Crew:
Khang, KK, and Mellie-Mel
Time:
0730-0930
Conditions:
2-3 FT, offshore, inconsistent, walled with occasional shoulders, overcast,
semi crowded.
I stayed up until 0100 doing homework. I
was so tired that I had a hard time sleeping. My mind was asleep but my body
was awake. Caught in a bed-press, I couldn’t shake myself out of a terrible
nightmare: I was forced to accompany three people in a car to kill someone in
his home. It was pitch-black dark. I was told if I left the vehicle I’d be
shot. As soon as the gunshots started, I bolted out of the vehicle, but I was
so slow and sluggish in my tracks. I woke up when I was discovered.
After that I had some stress dreams, where
I was surfing in my hometown of Napili, but I couldn’t remember all the facts
for my blog. I spent the rest of the night in and out of sleep, pondering over
the details: what happened first? how many waves did I get? who was I surfing
with?
SNOOZE:
My alarm was set for 0600, but I slap that
snooze tab until 0700. “I need to get up,” I say to myself. I drink some
Carnation Instant Breakfast, grab my gear, avoid Smokey’s dog shit that he had laid
all over the driveway, and head to the 405N where I’ll exit Rosecrans. Once I’m
on Highland Ave., I see some flags blowing offshore, slightly from the south.
I curse the fact that there’s no free
parking. And then again . . . I curse myself because I should’ve gotten up
early enough for free parking. The ocean doesn’t seem to be doing much. The
waves are breaking a little close to shore and it’s overcast, but the surface
conditions look clean with just a little offshore ripple. I spot Khang in the
upper lot. I honk, he waves, and I circle around once more for free parking.
Nada.
THREE:
I park next to Khang, step out, and give
him a hug. He has a huge booger hanging out of his nose. I give him my
undivided attention while he speaks, but I really just want to reach in there
and snatch it out. I figure we’ve known each other that long, but it’s one of
those slimy, sticky boogers, where it’s not really hard; it’s just gooey. Even
though I’m about to paddle out, I’d rather not deal with his manhesive on my
fingers.
I grab the Tokoro, and we head to the water
to look for Klaude. I’m ashamed to write the entire transcript of the Barney
conversation that Khang and I have on the way to the sand, but we talk about
our goals for this winter. “I talked to my homeboy Sans,” says Khang. “You
gotta surf reckless if you want to get barreled, you gotta surf out of your
comfort zone.”
#
Khang spots Klaude first, and then we both
make our way out towards him.
Klaude introduces us to this chick named Jayme
who’s riding a purple fish. She’s not bad looking: tan; long, dark brown hair;
she’s maybe a little older.
It’s a gorgeous silver scene. There’s no
sun, but in between the thick, gray clouds are thinner ones, even some patches
of blue. The filtered light gives the water a bluish-gray tint, reflecting
shiny, rough cut gems in the ocean’s surface. The water’s cool but not cold,
and the offshore breeze gives the feeling of fall before the winter numbness
freezes our balls in the months to come. It doesn’t feel like winter, but it
definitely feels like Thanksgiving.
“Khang, you remember last Thanksgiving?” I
ask.
He smiles and says, “Pff! Hell yeah.”
“It was raining.”
“Yeah, and we were like,” he holds out his
hands, “what the fuck?”
Indeed, last Thanksgiving was . . . I hate
to throw this term around loosely, but it was pretty epic. I mean, torrential
rain, five-foot swell, consistent, crowded but enough rides for everyone, and
the whole DRC was out, even Rick and his WHC boys. I surfed until the sun came
out and the wind changed. ::sigh:: Memories.
RECKLESS:
It’s a little inconsistent this morning,
and even though it’s not super crowded, there are more surfers than there are
waves. KK gets a wave that gives him some good distance, pumping all the way
down the line. Khang catches a wave, jumping over the lip before it closes out.
They’re breaking close to shore.
Jayme on her purple fish is clowning us
all. She makes the initial section and gets ahead to the open face, gliding
down the line, cool as a cucumber. Good for her.
On the walled sets, we all paddle for them.
Fuck it, why not. Most of the waves are walled, and getting a good shoulder
isn’t easy this morning. I go for a dump rider special, holding the highline
and seeing the lip throw over me in barely a second—a fun wipeout.
WQS:
Khang paddles for a wave, but some other
guy is scratching hard, as if catching the wave depends on his life. For a
morning like this, I don’t know if putting off that kind of energy is worth it.
They guy gets the wave and Khang is left behind. When I paddle up to him he
says, “Fuck, I didn’t know this was the fuckin’ QS and shit.”
That guy’s in a red and gray wetsuit. Even
though the three of us struggle to get good rides, QS and one of his buddies
are fucking ripping. Khang and I talk about board volume, wondering how much
board selection tailored for Manhattan Beach make a difference. At the same
time I look at myself. Am I not the fault of my own lack of performance, not
just my board?
Further south there’s some guy busting
airs. He does a three-sixty and lands it. I used to ponder the thought of
busting an air myself at the sight of such feats, but realistically . . . I’m
happy if I can get good carves and cutbacks going both ways. Yes, this is the
truth, this is where my surfing is right now.
I’m in position for a right, but Jayme’s on
my inside. I back out. The QS guy goes for it. Jayme gives him a glare, and he
backs off. The QS guys’ buddies give him shit about letting a girl take a wave
that he could’ve snaked her on. I’m actually a little offended hearing this.
How greedy can you be? It was Jayme’s wave all the way.
I get a left that has some size, but some
other fucking guy drops in on me. He’s one of the local regulars. His face
doesn’t strike me as familiar, but he’s dark as I am and looks like he’s from
the islands, so he fits the 26th St. profile. When the ride ends, I
make sure we get eye contact on the inside to let him know: you fucked me.
#
I hump it back up the hill to put some
change in the meter, meeting Khang half way back. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I got
you.”
It’s nice surfing with Khang. I haven’t
surfed with him in over two weeks. We catch up on everything. He has family who
just moved here; he’s looking for a new place; and he’s not allowed to
fraternize with his coworkers.
We paddle out next to Roy in front of the
tower. I see KK to our north surfing with Melanie. I’d wave him down, but he’s
blind as a gimp with an open-mouth hood. On the next wave, Khang and I split
the peak. I go right and look up from the base of the wave. I bottom turn and
try to hit the lip, but get pitched. It was too critical but still fun. At the
lineup, Khang tells me he got a couple pumps.
I get another right, this time tagging the
lip, backhand, before it closes out.
I paddle over to Klaude because he has that
look on his face that says he’s going to leave soon. We chat it up with
Mellie-Mel too.
A bomb set comes, about four-feet and
dumpy. I’m a little deep so I pull out, but Khang paddles into it. I expect him
to wash up somewhere on shore, but he somehow jumps over the back of the wave.
He gets the next bomb again, it’s another wave that I pull out on.
The guy that snaked me earlier is on my
inside while I’m paddling for a right. Wave-justice says I have the right to
snake him, but I don’t. I see him catch a nice shoulder all the way to the
inside, falling on his finishing maneuver, still getting some spray.
“Daaaaamn,” says Khang, “that wave you
almost had was sick!”
“Yeah, that was the guy I was talking about
who snaked me earlier.”
“Oh . . . sorry to bring back bad
memories.”
#
Klaude and Mel scrape for their last waves,
but nothing good is rolling through. They both catch a wave close to shore and
wave goodbye.
I look at my watch. “Hey, we gotta catch
one in too,” I say to Khang.
Right at that moment, a fuckin’ bump starts
to form. This is it, my one ticket out. I lower my chin, kick, and paddle as
hard as I can. I gotta catch this one. When I pop up, I see that the sub
three-foot wave is actually lining up. I know it’s a single shot / one hitter
quitter, so I get two pumps, climb the face, and get a nice, arcing carve. I
reenter, pump, and skim over the whitewash from the depleted wave.
We all shoot for that “last one,” the
exclamation point for the session. We usually don’t get it and settle for
whatever pushes us to shore, but this morning . . . my last one was good.
#
Back at the car, I realize I forgot my
towel. Klaude lets me use his. I’m careful not to pat down my penis too hard
with it since it’s not mine. We say our goodbyes and plan to meet up again next
weekend.
