are only three indoor tables to sit at. The rest are outside, and it’s fucking cold and windy. I’m so close to recommending taking the food to go, maybe eating in Klaude’s van, but just as Klaude’s done ordering his meal, he secures a table from some people just leaving. Good job, man. Shit . . . I’m happy just to sit down. Hideki and Klaude bring our food over once our orders are up, and I have to say . . . for a vegan themed restaurant the food here is really good. 

     So . . . sure we got skunked. Who cares? I never would’ve gotten the face time with Cheryl, and I never would’ve gotten to meet Hideki. We all shared a good meal afterwards, and Klaude made it in time to coach his basketball game, where his kids won. Despite the shitty surf, surfing still brought all of us together. It was still a good day.

     On the way out, a couple takes our table. The woman waves at me and says, “Excuse me, you still have some sunblock on your face. Just letting you know.”

     “Oh.” I touch my face, remembering the Vertra I put on. I look at her. “I know, that’s fine. I’ll probably have it on all day. I’ll probably even go to sleep with it on.” I shake my head and raise my hands. “I don’t care.”

THE SECOND SHIFT, SUN 9SEPT2012 MOR

Crew: Bri

Time: 0900-1045

Conditions: 1-3 FT, hot, sunny, glassy, small, fun  .

     I had a hell of a week. Friday I had some business to handle at work, so that took me out of the game the whole day. On Saturday, I had my orientation for the master’s program for school. I was supposed to surf with Klaude, but I couldn’t get up in time, probably also because Friday was a really late night. But Sunday . . . I had to go to the temple (as Dais and KK would say).

Late:

     It’s 0800. Again, I slapped the snooze button one too many times. Bri and I have too many late night and early morning battles, which make it hard to wake up. Klaude’s there, that’s the first thing that comes to mind. He’s there. I know he is. Gotta go, gotta get there, meet him in the water, gotta get the face time.

     I’m so anxious to leave, and my attitude is turning to shit. Sadly, my girlfriend who’s not at fault is the only one there to take the brunt of it.

     “Eh, people are leaving, the lineup’s emptying out, the tide might be right.” These are the things I tell myself to justify myself for waking up late, but really . . . I know it’s not good enough. The first shift, the dawn patrol, that’s the window that I used to be dedicated to, when the wind’s dead, the sun’s low, the water’s cooler, and the company is nothing but the true locals. I missed that window. Today . . . I’m on the second shift.

     I’m right about one thing, and that’s the parking. One spot is available by the lifeguard station. SCORE! I spotted Klaude before I parked; he’s on the north side of the lot, parked in front of the houses. As soon as I shut the engine off, I run up to say hi to him. “Hey!” I say as I shuffle across the street in my flip flops. I’m waiting for it. “What’s up, dude?”

     “Yeah-uh?” he lifts his wrist and looks down at his watch. His body language says it all: I’m a piece of shit, I didn’t show up on time, we missed each other, WE MISSED EACH OTHER! I broke the secret non-homo man bond of surfing. Be on time, be where you say you’re gonna be, and now . . . he must go the rest of the day without me. I don’t blame him.

     “I’m sorry,” I say. Of course, there’s no bitching or wining going on. He’s changing, prepping to leave, and I’m explaining the circumstances of getting up late.

     “I’ve been here since like six-thirty,” he says.

     “Was it better earlier?”

     He looks through his circle rimmed sunglasses at the ocean and laughs. “Haha no! I think it’s actually better right now. You might have fun.”

     “I brought the fish.”

     “Today’s a good day for the fish.”

     Back at the car, Bri and I change. It’s not gonna be a power session, more of a paddle out for the sake of getting wet session. Zero expectations whether I go straight or down the line. It will be a mellow surf.

     Bri and I say by to Klaude on the way out. By now the sun is shining bright over the sand, the towers, and the ocean. It’s a typical South Bay dream. I see the old lady who wears a blue hat and rides a blue and white Costco foamie. Miles is there, popping up, taking off on a right. I swear, every time I look towards the ocean, if it’s local or Churches, I see Miles going right—it never fails. It’s mostly longboarders out, and there’s a lull at the moment. Everyone’s sitting on the inside. We move south of the tower where the crowd’s a little thin, but not thin enough. I turn towards Briana and say, “Well, it’s a little crowded this morning, so . . . just be mindful of the crowd. Be careful, okay?”

     She assures me that she’ll be all right. I was hoping there wouldn’t be this many people here, but the second shift started early, so we’re late for this window too.

ZIP ZIP ZIP:

     I’m trunking it. The water’s so clear. One wouldn’t think that L.A. water would appear so clean, but a wise man once said, “It’s the things you can’t see that you need to worry about.” Well, we haven’t had rain in a while, and I don’t even bother to think about when it WILL start raining. That first, heavy winter rain is gonna be a bitch. There’s gonna be dog shit, tampons, and motor oil everywhere!

     So we sit . . . and we wait. Some little bumps start rolling in. I turn and I paddle. My first wave is only two-feet, but godammit if Zippy ain’t the right board for it. I even out-advantage Briana because 26^th isn’t as mooshy as Old Mans, and even at two feet the wave stands up a little more. Oddly enough, the South Bay can be good on a high tide, and behind this two-foot wave is the volume of the ocean behind it, creating a fun little slab. I barely have to make an effort to get through the flats. I can’t praise this board enough for what it can do on small, small days.

     I get to the end section fast enough before it closes out, attempting a finishing carve on the shoulder before it crumbles away. That’s my only complaint; I just can’t get loose on this thing, but . . . that could be an “operator error” (most likely is). Zippy’s great, but it’s a lot of meat to work with.

     Despite the crowd, Bri is getting waves too, just not going down the line. I’ve said before how much she’s progressed faster than I, and I know exactly where she’s at. She’s at the “going straight” stage of her surfing, where eventually she’ll get tired of it and desire to go down the line.

     None of my rides are worth being ingrained in my mind, but for a quick-fix to just get wet, I’m already getting more than I bargained for. I’m getting more than the second shift noobs. They either scratch out or just let the waves go by. I sit slightly inside of them, turn, kick, paddle, and I’m up just like that. Down the line. It’s a buffet of mini waves.

     When I paddle back to the lineup, Bri says, “That guy over there watched you catch that last wave then turned to me and said, ‘He makes it look so easy.’”

     I’m the Board Short Mamba this morning.

     When we leave, it’s still a magnificent day. The height of the sun is the only thing that’s changed. The ocean’s just as beautiful, the wind just as calm, the air and the sand just as warm. We may have missed Klaude in the morning, but we still caught a good window on the second shift.