ANOTHER GAMBLE, SAT 20OCT2012 MOR

Loc: Huntington

Crew: Solo

Time: 0745-0945

Conditions: 3 FT, overcast, drizzling, onshore, choppy, manageable peaks.

Pre-Blog:

     Khang called me yesterday, telling me how I missed out on Wednesday. According to him, the South Bay was “all time” that day. He said he surfed in the morning and evening and that the peaks were just going off. It made me sad to hear this. I knew it was good. I asked where he was surfing on Saturday, and he said he had to surf local because of work.

     According to the forecast, El Porto isn’t supposed to be good. In actuality, nowhere is supposed to be good. There is a chance of rain with inevitable onshore flow in the forecast, but the South Bay is predicted to be 1-2 FT while North OC supposed to be 2-3. I know it’s just a matter of “one foot,” but I’m hoping that the forecast will be off. Besides, it was off yesterday, and today can be another exception. I put out the word that I’m traveling down south, but everyone has to stay local.

DARKNESS:

     It’s 0530 when my alarm goes off, but I snooze until 0556. Since I have everything prepacked, all I need to do is fill up my hot water jugs. I grab both of my thrusters, pat Smokey on the head, and jump in the surfmobile.

     When I glance at the clock on the instrument panel, I see that it’s already 0645, but looking outside, it’s hard to tell that this is the early morning. Combined with the overcast and the shorter days as we near the winter solstice, it’s hard to imagine that there used to be light out at this time.

     Once I hit Torrance, rain drops start hitting my windshield. It’s sporadic, off and on, mostly on the light side. Despite the rain, from what I can tell, there isn’t much wind yet. As I drive down Bolsa Ave., I’m thinking that I might score. The wind report is off again, and I’m hoping for at least a solid hour before the conditions change. I look to a building on the left hand side of the road. It has an American flag mounted at the top floor . . . and the stars and stripes are blowing hard onshore.

     Driving past Bolsa Chica, my fears are confirmed. The RVs parked in the lot all have flags indicating the wind. I look right to see what the waves are doing. Bolsa Chica is small. Dog Beach doesn’t look much better, but Magnolia has some peaks. My optimism comes back when I see Huntington Pier. The water doesn’t look that choppy yet, so there’s a chance that things aren’t totally blown out.

     I pull up to my parking spot and head towards the sand for a look. I see an old guy who was leaving when Bri and I showed up yesterday. “Paddling out?” I ask.

     “Yeah. Looks like it!”

     There’s another guy on the sand watching it. As soon as I’m close enough to see the waves, he leaves. Being alone, I whip out my wiener and piss right there on the spot. As usual, there are a couple guys to my north, three guys to my south, and then a small crowd at River Jetties. A set rolls in. It's three-feet plus but walled. Even the shoulders at the end are breaking section-into-section. I wait it out a little longer, hoping to see at least one random peak like yesterday. Compared to yesterday, the waves are a hair smaller and the water is much choppier. I debate on calling Klaude to see if I can get a report from him. Maybe I should just head back local. Right then, one of the guys just south of me catches a left. He gets one turn before the wave closes out. Sold!

#

     There’s no debate on what to wear this morning; it’s wetsuit all the way. I glance at the sky to see if the sun has a chance at peeking out, but the overcast is too thick. It’s already looking like it’s gonna be a gloomy day. I imagine what my brother would do if he saw this choppy, onshore, overcast sight. He’d say, “Damn,” shiver in his sweater, give a look of disdain, turn around, and go home. But fuck it. I can only hope for the best. Sometimes the conditions look better in the ocean.

     I have a spot all to myself. The old-timer from the parking lot and his two buddies are a little off to my left. No one is to my right. There’s that peak just north of River Jetties that looks like it’s working, but I know it’s gonna get packed soon, so I try to see if I can score where I’m at in No Man’s Land.

     I’m caught in a lull, wondering if I should venture south, but I don’t want to get too close to those other guys next to me. From experience, a set will come by the time I make it there, and I’ll be competing with the very guys that have been sitting and waiting well before me. Patience. The wind isn’t a factor in the lineup. On the shore I felt the gusts against my face, but right now . . . the wind seems to have backed off a bit. The water’s choppy but still manageable. All I need . . . is a wave.

     When the set comes it’s walled. There’s a shoulder at the end, but I’m too deep for it. Then like a miracle, a classic HB peak sprouts up. Since the swell is smaller today, it’s no more than three feet, but still, I have to appreciate this. Even with the wind, chop, and weather suitable for a suicide, the sand bars are still working. This little peak is pushing through the agents of skunk, still forming, still breaking. I pop-up going left. The wind is still knocking it down fast, but I have some face to work with. I get caught behind the section, and by the time I get to the shoulder the ride is over, but I’m not bummed. There’s potential.

     The first hour’s pretty consistent. There aren’t many lulls, and I’m not stagnant for long between waves. The shape is still messy, but there are lefts to be had. They’re racy, but I pop-up fast and make it to the open faces. The rides are short, but they’re single shots, good for finishing turns or maneuvers if you’ve got them. I take a look towards River Jetties, and that peak to the north of it is now crowded with at least ten people. Good, good for them . . . just don’t come over here.

     I take advantage of the oncoming sections, climbing the face of the shoulders approaching, floating on the lips, maintaining my balance as they crash, riding them out. No, these aren’t legit floaters, but I’m just stoked to not eat shit on them. Back in the day, I wouldn’t even try doing this.

     The rest of my waves are series of pumps followed by fun, single-shot turns to finish the rides. It’s hard to put English on my finishing carves because the waves aren’t clean (and because I’m a novice), but even though my turns don’t wrap around, I still get enough arc to make it fun. I get one turn on the Tokoro where I sink my weight down into the turn and pivot sharply off of the tail. The end section is only two-feet, but I throw-out a little toss of water. There’s just something about the Tokoro; it’s such a good board, fun to turn; I love it.

     To my surprise, I get the break to myself, and the consistent, random peaks make the trek to HB worth it.

     Things slow down into the second hour, and waves within my last twenty minutes are hard to come by. The wind picks up again, making the water choppier. It’s messing with the shape even more. I wonder how the scene must look from the shore. No one would want to paddle out now.

#

     When I’m done changing it’s exactly 0905. My engine’s running. I want to call Klaude and ask him how local was, but I don’t bother. I contemplate breakfast when I’m on the freeway, but I don’t want to eat alone. Just then, Klaude texts me. He says it was 2-3 FT on the face, and it’s still offshore. Son of a bitch, I’m thinking. Looks like I missed out on a good day for a local sesh, but I don’t regret anything. I still had fun on the HB gamble. 

     We meet in El Segundo and kaukau at The Blue Butterfly. I spot him for breakfast since he and his dad hooked me up with some Ahi Poki on Monday night. This breakfast meeting was meant to be because a woman that he hasn’t seen in ten years recognizes him and gets his number. She’s wearing a tight blue skirt, naughty for a cold, wet day. Even though we didn’t surf together, we still get to enjoy each other’s company. 

     The sky is overcast here too with a light sheet of moisture in the air. We sit at a table outside and hover over our bagels, stoked on the surf that nature provides.

Empty?

DESPITE THE FORECAST, FRI 19OCT2012 MOR

Loc: Huntington

Crew: Bri

Time: 0845-1030

Conditions: 3 FT, sunny, warm, empty, onshore, walled with some random peaks.

     Klaude texted me last night, saying that he got the day off and would be surfing local. I lay in bed, switching the forecasts between El Porto and Southside Huntington Pier. I even go on magicseaweed.com to compare the wind forecast. HB will have more wind but the South Bay will be smaller. What to do?

#

     Briana has work today, so a Staycation Friday is out of the question. Klaude calls. He says he’s at Porto, but it doesn’t look too good so he’s on his way to 26^th. I tell him that I’m debating on Huntington or local.

     “Surf local” he says. “Save the drive.”

     I contemplate. . . . I never get to surf with KK during the week. Sometimes Manhattan Beach is good, despite the reports.

#

     Bri and I load everything up. I keep the NSP longboard inside the wagon because I don’t feel like messing with the surf straps; we ride taxi-cab-confessions style. I spot Klaude’s van at the metered lots and park next to him. Bri and I step out. There’s a lull. Most of the surfers are sitting on the inside. The onshore winds from the cool weather and low-pressure system make for crumbly, textured, and choppy conditions. I see a couple guys catch some short rides. The shape is a little walled with some corners at the end. I’ve waited too long for this day, this morning, this session.

     “I’ll be back,” I tell Briana. “I’m gonna leave KK a message.”

     “You gonna draw a penis on his van?”

     I stop in my tracks and turn around. “You know, I wasn’t even thinking about that. Thanks!”

     As an ode to Fransauce, I lift Klaude’s wipers and draw a dick on his rear window. Bri and I head to Bolsa.

#

     This drive seems long, but at least the traffic’s still light. There are signs of life with surfers in the lot, rinsing off and leaving. We park at tower twenty and go out for a gander. The break in front of the tower isn’t doing much; it’s small. However, it does look better than the South Bay; there’s shape. To our north there is a large crowd of longboarders, even though the surf is small. Bolsa Chica to our south has just as many people. “Let’s go to Huntington,” I say. “It should be a little bit bigger.”

     Walking back to the car, Bri says, “I’m glad you think that I can handle harder conditions than this.”

#

     Two guys are leaving the lot when Bri and I pull up, but some surfers are making their way out towards the river jetties on the sand. It’s already a late morning (surf wise), and we are clearly making the window for the second shift. We walk out to the break, and it’s empty. Three guys sit to the north while the rest of the surfers are at the river mouth. The tide’s high, and the waves are a little walled with fast sections towards the end of them. Fuck it. We’re here. I’m not driving back to Bolsa. It’s time to live with our decision.

#

     Even though the air is warm, I throw on my wetsuit. I have the option of using the Zippy of the JS. Given that the tide is rising and the conditions aren’t so great because of the onshores, I pull out the Zippy. I want “guaranteed” rides.

     I pulled a muscle in my upper back after Monday’s session. It’s what I get for not stretching and taking care of my body, probably from my inactivity of having to prioritize studying so much. So as soon as we reach the sand, I take a little more time to warm up. What’s the rush? No one’s out, the waves aren’t that great, the tide’s already coming up, so . . . it is what it is.

     Bri’s never paddled out at Huntington before. I tell her that today’s a small day, but that the waves here still jack up a little fast. I tell her to go for the shoulders if she has to and to try to catch the waves early.

     The paddle out is mistimed, and a set comes in. In the impact zone, I have to duckdive two good-looking waves. Bri paddles up. “Hey,” I say, “There are actually some decent waves here. I’m pretty stoked. I think it’s gonna be fun!”

     The next set is walled, but the in-between waves are peaky and have shoulders on both ends. The onshore wind calms down a little, putting texture on the surface but not taking away from the shape at all. The peak that I surfed on Monday looks good; I have the perfect vantage point to see the peeling, left-hand shoulder. I go left on my first wave. It jacks up to a solid three-feet once it breaks. The Zippy’s so easy. I’ve never surfed it here, only at Bolsa. I’m immediately propelled down the line, and the shoulder is still building, holding. I bottom turn and pull off a sluggish check off the top. I get a couple more pumps before the wave closes out.

     Paddling back to the lineup, I wonder if I’ve made the right choice or not. The waves are a better than what they looked from shore, and I’m sure that my JS would work in these conditions.

     I’m picky. No need to go for the walls. I let them pass. “Go for the ones with the shoulders,” I tell Bri. I catch another left. To reduce the drag, I try to lay back into my turns. I almost fall, but for the first time, my frontside turn on Zippy is a little snappier because of this. It’s not a legit “lay back” snap, but I did do an aggressive, backwards shift with my weight to pull it off.

     Heading back, I see Bri in the perfect spot for a left. “Go!” I yell. She doesn’t. I don’t know if it’s because she doesn’t hear me. When I paddle up to her, I want to say that she missed a good one, or I want to question her and ask what happened. But I don’t. I already learned this lesson. She has to figure this out on her own. When I reach her, a solid three-foot peak is approaching her. “Go, go, go!” I say.

     She turns and starts paddling. It’s about to break, but she pulls back. She sees me looking at her.

     “What happened?” I ask. She doesn’t respond. “Fear?”

     “Yeah.”

     “That’s okay.”

     The next one comes, but I don’t call her on it. She turns and paddles. The wave’s only two-feet, but the shape is nice; it’s a right. As soon as the wave has her, she says, “Yes!” and pops up. I watch her from behind. She’s going right, smiling.

#

     The session turns into a wave buffet. The wind turns back on a bit, but the shape is still manageable. My rights aren’t as good. Since HB’s waves are fast, my balance is tested going backhand on the thick Zippy. I barely stick the landing after hitting the lip, usually purling on the down turn. You’d think with the rising tide that things would slow down, but some solid walls start coming in on sets that seem to last forever. I’m even struggling to make it out of the impact zone. Bri’s having a harder time; she’s paying her dues. Even on a small day, HB is much harder than Old Mans, and she’s learning it firsthand.

     The current starts to pick up as well, and we drift north to the next tower. Bri’s a bit apprehensive on paddling-into the waves. I see her pass some up, angle her board too hard when she’s not deep enough, or position herself too deep where the wave is cresting. She hasn’t surfed in weeks, and I can see the frustration on her face. I want to tell her what to do, but again I keep a lid on it. It’s her experience. She just needs more time.

#

     The buffet doesn’t end for me, but I start to get tired. My timing is off on a couple drop-ins. I feel like I’m in a good place to go deep, but the wave breaks right on me. None-the-less, there are still choice rides. Even some walls have makeable shoulders, fast and lined up. There are still peaks in between the walled sets. My expectations are exceeded.  

#

     We’re walking back to the car when Bri says, “I couldn’t read the waves. I think I’m in position, but then they break. They look small but they get so big at the last second. I was scared.”

     “Yeah, it took me a while to get this spot down too.” I tell her that when I take my friends here for the first time, their timing is off too. I tell her about when I first started surfing here with my bro; I would always go too late and eat shit.

     We debate on what to eat. She wants Bob’s Hawaiian, but I recently went there for Sebastian’s birthday. Seafood Town is mentioned, but It’s a little too early for Chinese. “I want waffles,” I say. “And chicken!”

Roscoe's in LB

WHEN SCHOOL GETS IN THE WAY , MON 15OCT2012 MOR

Loc: Huntington

Crew: Solo

Time: 0730-0900

Conditions: 3 FT, clean, offshore, inconsistent, high tide.

PRE BLOG—Tales of the Skunk:

     I had duty from the 12^th – 14^th, so on Thursday the 11^th, I planned to do a dawn patrol with my classmate Cassady. The forecast said there would be some AM wind, but that there was some fair conditions from the SW swell.

     I woke up at 0525, ate, and loaded up my wagon. Everything outside was wet; I didn’t realize that it rained.

     The morning was dark, and by the time I reached Torrance on the 405S, lightning and rain commenced. It doesn’t matter, I thought. I was going to paddle out no matter what.

     Long Beach wasn’t any dryer, and there was still thunder and sprinkles when Cassady loaded his gear into my car.

     “What do you think about the thunder?” he asked.

     I thought about his question then remembered the time I surfed Porto during a thunderstorm. We saw the lightning a couple miles away. Only about a dozen of us idiots were out. When we heard the roar from the thunder, none of us said a word. Nope. Instead, we slightly turned our heads to see if anyone was going to say anything. No one did, regardless that we all contemplated on paddling in.

    

     We passed Bolsa Chica. “That looks pretty sick,” said Cas.

     I looked over. There was a clean right peeling, just under three feet. I tell him that we’re gonna check out my brother’s favorite spot in North Huntington.

     When we arrive . . . the peaks are crumbly, long and walled but at only a couple feet. It’s choppy. It’s bad. No one’s out. Even at River Jetties there are only a couple heads. It’s unappetizing. 

     Cassady says that his uncle lives in Newport, and we can park at his house. We check it out. It looks worse.

     We find ourselves back at Bolsa, and anything resembling that clean, wave we saw in the morning is nothing but a myth. Some groms are coming back in, along with a couple longboarders. Everyone is leaving. We drive to lifeguard tower 20. The surf syndrome kicks in, causing me to tilt my head, squint, and mind-surf the crumbly sections. 

     “Let’s go to my work and grab some breakfast,” says Cas.

     We walk back to the car bone dry. Wetsuits and boards fill my wagon, unused—a false alarm. 

#

15OCT2012:

     After a fairly successful work weekend, a morning sesh is necessary. Sure, I could just pick up the old routine and workout before class, but I need this surf session; I have to. According to the weather forecast, there’s a system of high pressure, making the temps rise again, also creating some offshore flow. I take a look at the forecast. The tide’s gonna be a little high in the morning, but Huntington still has a green rating. I gotta do it.

     I load up the JS and the Tokoro and head towards Bolsa since it’s close to school. I don’t bother hitting up Cas because there’s a chance I could get skunked again.

     The feeling of the true, dawn patrol is foreign to me now. Traffic is light but swervy from people still half asleep. The sun’s still a faint, purple tinge behind the horizon, and my car’s instrument panel reflects throughout my inner compartment. My coffee’s hot, and the freeway lights are brownish-orange.

     To think I used to do this all the time.

Bolsa:

     I’m at tower twenty. The conditions are magnificent. The wind is light offshore, the sun’s already bright, there isn’t a cloud in the sky, but gawd damn it’s small. It’s like two-feet, consistent, but not peaky. The lines are long. A few longboarders make their way out. They’re stoked, rushing it.

     I have to see what North HB is doing.

N HB:

     I’m at my favorite spot. Ten guys on body boards are out. A woman with a tripod setup is filming them. A couple peaks roll on, but they meet the backwash, jacking up prematurely but still giving a fat, racy shoulder. It’s not classic HB, not the epic surf that I’ve scored here with Fransauce on many occasions. Three surfers bob to the south. River Jetties has a lot of heads, but I’ve never surfed there; I may never in my life; I don’t know. 

     This is it, as good as it’s gonna get. A sun-beaten, freckle-skin, blonde guy is parked close by.    “How’s the water temp been?” I say.

     “The morning’s been warm, but I still put on a wetsuit, you know . . . keep that water off my back. It’s been windy in the evenings so . . . wetsuit for sure.”

     I thank him and take a look at my boardshorts and wetsuit.

#

     I’m in my Hurley shorts (courtesy of Manny A.) and black, long-sleeved rashguard. Because of the high tide, I select the JS. The water’s cool, but manageable. Trunking it is a successful gamble. The sun is now higher, making everything opposite the ocean a radiant gold. The water is glassy, clean, but . . . fucking tide. It’s inconsistent where I am. The body boarders are getting some waves, but their rides are short. To the south, there’s a left-hand peak that keeps peeling. It’s half the distance to the river jetties, a far but doable paddle.

     When I reach it, I’m close enough to the main pack to make out some faces and shapes, but I have a peak to their north to myself. My first wave comes. The peak looks small, but it hits the sandbar and the backwash, jacking up to three-plus feet. It’s a quick drop, but I maintain my balance into the bottom turn. The section’s running away, so I pump, keeping my eye on the lip. It starts to go vertical, so I crouch, but the lip spills instead of going round. I fade out, climb the face, and attempt a top turn. There’s something about this JS, probably a fault of my own as well, but I just can’t crank out any good front-side turns on it, not like on the Tokoro. The tail is sluggish as I try my carve, so I end up doing more of a check turn off of the face for my finishing maneuver.

     I resurface, not completely fulfilled, but . . . it’s better than any wave that I’ve caught in the last . . . shit, I can’t even remember when the last wave I caught was. I’m satisfied. The wave makes the morning. Despite the conditions, there’s potential.

     Back at the lineup, the surfer I passed earlier is now there. Minutes later, guys are on the sand. Next thing you know, there’s a fucking crowd at my peak. . . . What the fuck just happened?

     I get a couple more rides, but none surpass the quality of my first wave. I’m in position for some plus-sized peaks, but I have to back out because of the crowd. The blonde dude from the parking lot is ripping it up. He takes off deep, where the drop is critical, way behind from where I would take off from, but he makes the sections and gets rides all the way to shore.

     I know it’s going to get better when the tide drops. Even the afternoon, I know it’s going to be good, but my watch says it’s 0900. I have to prioritize.

     I paddled out; I got wet; I got a couple waves. It will have to suffice.

#

     For the rest of the week at school, I study in the library while checking the surf cams and reports. It’s good out there; I know it is. I close my Surfline app because it’s no use; it’s torture. I’ll just have to hear how good it was through someone else. . . .