A PLEASANT SURPRISE, WED 19DEC2012 EVE

Loc: Palos Verdes

Time: 1530-1700

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 2-4 FT, clean, glassy, consistent, soft.

     When Briana comes over after her internship in Santa Monica, I vent to her about my stress over finding a new place. Even though I’ve been out of school for a week, I feel I haven’t had a chance to genuinely enjoy my break. I wish I could live back in El Segundo, but the rent is too much. The renters’ market is more expensive that it was when I got back from Iraq in August of 2010. My other option is to find a one bedroom in Long Beach next to school, but that move would change my life, not detrimentally, but I’d be around the South Bay and my friends significantly less.

     Bri tries to comfort me. “We don’t have to surf,” she says. “If you want we can just look at apartments.”

     I know that apartment hunting is the responsible thing to do, but here I am, surfing while I have zero piece of mind. I need to be out of my current living space immediately.

     “That’s okay,” I say. I open my Surfline App and see that Porto might be too big for Bri. “We’ll go to PV.”

#

     I’m in a crappy mood, which started from a lame surf session followed by a trip all the way back to school in Long Beach to return a book rental. I was supposed to go yesterday, but I got stuck on uncle duty, which made it impossible to get there before it closed.

     I’m thinking about how PV is probably gonna be tiny and how my JS is not enough board to catch anything. I think about Rick’s Zippy. I need it. I tell Bri how I want to buy a Dumpster Diver so I can surf small waves with her.

     We see surf activity as we pass Haggerty’s. I catch a glimpse of some lines coming in through the horizon. “Oh my God,” I say. Surf stoke has me antsy. However, as we pull up to The Cove, there are only a few cars there. A grom chick is heading down the path with her shortboard. Another guy pulls up into a parking spot to check out the surf. Bri and I step out to take a look. The surf is consistent, but it’s small, and there are only a few heads out. Bad sign. I wonder if the tide is too high or if there’s not enough west in this swell. I wish I had a meatier board.

#

     From the water’s edge, I can see some waves coming in, but they look small. I tell Bri that I’m just gonna paddle out while she warms up. As I wade through the rocks I say, “Be careful, It’s shallow here!” I paddle once I’m in chest deep water, then I feel something grind against the bottom of my board. I slide off and take a look. Some brown moss is engraved in the fiber glass, but my board’s still intact. Maybe I should follow my own advice.

     The paddle out is longer than I remember. The inside is a little consistent, but I’m worried about hitting a rock if I duckdive, so I take a lot of whitewash on the head. A three-foot wave approaches on the inside. I turn and go, but it closes out. What a waste of energy. I now have to make up for that distance. By the time I make it to the break, there’s a little lull. It’s been a while since I surfed here. The grom chick is way off to my right, and four longboarders are way off to my left. There is more than enough room.

     I sit on the inside towards the middle, and I don’t even notice the wave out the back behind the smaller one in front of me. PV breaks slow and mooshy, so gradual. Even though I’m deep, I know that the wave will break late and allow me time to get into position. I dart for the outside, swinging towards the shoulder to make sure it doesn’t break on me. It takes a lot of paddle and kick to get into it. I lower my chin. The wave is four-feet and racy, but soft, soft without power but still fun. I pump and make it to the open face. I top turn without much power because of the mellow slope of the wave and lack of board volume, but it’s still fun. I manage to pump and make it to the end section to get one more turn.

     Paddling back, I’m stoked. I turn around, and Briana’s getting worked on the inside.

     That first wave was better than my whole morning sesh. Just like that, I’m redeemed. I feel better about the whole day, and I’m so glad that I’m here instead of at home on my computer, looking at Westside Rentals and filtering out rental scams on Craigslist.

     The surf is by no means “pumping,” but it’s still good enough to catch waves with a potato chip. The lulls don’t last long, as the bigger set waves roll through consistently.

     Briana makes it out. I call her into waves, but it’s been almost two weeks since she surfed, so her pop up is really slow. A four-foot set wave comes. She’s in perfect position while she’s paddling. Her board is even angled down the line. There’s nothing but open shoulder before her, but the speed of the drop discombobulates her. She rides it on her belly, standing up somewhere in the middle of the ride. And I can’t ride her too much. I still think she’s doing better than I was when I was back at her stage of surfing.

     On another wave that’s bigger and walled up, she purls while she’s on her belly, half way down the face. It’s a brutal wipeout. I forgot what it’s like to eat shit with a big ass log strapped to you. She resurfaces, unscathed.

     As for me . . . I’m having ridiculous fun. Not a buffet like the four hour power sesh I had with J on December seventh, but I’m just getting long, clean rides, with at least one solid turn—fun single shots. The trick is to catch them really late since they’re so mooshy. Once I pop up it’s a race down the long peak to get to the open face. From there I practice my frontside carves. I try to grab the rail on a turn, but I fall; I’m not there yet.

     The sun sets which gives off an orange glow over the low horizon. The majestic cliffs behind us are now turning black, with the houses overlooking us becoming faint shapes in the dark wall. Still, the same surfers are in the water, milking the last rays of light for that last wave before the long trek up top.

     Bri gets a left. It was a good one because she disappears for a long ass time. When she comes back, we catch out last ones in.

#

     We change and head out for dinner at Alejo’s in Westchester. After that we head back to my place, talking about how good it was and how we enjoyed our evening together. She falls asleep for ten minutes, but I wake her up. She has to go because she’s only “allowed” to stay here two nights a week. . . . I’m apartment hunting all day tomorrow.

WAIT FOR THE WINDOW, WED 19DEC2012 MOR

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0800-0915

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 3 FT, strong offshore, choppy, morning sickness.

     I’m supposed to meet Shan and Khang, but last night’s school function has me on a borderline hangover. When I wake up I check my phone. Shan texted me at 0630, a half an hour ago, saying that he’s on his way. Slowly, I get up, brush my teeth, and prep my gear. When I open up my front door the cold morning air hits me like I’m opening an industrial sized freezer. The traffic at 0730 is thick, and I curse myself for getting up so late, having no choice but to deal with it.

     Despite the cold, it’s an unassuming morning with blue sky and sunshine, but I see the leaves on the trees and flags above business establishments that there are some gusts of wind.

     There are no signs of surf activity, as I score free parking on the hill. When I reach the bottom lot I see Shan, who shows me his new surf mobile. It’s a black, Toyota 4Runner with brand new meats on it. I look at one of the stalls and see Khang’s van. We both look at the water.

     “It’s slim pickins,” says Shan.

     One of the four surfers in the lineup catches a right. He kicks out of it, but his board shoots straight into the air. All of them have long hair, and I recognize that Khang is one of them.

     “I have to go out,” I say, “Khang’s out there. We gotta handle business and paperwork today.” I begin to walk back to my car to suit up.

     “You paddling out?” he asks.

     “Yeah, I have to.”

#

     I’m standing at the water’s edge. I turn and wave to Shan who’s still in the parking lot.

     It’s bad . . . the conditions I mean. Terrible. So much water moving around. The wind feels offshore, but still, the waves are breaking like barrages of fast, windswell peaks—hardly rideable. My feet are numb from the cold sand, but the water temp actually isn’t too bad.

     I paddle . . . and paddle. It’s been twelve days since I last surfed, and I feel that my paddling arms aren’t what they used to be. I’ve also started going to the gym again, and I recently worked out my back, so my muscles are on fire. I wave to Khang, but the problem is that he isn’t Khang. It’s Roy.

     “Hey, Matt!” he says.

     “Sup, Roy!”

     I look at the rest of the guys: Ross and Don K. No Khang? I look further north by 33^rd Street where some other surfers are. Could he be there?

#

     A thought occurs to me. No matter how shitty it looks out, if these local guys ever paddle out, most likely I’m going too. Ross gets a right, blowing the tail and unleashing a bucket of spray over the back of the wave before it closes. He catches it all the way in. Roy’s next to leave.

     It’s going to take a miracle for the conditions to improve, at least that’s what I had hoped for when I first saw the conditions. Now, I don’t think that’s gonna happen. The waves are fast and unorganized. Upon popping up, I’m sent flying down the line into the next section which closes out the wave. I eat shit a couple times, but to summarize this session, I get no turns at all. After Don leaves I catch one in.

#

     On the way up to my car, some guy is heading down to hit the water. “How was it?” he says.

      I’m learning not to have a negative attitude when describing the surf to other people who are about to paddle out. Why ruin their expectations and shit on their mornings before they see it for themselves? After all, the stoke factor is up to them, not me. “It’s all right,” I say. “It was cleaning up a little when I left.”

     I shoot Khang a text, letting him know that I thought I saw his van. He texts back and says that the waves looked like shit on the cams and that he and Dais are gonna hit it around 1000.

    

     Later, I get a call from Khang around noon. “It was good,” he says.

     Motherfucker . . . perhaps I should have been patient? Not only Khang, but I receive email from other buddies who confirm it, that Porto looks fun. Because of my impatience I chose the wrong window. It just comes to show: earlier is not always better.

     I call Shan and tell him he didn’t miss shit on the morning’s paddle out.

AN UNEXPECTED SOUTH BAY FIRE (double sesh), FRI 07DEC2012 EVE

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 1215-1615, 4 hrs.

Crew: J

Conditions: 4FT+, high tide, consistent, light onshore wind, still clean, peaky, fun, and sunny with partial clouds.

     I’m mad . . . my fucking board broke. Randy buckled the Lost board, the JS’s tail is cracked open, and now this. I have no more boards. I think about school. I originally scheduled part of my day to at least start on my last research paper, but instead I take heed to Mentor Rick’s teachings or his way of life: when it’s good, you have to paddle out no matter what.

     My classmate Cassady calls, asking me if it’s any good. I can’t shut the fuck up in describing how fun it is. J calls me after. He says he woke up late and is heading to the beach. I give him the same report and tell him I’ll meet him in the water.

     I bought this FCS putty from a surf shop and use it to fix the JS. It’s a shoddy repair, but it will seal it and keep the water out. I have another packet of oatmeal just like I had for breakfast this morning; it’s the only food I have at home.

     An hour later I score VIP parking by the lifeguard station. Fuck warming up, I just want to get back in the water. J is here, and there’s no telling when this window of good surf is gonna close.

     As I paddle out, I notice that the tide has come up a bit, there’s just a little ripple in the water, and the surf is just a little less consistent. I turn and go on the inside, but it’s a closeout. It was a dumb move, so I tell myself to be patient.

     Once I get to the outside, I see J to my north. I wave him over. The last time I surfed with him was over the summer when Bri and I had our campsite. It’s been too long. We catch up on our lives, but we’re soon distracted by oncoming waves.

#

     So what can I say? Now, two research papers later, a finished semester, at 0131 in the morning, sitting in front of my student desk with a dry mouth, and wearing my crusty ass shorts, I remember this session and wonder how to write it. Let me start by saying that the forecast was off, way off. It was the hidden/unnoticed swell. We surfed for four fucking hours without it getting crowded. I would compare this day to the first time I surfed with Klaude and Nicky on an epic day at 26^th  years ago; it was just the three of us from the DRC that morning, the day I really feel like KK and I bonded. The only thing different from that day is the crowd and the size, but still, epic today by the consistency, thin crowd, and wave quality.

#

     I haven’t used the JS in a while, and I’m immediately biased against it. I know I can get backhand snaps on it, but my forehand on this board has been slow to progress.

     On one of my first rights to start round two, I get a deep bottom turn and try to hit the lip really late. I pull of the turn but fall on the reentry. With the 6’3 length of the JS, whipping that nose around with quickness is hard not to notice. When I paddle back, J says, “Hey, you’re starting to get some spray.”

     J . . . his nickname is bionic J because for some reason, even though he doesn’t look like a beast, he still manages to paddle into waves when he looks like he’s scratching out. But today he is more in the right place than he is bionic. For some reason, the best waves come straight to him, and he is always in the right spot. He gets the longest rides all the way to shore, disappearing and only returning to the lineup after I’ve had at least three more waves to myself but not near the quality that he is getting.

    

Wave of the day:

     A long, tapered, left-hand shoulder pops up. I’m way on the shoulder not near the peak at all, but the second I pop up, the section builds, nice and tapered. I’m pumping down the line but pumping with speed. I don’t remember the JS being this fluid. Once I’m going fast, I climb the face and stomp on the tail to get a deep carve on the face. It works. I don’t know how I looked doing it, but it felt fucking outstanding. I pump again, getting an ending carve to finish off the wave. A guy paddling past me turns to me and says, “I saw that! That was a good wave.”

     “Thanks,” I say.

     “Yeah, man. I seen the look on your face when you got it and when you ripped it.”

     I don’t think I “rip” anything, but it’s nice to get noticed for something like that.

HUNGER:

     The last hour, all J and I can talk about is food. I’m starving. He’s starving. We compare meals. All he had was a cold slice of pizza when he woke up, so we’re both not doing so well on fuel. My muscles are cramping and my stomach hurts. I think about what would satisfy me this instant. Seafood Town in Torrance comes to mind. I imagine that large plate of beef chow fun and walnut shrimp before me. Then I think about Chinese Buffet in Torrance. Buffet . . . I need all you can eat right fucking now.

     We make a pact to stay until the sun sets, but at 1600 the onshore winds finally take toll and make the water choppy. We leave. 

BEYOND STOKED

     After we change, we head to Havana Sandwich Company in El Segundo. Shan meets us. After our Cuban grub, we head next door to Mandy’s for some apple pie ala modes and a banana split. God I love the South Bay, especially this El Segundo community. I used to live here; I wish I still did. I play with the thought of living around the corner, how nice it would be to do all this on foot, to just retire in an apartment on the next street over. One day . . .  

#

     We could’ve kept on going, drinking at some of the little bars, but I had work the next day. After all, that whole day was dedicated to surfing. That was the last time I hit the water. By this time last week, I was up writing a research paper. But just that epic session, the swell that nobody knew about, it was just unreal to be out there all day, in the afternoon when the wind usually sucks, and to have it good with only a few guys out. That session has sustained me since. I remember that left, the speed I had on the JS, that carve on the face without losing momentum. . . . I just can’t wait to do it again. 

Checking out the surf on Friday the 14th. No bueno.

Even Rick's not feeling it, but he wanted to at least check out the drained-out tide.

Waiting for the next swell

AN UNEXPECTED SOUTH BAY FIRE, FRI 07DEC2012 MOR

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 1000-1100, 1 hr.

Crew: Shan

Conditions: 4FT+, low tide, punchy, consistent, glassy, clean, peaky, fun, and overcast.

     I have duty this weekend, so I can’t dawn patrol it because I need to get to the barber shop before the line gets too long. Once I’m done, I receive a text from Shan that he’s paddling out. The surf forecast said it was two-three, poor to fair conditions, so I’m in no hurry. Red sacks cover the meters in Manhattan Beach. It turns out that the parking is free because of the holidays. I make my usual loop around the lifeguard station, in search of free parking, when I get a glimpse of the ocean. Some guy is going down the line on a perfect, right-hand shoulder. “Oh shit!” My mellow drive for a spot turns into quick turns of the steering wheel. I need to park this bitch. I score an empty metered spot on Marine. I’m trying to tell myself to calm down, but I still rush, already caked with sun block before I step out of the wagon. With my trusty Tokoro, I trot down to the sand. Once I see the waves, I’m damn near at full sprint to get to the tower.

     My warm up is cut short, which is a complete no no, but I can’t help it. Shan’s out there somewhere, but I don’t see him.

     The tide is low, but the waves are still consistent. The marine layer makes everything look cold, but the water is surprisingly warm. The first shift is clearing out, so the lineup isn’t too crowded, which is ridiculous because the conditions are so clean. With the tide push, it can only get better.  

     Once I make it to the outside I spot Shan. We catch up. He says he’s been so busy with his photography business and that he only has time to surf during off season.

     It takes a while before I catch my first wave, but when I do it’s a right. It’s a solid three feet, maybe just a hair over it, but the shoulder stands and builds up into a good, down-the-line wave. I snap off the lip with a little extra mustard, both because of my poor performance on Saturday and because I haven’t seen Shan in a while. The shape is standing up to the point where it’s giving speed but not round enough to barrel. With each consecutive top turn I keep momentum. Four turns later my ride is over.

     Four turns . . . I can’t even remember the last time I got four turns out of a wave, especially here in the South Bay. And the crowd is thinning, cars are leaving the lot, but this . . . this shouldn’t be left behind. This day is TOO GOOD!

     Shan and I keep going, exchanging waves. Some waves stand up more than others. I catch a right. I’m way behind the section, but I’m blindly fading out, rubbing the water out of my eyes as I try to regain composure. I have an awkward fall in the flats. My board flips over and I land on my fins. When I resurface, I check my ass to make sure I’m not cut. I have a bad feeling. I flip the Tokoro over. A fin broke off, completely pulling out the fin plug with it.

     I search the immediate area for it, but it’s gone. The gouge where the fin plug used to be is serious; water’s getting into my Tokoro. I paddle back out to Shan to tell him what happened. Just then, a guy to our right raises up both of his hands and points past us. We look. It’s the biggest, most perfect left that I’ve seen here in a while. It’s standing up with a long, tapered shoulder, just begging to be ripped. Shan and I are the only ones in position, but I paddle over it because of my lost fin.

     “Just try surfing it like that,” says Shan. “I’ve lost fins before and still surfed.”

     “But it’s just the right fin.”

     “Ohhhh,” he says. “Just give it a shot.”

     On the next left, I pop up but the board feels too loose. The last thing I want to do is injure myself. I tell Shan that I’m gonna fix my JS and come back.

     On the way out, I see Kevin, the guy from the Santa Monica Surf Club who I surfed Baja with in the summer of 2011. We exchange some kind words. As much as I wish I could join them, I can’t. I have to leave during one of the best, unnoticed swells of the year.