AT THE FOOTSTEPS OF STAGE II, FRI 25JAN2013 MOR

 

Loc: 45^th Street

Time: 0915-1115

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 4-6+ FT, clean, glassy, offshore, dumpy with occasional barrels, gnarly.

     I wake up to the sound of pouring rain. I had initially planned to surf today, but of course I can’t surf now. Who the hell would be out there in these conditions?

     My classmate Cassady calls. He’s from Santa Barbara and a fellow surf enthusiast. “Have you seen the cams?” he says.

     “Nah, man.”

     “Dude, check your e-mail. Porto looks good right now, and there are barely and heads out.”

     “Yeah? Are you surfing today?”

     “Yeah, I think I’m gonna check out HB. . . . Check your e-mail.”

     I don’t check my e-mail because . . . in the back of my mind, I know there’s surf. I know it’s one of “those” days. I just know it. Of course there’s surf. I look at the surfcam, but it’s hard to tell. It’s still raining outside. I prep my gear, question myself whether this is a good idea or not, and I head out.

     Lines are coming into Porto as I drive down 45^th and enter the lot. The inside looks consistent. I park. Hmmmm. It’s walled but there’s a little shape there. The tide’s too high for Hammers to work. I know because I only saw one SUP guy there. I doubt that my other MB spot is working because it’s usually more walled there, and if it’s this walled over here? It looks tempting because the tide is high, because there looks like there’s a little bit of shape, but that paddle out . . . fuck it looks brutal.

     I change. I wax up my board. I tell myself that this is dangerous.

     As soon as I make my way to the bike path, four guys doing a surf-check turn around from the shore and walk back to the lot. One of them says, “Hey!” and waves towards me. I have no idea who this dude is. I turn around. Nobody’s there. When we get closer I realize it’s Whiffleboy. He’s with some other local Porto rippers that I see out here on a regular basis.

     “I didn’t recognize you with your hat,” I say. We shake hands. “You paddle out already?”

     “No.”

     He tells me where he intends on going, but I don’t want to blow up his spot, so I’m not gonna write it here. We talk about how another option is PV.

     “You off all day?” I ask.

     “Yeah.”

     “Fuck,” I say. “If I didn’t have to do my taxes today I’d totally be down for a mission.”

     “Well, you’ll be doing a lot of dodging right here.” He motions towards the lineup. A massive wall crashes down.

#

     When I had paddled out at the jetty on Wednesday, I managed to avoid getting worked. Something about having the jetty there makes it easier to paddle out, but here . . . the channels are deceiving, and the work to get out here is unavoidable. I begin my paddle, trying not to hurry too much and burn oxygen. I resolve to the fact that I will get a little worked, will have to face a set wave, and will probably get pounded once or twice; it’s just a given. But then . . . I only have to duckdive whitewash; I make it out unscathed. Bless me!

     I’m a fresh face, amped. I have another chance, a fresh start, and an opportunity to redeem myself. My eyes are open now. I know that in these conditions that there ain’t no turning. It’s barrel or nothing. The other guys in the lineup have a tired look on their faces. They’re frustrated. They probably felt the way I did an hour ago, and now their stoke has worn off.

     The crowd is thin. I see my bro’s friend from Indo. He’s hard to miss because he’s so dark he makes me look white. His name is Nyoman. I wave. He waves back.

     My first wave is a right, but it’s not round because of the tide. It’s walled but the shape is holding. I try to get a top turn, but I just can’t set myself up right, and my ride ends in a non consequential wipeout, no biggie.

     Nyoman and I shoot the shit a little. I tell him that my bro went back to Java and that it’s been raining over there. He says that it’s wet season, there’s been a lot of flooding, and that he’ll e-mail my brother when he goes back in the summer.

     My next wave is a left, a closeout, but I pull in and penetrate out the back pretty clean. Rides like this I’ve gotten used to. My next wave is just pure closeout. I lose my balance and accidentally step off of my tail backwards at the base of the wave. I still have my ass; I’m okay.

     What happens next is fuzzy and I can barely remember. Fuck . . . just . . . set waves. Bombs just start coming in, and the fucked up part is that . . . they are makeable. What I mean is, there is no shape for carving. It’s either go straight or get barreled; that’s it, nothing else, and a lot of them are rights. I feel so uncomfortable at back-hand barrel attempts, it just seems like all wipeouts from that position are awkward.

     I catch a left and straighten out. I look down the line. I could’ve made that if I had pulled in. FUCK. I catch a right, I mean, a perfect, peaky right, but I don’t pull in. I look behind me. I could have made that one too. FUCK ME, I’M A FUCKING PUSSY. ARRRRRRRRRRRGH! I’m internally berating myself again. Fuck . . . this isn’t stoke. God damn, I mean . . . barrel riding. Will I look back on this one day and say, “Yes, I remember those days.” Right now I just feel I’m in a perpetual state, like my surfing has plateaud.

     I tell myself from now on I have to go, HAVE to go. The next left that comes in is so lined up. The peak is about to go round because of the lowering tide; I can fucking tell. I position myself just deep off of the shoulder. I guy to my north watches. The shoulder instantly stands up. I’m popping up, the shape is so perfect, I know this is going to be a good barrel, it has to be. I have no intentions of straightening out; I’m committed. And then . . . my front foot slips and slides towards my nose. Awkward wipeout on a clean, barreling wave. I’m past humiliation because . . . I’m under water. I know I’m deep, and I’m there for a while. I should be at the surface by now, but I’m not. It’s dark . . . dark, and then. GASP! Finally! Fuck me. I remount my board, and here comes the next wave. Duckdive, lose board, upside down, resurface. A guy paddles next to me, passes me, and makes it over the next wave. What the fuck?! I’m on the inside getting worked. I look back and see the lifeguard truck behind me.

     The guys in there are probably saying, “Yup, watch this guy. He shouldn’t be out there.” The next wave comes, obliterates me. “Oooooooh! Is he coming up?”

     I make it back out. I’m caught up in a mix of emotions, talking to myself. An inside right comes my way, still about five feet. “All right, Donny. Here we go here we go!” I pop up and draw a long bottom turn to run the length of the section. The wave isn’t round. I try to gouge out the face on my backhand, but I get stuck on the downturn and fall. I may have been too eager on that turn. Again, pounded on the inside.

     For every wave I catch thereafter there is a price to pay. Charlie paddles out. He waves.

     “I see you waited until the tide got lower,” I say.

     “Yeah, well . . . might be more dangerous now.”

     “I’m surprised you’re not at the jetty.”

     He shakes his head. “It’s too damn crowded over there.”

     We’re both on the inside. We paddle next to each other, trying to make it out, and then he stops and rests on the inside. I keep paddling, getting worked on the way. I’m surprised that for a vet like him that he’s not just going for it. I look around. Some other guys are doing the same. Is this a surf secret that I’ve been missing? Wait until the sets over even though you’re sitting on the inside? I continue to trudge forth, and in front of me I see a guy paddling into a barrel, and he eats shit as he slides down. I look towards 42^nd and another guy eats shit on a wave. Right there I realize . . . it’s not just me having a tough time.

     Some guy who’s been tearing it up on a single fin all morning is flailing around on the inside. I watch and then realize he just looks awkward because he’s paddling on half of his board.

     I watch Charlie paddle into a bomb by the bathrooms. He disappears going right then kicks out smoothly over the shoulder towards the inside. Fuck me.

     I sit with my demons, but they’re not as loud. I’ve been in the water for about two hours, and I need a final wave of the morning. A left pops up, just like the beautiful barrel that I blew earlier. It’s funny how these things happen, like they could be in a movie, so cliché but true. It’s my redemption wave, but it’s up to me to make it so. Just like the one I blew, I place myself in a similar position, paddle, kick, and go. I’ve popped up. I’ve survived. I’ve lined myself up with the wave, and I’m waiting for it to throw over. I’m drawing a high line. I crouch down . . . I’m crouched . . . still crouching, and . . . the fucking wave isn’t throwing out. It’s not a barrel. I’m forcing it. I should be down the line just throwing in some turns. I see that the wave is about to wall up. I pump, bottom turn, and throw a nice meaty carve off of the top. I mean it feels so good, just full rail. I rebound off the lip as it turns to white wash and catch the wave on my belly to shore.

     It’s like Porto threw me a bone and said, “No, you’re not ready yet, but here’s a little something for your troubles.” (Mobster flips a coin to the kid on his ass in the middle of the street. It hits the ground, rolls, and spins before it falls flat).

     A guy is on the shore watching the surf as I pull myself up and out of the water.

     “I saw you on that right,” I say. “It was a good one.”

     “Fuck,” he says, “It’s fuckin’ gnarly out there. I’m done.” We look at another guy leaving the water with his board in two pieces.

#

     All day since that morning session, I’ve been thinking about the wave I blew, the barrels I dodged . . . and right now I officially demote myself back to Barney status. I’m stuck in stage one, trying to get to stage two. I’ve gotten experience points, but I haven’t leveled up yet. It’s like I’m 19 and still a senior in high school, held back, smart with potential but just can’t pass the test. I’ll be restless until I do.