A GOOD HARD LOOK AT YOURSELF, TUE 08JAN2013 MOR

 

Loc: El Porto

Time: 0830-0930

Crew: Khang

Conditions: 4-5FT, high tide, a little walled with some corners, hollower with the tide drop, consistent.

     I haven’t surfed in a couple of days. I looked at the cams yesterday. No bueno . . . at least no bueno enough to get my ass up, pack everything, and head to the beach. It looked like there was a lot of wind on it. Something told me that the swell would back off a little bit. Combined with offshore wind, I had a feeling that there would be potential this morning.

     I have to handle some things around the house, so I leave a little later than usual around 0800. The morning’s already looking good. With clear skies and offshore wind, I only wonder if the surf is living up to the equation. As I drive down Grand Avenue, I can tell that the tide is really high, which is maybe a good thing, hopefully taming the recent, walled conditions. I first head south of Porto for a look. I see Don K. and some other locals out there, but the shape looks a little walled here. I have a feeling that Porto’s a little better.

     As soon as I pull into the lot at 45^th Street, a car pulls out. I park right there, opposite the stairs. I can’t say that the peaks are well defined, but I can’t say that it’s walled either. It’s like a cross between both, some sections with shoulders and the bigger sets without (unless you’re on the shoulder). Either way, the conditions look the best that I’ve seen them in a while, so I suit up and send a couple text messages off to the guys who might be off today.

     Both my Tokoro and my JS are down, leaving me with just my brand new board. It’s a little nerve wracking being in this situation with a lack of a quiver. One false move can leave me boardless and waiting for repairs. Although, the tide is so high that a lot of the waves are mooshy, perfect for my Motorboat Too.

     The paddle out isn’t so bad. I keep a mental note not to ditch this board on any duckdives today. I can’t risk another ding, especially not on this board; I’ve learned my lesson.

     The crowd isn’t too thick. The current pulls south, so most of the surfers that were initially around me end up by the sandwich shack. A small group of surfers are sitting in front of the smoke stacks and the tanks, while I do my best to maintain in front of 45^th. Even though the surf is consistent, it’s hard to get a wave. I turn, paddle, and scratch out, as the tide has the waves breaking later than expected. When the bigger waves come, which will obviously break early, they are a bit walled. It’s a frustrating start to the session.

     I finally get a left, but it’s just a small insider. I get a check turn off the lip and try to set up for a carve, but the wave is losing its juice. I walk the deck and do a catwalk 360 instead, surprisingly pulling off a full rotation before bogging out. I do this whenever I can, despite how barneyish it looks.

     My next wave is a right, which is again a small insider. It’s a down-the-line wave, but it’s more like a wall that’s held up by the offshores. I pump on the midline, tagging the lip twice before it closes. It’s nothing spectacular.

     As the tide drops, the waves get more hollow. Surprisingly, the breaks in front of the smoke stacks and the tanks are working. Rights are rolling in, closed out behind them, but with tapered right-hand shoulders for any takers. There’s a large heavy-set guy on a big board. It’s not even gunny; it has more of that fun shape to it. He paddles for one of those rights, and I watch him disappear as the curl overtakes my view, throwing out over him. He paddles back to his buddy and says, “Did you see me make it out of that one?”

     Buddy shakes his head in acknowledgement.

     “I was gonna claim that one-second section I got, and then the second part starting throwing out. I got a double barrel!”

     I’m not part of this conversation, but I’m close enough. I feel a little bit of hater coming over me. The reminder that I can’t get barreled for the life of me lingers in my mind like someone took a shit in there, like the fumes are just festering. I try not to let it stink up my session.

     Now everyone is heading for the right that’s breaking in front of the tanks. I can’t do the crowds, so I’m sitting just south of them. Lucky for me, a peaky left happens to sprout in my spot. It’s an ideal, spilling, Porto wave. It’s about four feet, peaky, and smooth from the offshore wind. I pop up and drop in with speed, which is due from the Motorboat’s meaty rail. I get a couple pumps to build speed and carve the top of the shoulder. God damn it feels smooth. It’s the feeling that I’ve been longing for. I redirect, pump, and get a finishing check turn when the ride bogs out. I paddle back with a newfound feeling of confidence for the morning. It’s my first decent wave. I’m stoked.

     However, every wave I catch comes with a price. It’s just meant to be, like the surf Gods are claiming an outstanding debt I owe. They send sets, even after my closeouts. The sets arrive to claim my surfer soul and my ass because, they own me. I duckdive the waves but get held back underwater. Even though I don’t successfully make them clean out the back, holding onto my board has me resurfacing in a better position to beat the next wave. I have a moment under water where my leash is wrapped around my legs. On one set wave in particular, I find myself in the impact zone, the perfect spot for obliteration. I penetrate the water’s surface, knowing I’m not deep enough. And then . . . instant explosion. My board is yanked from my grip. My limbs flail involuntarily from the water’s force. I touch bottom, and despite the beating, the attempted duckdive still has me resurfaced at a good position to make it back out.

     Big Man on the big board is still going, getting some barrels. I can’t believe it. He’s a big dude on a big board, but I see him pulling in. So are his friends. I maintain my position and attempt to pick off the lefts. One is standing up on the outside. I’m deep, so I head for the shoulder. Without looking back, I feel that I’m in the right place. The only problem is that I’m too far inside. The wave hits the sand bar, doubling up as I’m getting my last stroke for the pop up. The wave morphs in a split second. My pop up is off. I try to salvage my late drop by grabbing the rail and pointing my nose down the line. It’s mayhem and beauty at the same time. Beauty because this is the beginning of a perfect, hollow left. I can tell from the way the lip is overtaking me, that it’s going round, about throw out, and I can even see the shoulder. It’s not a closeout; it’s a legit barrel. And then the mayhem . . . I don’t survive the drop. I’m in such an awkward position for a wipeout. I’m going over the falls with the board under me. I’m expecting the worst, like falling directly on my board or having the fins shoot up as I’m shooting down, splitting the seam of my sack. I feel fins as I get pummeled below. I resurface, feel the tail, the rail . . . I’m all right.

     Khang paddles toward me from the south.

     “Duuuude!” he says. “I say that guy get barreled from the parking lot. It was forever dude, like five seconds.”

     “Yeah,” I say, as I motion towards the right in front of the tanks. “It’s breaking better over there. I have my earplugs in since I paddled out alone, so it’s a little hard to converse. I get another little left that’s breaking section on section with a right. I lack the ability to do a cut back on the oncoming section, but I still carve the face before it closes out.

     Khang goes on a wave. I’m not sure if he gets distance on it or not, but there’s a set coming out the back. It’s a monster. Khang is gone for a while. I get worried, scanning the inside, and that’s when I see him almost all the way by the bathrooms paddling back.

     Big Man’s buddy is going on a right. He looks deep, so I paddle for it since I’m near the shoulder. Big Man yells out, “HEY, HEY, HEY, HEY!”

     The wave closes out. his friend resurfaces in the whitewash.

     Was he yelling at me? I’m thinking that this guy’s a dick. I saw the fucking guy. He was deep. If he was in the wave I would have pulled out.

     With the tide going out, the waves are getting more walled. I’m frustrated, scratching, and not finding myself in the right position. A monster right rolls in by the tanks. Big Man is going right. He’s deep. There’s no way he’s gonna make it. I paddle. He starts yelling, screaming. I know he’s doing it to let me know he’s there. I glance over and see him. He’s far away; he’s too deep. I’m sure it’s gonna close out over him. I paddle, scratch, kick, but I see that the wave is closing out. I pull out.

     I have a feeling that I did something wrong. I paddle back to the lineup without looking back. I hear the faint voice behind me: “Bro . . . hey, bro.”

     I turn around.

     Big Man says, “Please don’t paddle in the wave like that when I’m in the barrel like that.”

     “I saw you, man,” I say, “I pulled out.”

     “I appreciate that, but you pushed down on the barrel. I could have made that. They’ll slit your throat if you do that in Indo.”

     My mind’s working slow from the moment. I’m defensive in nature, but I think this guy’s exaggerating. I continue, “Dude, what’s the big deal? I fuckin’ saw you. You were way too deep. I pulled out.”

     He paddles away, muttering something.

     “Who do you think you are? Kelly Slater?” I say.

     He paddles away and leaves me sitting there, wondering who was in the wrong and who was in the right. I’ve had this happen to me before. My friend Klaude, his mentor Roy called me out years ago when I was still working my way out of the barney stages. He said I was making the wave break by pulling out. I thought he was a dick, but I realized later he was right. 

    My meter’s up. I catch a closeout in. I was originally gonna feed the meters and join Khang a while longer, but as I turn and look at the ocean, there seem to be more closeouts now. Fuck it. I spend the rest of the post sesh thinking about the altercation. Who am I to say that he was too deep and couldn’t make it? Was I in the tube? Nope. But he was. . . . I’m pondering over this now because it’s a shot to my ego. I can say this because I’m honest with myself. I have to be to grow. My surfing is in its “carving” stage. Big Man telling me not to paddle for his wave is like calling out the guy sitting on a piece of gym equipment, the guy who just sits there and doesn’t use it, when the body builder comes up and says, “If you’re not gonna use it then get the fuck off.” There I was being defensive, but . . . Big Man was getting barrels. I’m not there yet. I need to know where and when to take the back seat. In the same respect, I’m supposed to be preparing for my summer trip to Java to surf with my bro. The first time I went to Bali, my bro had said, “You need to work on your paddling.” I did. . . . For months until that trip, practically for six months I paddled my ass off. My brother recently told me, “Okay, for this trip, you need to practice ‘pulling in.’” Fuck. 

     I’m sitting at a donut shop in El Segundo writing this, trying to mentally regroup and stay positive. I’m gonna put this session behind me, in hopes that the next one will be better. I need to train without putting so much pressure on myself, but experience is only earned one way. You know. . . .