Loc:
Churches to Middles
Crew: Bri
Time:
0745-1045
Conditions:
2-3 FT+, offshore, consistent, not coo crowded, sunny, warm.
It’s been three weeks since Bri and I have
been able to do a Staycation Friday. All week long I kept an eye on the surf
forecast for San Onofre. It never changed: 3-4FT, Fair to Good.
We wake up at 0545. With the shorter days,
it’s still dark as night outside. Since we prepacked everything, all we have to
do is strap the longboard on top of the wagon. We head to Vons, grab four
sandwiches, a salad, water, and two Odwalla juices for breakfast. There’s a
slight hint of orange in the distant horizon, but we’re still making good time.
To take up time during the drive, I tell
Bri stories about growing up in L.A. I tell her how in sixth grade my friend
Sebastian got into a fight with one of the neighborhood gangsters. He punched
him above the right eye, cutting his eyelid. The gangster was quick to
apologize thereafter. Then I told her how the leader of the gang got revenge on
Sebastian a couple weeks later. It’s funny how writing and the art of storytelling
through verbal narrative are still interrelated.
There’s a high-wind warning in effect, but
right now the trees and brush are calm. We exit Basilone and take a look at
Lowers. It looks empty until we get higher up, and we can see about twenty
heads. It takes bad conditions for Lowers to be empty, although . . . the waves
are flat.
The peaks at Old Mans are a little hard to
gauge from where we are. It’s crowded, and there are waves, but it’s hard to
tell how big. From here, they look two-feet high. Since Churches is closer, we
foot it over there to have a look. The wind warning is unnecessary. The wind is
faint offshore, and the water is glassy. The high tide is swamping things out,
but occasional pulses break from the top of the wave all the way south in front
of the campgrounds. Even north Churches is producing a little left. Churches
has a crowd, but it’s not as bad as Old Mans, so we suit up and decide on
Churches.
#
Did I say the high-wind warning was
bullshit? Well, think again. By the time we’re ready to paddle out, the wind is
howling offshore. What was calm and glassy water is now rippled and textured.
At least it’s offshore, but the wind is still a bit much.
I didn’t intend on using the Zippy Fish
again. To tell the truth . . . I’m kind of tired of it. I miss turns, riding
the thrusters, but every time we come out here it just hasn’t been big enough.
After borrowing Cheryl’s Don Kadowaki fish, I can’t get it out of my mind. I
need one. I think about how much fun it would be to have it. For the first
time, I can grasp the idea of “rocker.” For sure, South Bay in the winter
during a big WNW and HB on any day that’s three-feet plus calls for a thruster.
But San Onofre and Trestles? If it’s not at least a consistent three feet, one
can do without rocker. Since I tend to surf smaller, mooshier waves with
Briana, a fish is perfect for when I’m with her. But as I’ve complained before,
this Zippy is too big; I need something tapered down so I can have more fun on
the turns. The next time I see Don, I need to ask him to shape me a board.
 |
| Guess who's stoked? |
Bri and I can’t feel the wind as bad in the
water, and we sit just south at the end of the string of surfers. Nothing is
breaking. I wave Bri down and have her work a little more north with me. The
waves have backed off, and I curse this wind, thinking that it has something to
do with it.
Despite the wind, the conditions are
perfect, too perfect for October. The low sun is so blindingly bright that we
have to squint when looking towards the shore. Through the palm trees, the
mountains, and the sand, we’re hit by a radiant gold. We can’t be upset about
that, save for our eyeballs.
Just then, a bump forms on the horizon. All
the other surfers are complacent in the grips of this last lull, so they’re all
on the outside. I can tell . . . this one’s gonna break further out. Bri and I
are the only ones in position. To my surprise, it’s a classic, Churches,
right-hand peak, a solid four-feet. I paddle out to meet it, steer with my knee
to point my board back towards the shore, stroke three times, and pop up. My
bottom turn draws a lot of rail . . . TOO MUCH RAIL. I can’t hook it high off
the face and redirect down the line; the rail is set and not letting me go. I
try to force the board out of it and fall in the process. Blown . . . a
perfectly good wave. A longboarder on my inside backed out of it because he
thought I had it.
There’s a second wave behind it, but I let
it pass and let either Bri or the dozen guys on the inside have it; I don’t
deserve it.
Bri paddles up to me. “Fuck,” I say, “I fuckin’
blew a good one.”
She’s more focused on her paddling, not
replying.
“Weren’t you in position for that second
one?” I ask.
“No . . . yeah. Maybe.”
“Too big?”
“I don’t know. I guess I could have gone.”
I’m preoccupied for the next ten minutes,
unable to let go of the fumble, the crime, the sin I just committed. I’m
thinking, I blew the wave of the day. I feel it inside: there won’t be another
one like it.
We paddle just south of the main peak where
the pack is, but it’s still inconsistent. I try to suppress the thoughts that
we’re getting skunked, the thoughts that I’ve waited, we’ve waited, three weeks
to be here, and now we aren’t gonna get shit.
I can’t say that I’m a good surf teacher,
but if anything, I’m getting Briana to paddle long distances for a beginner. “Follow
me,” I tell her, as we paddle through the main pack and end up on the north
side of Churches, the area that Klaude has so infamously named: Mons Pubis. On
a good day, the left breaks over here.
Three groms and some guy have the spot on
lock before Bri and I make our way there. As soon as we arrive, a wave comes
in. Bri paddles out to turtle-dive it, but I turn-and-go. A grom is way ahead
of the section, hooking the lip, cutting back, and redirecting down the line. I’m
trying to make the section, but I’m too deep. On the outside, Bri tries to go
for the last wave of the set but scratches out. I paddle up to her and say, “There’s
a couple good waves here.” And wouldn’t you know . . . like clockwork, the wind
dies, and it’s glassy again. To the south, all I can see is blinding light,
black dots of surfers, white wash, sand, and green water. At this very moment I
know . . . it’s gonna be a good fucking session.
Since the tide is high, there’s a lot of
backwash refracting from the inside, colliding into the incoming waves. It’s an
odd spectacle. What should be a two-to-three foot peak becomes a bouncy, fast,
four-foot wall, but the cobblestones hold the shape, lining the waves up all
the way to the sand until the water’s inches deep. We manage to negotiate
around the crowd. Bri catches her first wave, dropping in on one of the guys,
but he’s too deep anyway. We only sit here for about a half hour, but within
that time I get a good handful of rides.
Left after left rolls through. The rides
are short, but the backwash makes them fast and fun, critical on the take-offs.
Once I’m on my feet Zippy shoots me fast down the line. I get a couple two turn
rides, turning the twin-fins loose on the finishing turns. One of my rides is
long, and I catch the wave as the Amtrak streaks along the railroad tracks in
front of me. While going down the line I turn towards the train and salute,
unaware if any passengers are watching or not, but if one is . . . maybe for that
one moment in time, we might share something.
Three guys from the sand start suiting up.
Once they make their way out towards us, it gets a little too crowded for my
taste. I watch Bri take a late drop on one of these backwashed peaks. It sends
her down the line unexpectedly. She’s trying to recover from her knees, but she’s
thrown off after a couple bounces.
The Renowned
Battle Position:
Bri catches a couple at North Churches, but
they are fast, and some guys are in the way. We’ve been watching Middles the
whole time, and there are about five surfers near the cliffs. “We’re going over
there,” I say. I paddle, and Bri follows. I imagine her shoulders are burning,
but . . . she’ll manage.
We’re not even at the BP yet, and a walled
set comes in. We let them pass for the lack of shape, but I’m surprised that
anything is even breaking here. The southernmost surfer is right by the BP, so
we stop just short of it. Nothing’s happening at first. It’s inconsistent.
Then, a line forms on the outside. It’s classic. Probably about three-feet, but
tapered at the shoulder, giving a good, long right for any surfing who can
bottom-turn and hold a line. Another guy gets the first wave, and I get the
second. Again, I’m having backhand issues. I dig deep on the bottom turn and
keep getting caught on the rail at the top. I guess it’s my fault for only
going for lefts lately. Lucky for me, some peaks are swinging wide to the
south, giving left-hand shoulders as well. Once I get these, I open up, making
the sections. Even though my backhand surfing looks like shit, my forehand is
looking better than ever on this Zippy. I hold the arcing line, carving until I
pivot off the tail and redirect. I easily get two-turns on the lefts, even
ending some rides with a check off the lip.
Progression:
On the way back to the line, I hear Bri
yell from the inside. I turn around. “Yeahhh!” I yell back. She’s surfing, but
she’s not going straight. It’s undeniable from the way her body is angled and
from how she’s facing the wave to the right; SHE’S GOING DOWN THE LINE . . .
OFFICIALLY.
She falls off of her board at the end of
the ride. After some whitewash rolls over her, she resurfaces with a wet smile
from ear to ear.
Her hair is so wet and slicked back that
she looks like a seal. I throwh her a thumbs up, and when she gets back to the
line, I congratulate her on her triumph.
“That was the longest wave I’ve ever had,”
she says.
“Yeah, but Trestles is mostly rights. Now
you gotta make sure you can do it going the other direction.”
#
Middles is working. I haven’t surfed here
in so long. It used to be my favorite spot; I’d skip Old Mans and Churches in
the past, coming straight here to paddle out. In the last year Middles has
disappointed, but for this small day, it’s working how it used it; it’s classic
Middles.
The north wind picks up a little bit, and
so does the crowd. I tell Briana that we’re gonna paddle just outside of Lowers
to see if anything swings wide. We get close. Lowers is a solid, consistent 3-4
feet. Guys are ripping it. “What do you think?” I ask.
“I think . . . any one of these kids can
out-surf me.”
I smile. “Yeah. Me too.”
Nothing does swing wide, but we’re tired.
It’s 1045, and we’re looking for our last waves. I make it a point not to do
the paddle of shame. We work our way back to North Middles and catch a small
crumbler in together.
#
There’s a feeling of exhaustion and stoke
as we make our walk back. It’s been so long since I ended a morning session
from this perspective, the famed walk. I love the path, the loose rocks and
dirt under my feet. Bushes block our ocean view, but every once in a while we
hit that clearing, still seeing peaks rolling through, now with just a little
more texture on them. Our path curves alongside the railroad tracks. The wind
on the ocean doesn’t seem to touch us as we walk. I remember how many times I’ve
made this walk by myself, the feeling of stoke encased in my silence after a
good session. On this morning, I’m glad I’m not on this walk alone and that I
have someone special to share it with.
