Loc: El
Porto
Time:
0850-1100
Crew:
Kotaro, Khang & Randy
Conditions:
5-6FT, offshore, sunny, high tide, dumpy.
After looking at Porto and further south,
45th Street was the call. When Randy and I arrived at the parking
lot, Khang and Kotaro were already parked and watching it. There was no rush,
as we hoped for the high tide to give Porto more shape. The size was obvious,
but it was walled, too walled for this beach break. Khang and Randy said that
the swell was supposed to peak at around ten or eleven o’clock. We watched the
surf for a little while, slowly changing, until we saw some waves that had some
kind of feasible shape to them.
We walked to the smoke stacks first. The
Jetty had the best waves; it was crowded, too crowded for our taste. Since the
smoke stacks were smaller, we headed out to 45th, to the channel.
But the channel disappeared when the set came. I had a feeling it would be one
of “those” sessions, where it’s just too fucking walled, and where one would
face the consequences of getting pounded on the inside. In all honesty, surfers
can say that those conditions are good for training, but I’m not a big fan of
being rag dolled and having the long hold downs.
We all paddled out at a good window. The
spot was semi crowded. Walls came in without any shape. Dumping, ferocious,
powerful, macking. I had my game face on; the session wasn’t about fun, not in
those conditions. I have too much respect for the ocean. Six feet, closing-out
Porto . . . I’m no pro; this is not my comfort zone.
I went left on my first wave. It looked
walled, but the shoulder slightly tapered, but not down to a perfect angle. The
end of the shoulder still held some height. I paddled and popped up fast on my
JS. Immediately, I worked my way down the line, staying close to the face.
Surfers in front of me stared towards my direction as they paddled over the
shoulder. The wave I was on became dark; a wall built up on the side of me. I
hunkered, tucked down, and drew my hands in front of me to make myself small.
All this happened so fast, the guys paddling over the shoulder were still
watching. Then . . . I felt the crash of the wave, and I was smashed into the
water. It was the first wave of a set. I paddled and tried to duckdive the
white wash. I couldn’t even do that. The next wave was building up, about to
break right on top of me, and then I committed a major surf “no no” by ditching
my board. One more beating, and I made it to the lineup.
I was rattled, but I tried not to show it. My
brother paddled in front of me. “I just tried to pull in right now, but I don’t
know what happened,” I said.
“You were in there for a while?” he asked,
as he paddled by.
“Well, no . . . not really.” The thought
lingered; over and over again I replayed what went wrong. Maybe I should have
gotten closer to the face. Was it the lip that came down on me?
Kotaro was paddling into waves too, also
taking some time to get back to the outside.
Big sets would come, creating a mad dash to
make it to the outside. Even though most of the waves were walled, the right in
front of the Tanks was working. A lot of guys weren’t making it down the line.
Some weren’t even surviving the drop, but the shape, though fast, was holding.
At 45th, a bomb right came. I
didn’t think it was rideable. Right at the peak, I watched my brother paddle
into it and pull in. We’re both goofy footers, so he grabbed rail and made
himself small in the tube. I saw the lip start to throw out over him before I
made it over the shoulder. He got pinched in the barrel, but I was in awe at
his comfort zone to even go for a wave like that.
Randy then head to the sandwich shack,
leaving the rest of us to ourselves by 42nd. I was being picky after
my beating. I passed on a right which was borderline makeable, at least by me.
I waited for a wave with better shape, and it came. I caught a smaller left on
the inside. The shape was good, and even though the face stood up, it was more
of a spilling wave. I climbed the face, getting a nice carve on a critical
section. When I resurfaced after the wave, I saw Khang darting towards the
outside again. Everyone was. The next bombardment was on its way, and I was in
the impact zone all by my lonesome. I didn’t even bother to duckdive it. Again,
I slid off my board. I tried to duckdive the rest of the sets.
Kotaro went on one of the waves, but he had
an awkward wipeout, falling backwards into the flats; it was one of those
whiplash wipeouts.
Khang said, “I think I’m going in, dude.”
“What? Really? I said.
“I mean . . .”
Really, there was no need for explanation.
It was big and walled, a nasty day for Porto. I tried to be more optimistic.
The next wave came, a right. I caught it and tried to set up for a bottom turn,
but it looked like it was about to throw out. Instead of pulling in for a back
hand barrel attempt, I jumped ship. It’s shameful. It’s such a different
feeling for me right now, pulling in going backhand.
Khang and Kotaro caught their waves in, and
I paddled towards my brother.
“There were two waves when I got here,” he
said. “After that . . . nothing!”
At that point I was over my performance and
the shape. I caught a wave in. In the parking lot, I shot the shit with Khang
and Kotaro before they left. When I placed my JS in my wagon, I saw that a big
chunk from its tail was broken off, only held together by some glassing and
ravaged foam. Two years ago I had messed up the tail of the JS too. It was also
on a big day at Porto, and it was from being stuck in the impact zone. I had
pledged to always hold onto my board in those situations, and this was the
price for not following my oath.
When Randy returned, I zipped the JS up in
my board bag. Back at my garage, I put it away myself, making sure that he didn’t
see it.
