MILKING CLOSEOUTS, SAT 6OCT2012 MOR

Crew: Klaude, Nicky, Dais, CC, Tom

Time: 0645-0900

Conditions: 2-3 FT, clean, offshore, walled, racy

PRE BLOG:

     I spent the whole day yesterday catching up on my surf blogs, and right now at this very moment, at exactly 1749 on 06OCT2012, I am caught-the-fuck-up! I’ve never fallen this far behind on my blogs ever. I made the commitment when I started this thing to write about every single surf session I do. So . . . instead of doing my homework this weekend I’ve been working on this. I know it sounds silly. Why go through the trouble, right? I ain’t getting paid for this, and I only have 21 people following me, and probably only a quarter of them actually read what I have to write. The truth is that part of the reason why I’m in the masters program is because I have this creative outlet where I CAN write and practice my craft. Even though this blog isn’t fiction or literary greatness, it counts as words on the screen, fingers hitting keys, mechanics, grammar, punctuation. Also, I’m passionate about surfing; it’s my livelihood even more than writing, but right now in my life I can’t have one without the other. I love having this journal or personal account. Surfing is life, and here I can share it with you or one day look back on it myself, rich man or poor man, it doesn’t matter.

#

     Last night I was so tired by 2200. I could barely keep my eyes open. I was watching this thing on Netflix while eating dinner. It’s a movie called Zeitgeist (2007). It was some trippy shit. It talked about how the Judeo Christian religion is a parody of the ancient Egyptian religion and how the worship of God was originally from the worship of the sun. It was some crazy shit they were talking. I was intrigued until they talked about how 9-11 was pulled off by America. That’s when I really said, “What the fuck?” I’m telling you, man. Weird shit. . . . But . . . how the hell DID Tower 7 collapse?

#

     I wake up at 0550 to take a piss. I’m so tired. I think about lying back down to get a little more snooze time, just to hit that button once more and catch a couple Zs. Then I think about Klaude. Shit . . . he’s probably on the muthafukin’ road right now.    

     I sip on my hot chocolate and munch on a banana before grabbing my gear. I went to Surf Concepts yesterday and bought some wax (they’re moving into a different suite in the same lot just so you know), so I got that problem solved. I haven’t showered since Friday night, and I’m still wearing the same cum-stained Hurley shorts from Thursday. Fuck it. Why dirty-up another set of clothes?

     I grab the Tokoro, my towel, hot water jugs, and a dry wetsuit out of the closet. There’s no free parking around 26^th, but since I spotted Klaude in the parking lot, I circle around to the meters and park next to him for the fuck of it; I never park next to him.

     Nicky is with him, and they both throw me shakas as I enter. I step out; we hug and shoot the shit while we change. The waves look small, but they seem to be coming in consistently. The tide is going from low-to-mid, so it’s breaking a little close to shore. It still looks fun, and there’s potential that things can get better. The offshore wind is also adding some texture, but it’s not killing the shape.

     The lineup’s a little emptier than usual. According to Klaude, all the locals have their annual camping trip in San Elijo this weekend, so that explains it. But it does seem odd not to see Bruce or Uncle Miles out here.

     Even though the conditions are great, the waves are mostly closeouts. KK and I can’t do much but go straight. The first left with a decent shoulder rolls through. Nicky whips his Zippy around. Another guy is on his inside, but Nicky goes anyway. He pumps and skims the high line with speed, leaving some mist out the back. He tries to kick out, but the ride’s already over.

     Dais and CC show up about forty-five minutes later, and then we spot Tom to our south. So we got a pretty good crew out with us, minus Khang who’s in Dallas for his vacation.

     Wave wise, good rides are few and far between. Kind of like yesterday, the low tide is making the waves hollow. Since I can’t turn for shit, I start pulling in, hoping for a little shampoo before the clamshell. I don’t have this same mentality on big round waves which is something I need to change. On one left, I pop up, hug the wall, and just crouch down. I see the lip throw out over me, and then everything turns to bubbles and water.

     When I resurface, Nicky’s behind me. He says, “Yeah, Matt! I wish I had a camera behind to film that!”

     “Sorry, man. You looked a little deep. I didn’t think you’d make it.”

     He gives his signature boy-band smile. “Awww, it’s cool, man. No worries.”

     But I do feel a little bad. I snaked him. I guess on his fish he can make those sections faster.

     Another surfer paddles up and says, “Hey, I saw you . . .” he mimics a barrel ride with his hands in front of his face, knifed and pointed forward.

     I thank him, but tell him that it was a closeout anyway, so why not go.

     As the tide rises, pulling this off is getting harder. I try to pull in on another closeout, but the wave spills. Just like yesterday, bad decisions.

     Some of us are milking the best out of the conditions. Klaude gets some distance going right. Tom gets a good bang off the lip too on one wave.

     Nicky’s doing the best out of all of us, getting time on the open face with his Zippy.

MY WAVE OF THE DAY:

     So I’m waiting for a wave when Mother Ocean sends one right to me. I’m in the perfect spot. Since the waves are a little racy, I definitely prefer the shoulder today. I get a couple hoots from the boys as I’m paddling in; I have this to myself. The shoulder is tapered but it starts to build fast. I drop in, pump, and try to make the section to the open face for a turn. It’s not emphatic, but I do hit the lip before it closes out. I paddle back to the boys (and girl).

     “That was my wave of the day,” I say to Klaude.

     “Yeah dude!”

     “Yeah, but fuck . . . I should’ve pulled-in. It was going vertical. I might have gotten barreled on that.”

     “Awwww, you didn’t enjoy it? And we pulled out so you could have it?”

     I see what he’s getting at. Why the hell am I complaining? As Dais say: J.E.T.S. 

     KK and I say by to CC and Dais and head back up to our cars. It wasn’t a surf session with waves galore, but it was great to see our friends, those committed, enjoying the surf with us. We plan to see each other tomorrow. The sound of drums dissipate behind me as I drive back home, satisfied that I got a session in.

    

MEGA DAWN PATROL, FRI 5OCT2012 MOR

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SHOW AND PROVE (double sesh), SUN 30SEPT2012 NOON

Some random guy about to get barrelled

Location: North Oceanside

Crew: Reptile Rick and Gary AKA Balls Deep

Conditions: 6-7 FT+, light north wind, inconsistent, mooshy outside, fast and drainy inside.

     Gary and Rick are generous with their food. I’m starving to death, but I’m putting it off like I ain’t hungry. Gary offers some Wheat Thins.

     “Thanks,” I say. I grab a few. When he walks off, I take a handful. He has string cheese. . . . I so want to eat his string cheese, but I can’t jack his food; it isn’t right. I didn’t want to make the same lousy sandwiches that I eat on a daily basis, but right now those lousy sandwiches would do me some serious justice.

     “Here, Matt,” says Rick. He tries to hand me a packet of crackers and tuna. 

     “No thanks, I’m good, man.” But I’m not good. But what kind of an asshole am I? If I’m THIS HUNGRY, I can only imagine how hungry these guys are. Instead, I chow on some of Rick’s celery. It will have to do. Rick opens up a can of sardines. They’re making my mouth water. There’s a little bit of foam at the corner of my mouth. I wipe it off. I swallow my saliva and drink some water. There’s a little bit of cracker somewhere between my guns that I break loose with my tongue; it’s so delicious. 

#

     We walk out to the sand and take a look at the surf. It’s not as walled as it was earlier, but the shape is still questionable. Surfers are scattered. Most of the waves are suicide barrels, fast and pinchy, but some guys manage to get some cover-up and make it out. Rick hands me a beer; we drink it right there on the sand. Gary grabs his camera and starts clicking away. Then . . . the coma sets in.

     Back at our picnic area, I’m beginning to doze off. The weather’s so nice; it’s freaking hot! The water looks inviting, but I’m in no rush. I could fall asleep right here in this chair. I reach for Gary’s Wheat Thins and realize I’ve damn near killed the whole box. Restraining myself, I put it back in his cooler.

     I’m nodding off when Rick shows up in his wetsuit. “You ready, Matt?” he says. He’s zipping up his back.

     I’m silent.

     “Don’t make me paddle out there alone.”

     I open my eyes. “Right behind you.” I throw on trunks and my short sleeved rashguard. I hope I won’t regret it.

#

     Gary’s under an umbrella close to shore. “I’m gonna take some pictures of you guys for a little while,” he says.

     “Is it breaking good here?” I ask, pointing straight out in front.

     “Yeah. It’s a little fast here though.”

     Rick paddles out first, and I’m right behind him. He heads towards the Jetty. I’m north, right in front of Gary. 

     Even though the shape isn’t that great, something’s happening with the lowering tide. Some five-to-six foot lefts start to pop up. I’m next to a guy on a longboard. I paddle for a wave, but so does he. He’s on my inside. I pull out, but he doesn’t even catch it. I take the next one, but it walls up towards the inside. I kick out early.

     The crowd that was here earlier begins to thin out. I paddle closer to Rick. He hasn’t caught one yet either. Some waves are breaking towards the jetty on the outside, werbly and refracting off the rocks. They look rideable but suspect to mooshing out. For some reason, Rick and the half-dozen guys around us paddle to the north, but I paddle south, a little closer to the jetty. Then all of a sudden, there’s a big line on the horizon.

     “Go for it, Matt!” says Rick.

     Shit, he read my mind. I mean, I’m all alone, and there’s a chance to catch this outside wave. Nothing is breaking anywhere else, so the pressure is on. Every other surfer in the water is frothing for a ride, and here I am, the guy who just paddled out minutes ago. I shouldn’t be so lucky.

     I’m on my JS. It’s 6’3 and has a little more volume than the Tokoro. I need the extra length and volume for all the water moving around. The wave is already peeling just outside of the jetty, but it looks mooshy. I do NOT want to miss this wave. I purposely catch it a little late to make sure I don’t scratch out.

     Rick yells, “PADDLE HARD!”

     It’s not standing up yet, but when I pop up . . . the race begins. What a drop in. . . . I don’t want to exaggerate, so for the sake of my brother’s Hawaiian/Bali scale, I’ll modestly say that this is a six-foot wave. The face is mixed with sand and white wash, and it’s a little choppy. The drop isn’t critical-steep like this morning, but it’s not slopey like Trestles either. From here, the section builds and lines up. I want to bottom turn and climb the face, but there’s too much size and the wave is going too fast. I pump and start my bottom turn from mid face. I can’t carve, there’s too much water moving, so I draw a high speed line, skimming the top of the wave. I can see Rick and the other surfers behind it. I’m approaching the inside, and the wave’s energy changes. The bottom starts sucking out and it’s going even faster. I try to top turn again, but it’s sloppy, and I almost lose my balance. I’m near the shallows when jump over the lip, and the wave explodes behind me.

     Damn, what a way to open up a session. I did it with a bomb. How did I pull that off with Rick with me? He’s throwing me shakas from the lineup. I’m smiling the whole paddle up to him. I turn and see Gary suiting up.

     From here, Rick takes over. There’s no question if he’ll make the wave; the question is: where will the bucket-toss come out from. He gets the most distance out of all of us, and again . . . today’s not his day for the inside, as he’s caught again in the impact zone.

     Gary makes it out. Now there are only two other surfers besides the three of us. The shape is better now, but it’s inconsistent. There are long lulls, and since the wave initially breaks mooshy, sitting in the right place becomes trivial. It would make sense to sit more on the inside, but then the fucking sets come, then what?

     It doesn’t take long for Gary to get a ride, and he goes almost as far as Rick. Gary paddles back, stoked. “That inside section,” he says. He shakes his head. “It’s just like, ‘KABOOM!’” He mimics an explosion with his hands.

     The trade off of waves is between the two of them. I get more rides but not a lot, and they are nothing like my first one. Gary catches another long left. Minutes later, Rick and I spot him back on the sand.

#

     We’re almost into the third hour. My teeth are chattering.

     “Awwww, you’re freezing,” says Rick.

     I try not to say too much because it’s uncomfortable. “I’mallright!”

     “You should have used my long sleeve rashguard.”

     “Itsokay!”

     I hate to have Rick outlast me, or anyone. I’m usually the last one out, but in this case, I need a last wave.

     Rick catches the first wave of the next set, and a couple seconds later I get the second one. The wave doesn’t look like much; it’s a little smaller than my first, but since the tide is now lower, the wave builds speed instantly. The section in front of me is long and walled, so I’m pumping the whole time to make it. I do a cautious turn, almost losing my balance again, and then the face goes vertical. I see that it’s tapering into a shoulder in front of me; it’s barreling. I could pull in, but it’s draining hard, and I can see the sand sucking into the face. Rick paddles over the shoulder, watching me. Instead, I pump and go for one more turn before the wave closes out. 

     Maybe I could have tried for the barrel; I don’t know, but I’m stoked to have ended with that ride.

     Back on the sand I ask Gary, “Why did you go in?”

     I can’t quote him word for word, but he got barreled on the inside, clean. “I had to come out after that one,” he says. “I wasn’t gonna get a better one than that.”

     Gary’s snapping photos of Rick’s last ride. He gets two turns on the inside. Rick comes up to me and says, “You could have got barreled on that one.”

     “Yeah, shit. I know. It was getting a little drainy.”

Rick's last wave

Fist pump

#

     I’m exhausted, we all are. I treat the guys to some Subway, and then we head to San Onofre so Rick can run an errand. We watch Old Mans and Churches. Churches looks so fuckin’ fun. The south swell is hitting here, and the rights are coming in at a consistent five-feet, nothing but tapered right hand lines from the outside all the way in. There’s a conveyor belt of surfers cycling through to make it back out, more activity than there are surfers. 

     “If Manny was here, we’d be paddling out again,” says Rick.   We all wouldn’t mind another go out, but we’ve had our fill. It’s time to head back. Rick asks me to drive because he’s tired. Seniority wise, I should be the one driving anyway. Because of Carmageddon, there’s no traffic. I take a shit at Gary’s house. I feel bad about the skid marks I leave on his toilet, but I’m sure that he won’t mind; he might think it was Rick. I get home before it’s dark. The weekend’s over, and I’m too tired for homework. I’d like to think it was worth it.