BACK WHERE WE STARTED, SUN 30DEC2012 MOR

Loc: El Porto

Time: 0850-1010

Crew: KK, Randy & Rick

Conditions: 5 FT+, offshore, walled with occasional big shoulders, crowded.

     Ready to get some action on my new surf board, Randy and I show up to Manhattan Beach. Klaude is already there, chilling in the parking lot, looking at the surf with Orlando, Robert, and some other guy who I don’t know. Some of the local veta are out there surfing, but the waves are walled and lack any shape. Randy and I walk down to the run path to get a look at Porto, but it looks smaller and has terrible shape as well. On days like this, PV would be the call, but since I’ve made a lot of the surf decisions lately, I’m open to different suggestions. Klaude suggests that we check out Venice.

     I rarely surf Venice, but after a short drive we find ourselves looking at some decent surf. The surf here is much smaller but has good shape. The only problem is that it’s breaking in one place, and even though there are only six guys out, it’s enough of a crowd for the one take-off spot.

     We decide to take a look at Hammerland, but when we get there we can see that it’s not worth it. Klaude decides to go back to Venice while Randy and I head to Porto.

     As we pull into the lot, we see Dave T and Rick. They’re still in their wetsuits but dripping wet. The trunks of their cars are open and they’re packing up. We’re both surprised to see each other.

     “I had a feeling you were here,” I say. “Where’s the rest of your crew.”

     “They all left,” says Rick.

     Apparently, the WHC showed up, but it was too walled. They left, leaving Rick and Dave to be the only takers. They say it was walled earlier but that it’s getting better.

     Randy and I watch the surf. At first it’s walled, but then some smaller, inside waves break. A surfer cranks out two turns and sells it. We start changing, and Rick says, “I’ll paddle out with you guys.”

     Dave goes home, and we leave Rick in the lot, munching on his little snackie poos so he can refuel. The paddle out isn’t too bad. I only have to duckdive one wave. Even though we’ve started this session late and the sun’s out, it’s still cold. We sit . . . we wait . . . and then the walls come.

     Ten minutes later, Randy says, “It’s not as good as I thought.”

     I agree. The shape is inconsistent, but then, some lines form in the distance with tapered shoulders at the end, giving some kind of shape. Randy pulls into some waves.

     Rick joins us shortly after. “I didn’t even get my hair wet on the paddle out,” he says.

     On the next bomb set, we watch Rick turn and go on a bomb. He goes . . . while there’s a guy on his inside. Rick snakes him. But there is also a guy who snakes Rick. They fuck each other. The bomb is so walled that there is nowhere to go; Rick can’t straighten out, but when they resurface no hard looks or shouts are exchanged.

     On the Motorboat Too, I catch a right. I notice how the extra volume and low rocker helps get me to my feet sooner than usual, but I’m riding a wall, so I kick out. Next, Randy and I are paddling for a left, but I’m way too deep. I wipe out. It should be a gnarly one, but it happens so fast, and I resurface unscathed enough not to build it up.

     When Rick comes back to the lineup, he says, “You shouldn’t be going so late, especially on a new board.”

#

     Two guys are next to us, and we are all watching the next walled-up bomb that breaks to our north. Guys are on the shoulder, paddling for it but backing out when they see it’s gonna be a close out.

     “Awwwwwww!” says one of the guys. He turns to his friend and says, “I know it’s a closeout but go if it’s big.”

     His friend nods in agreement.

     I’m a bit annoyed at this. I saw the wave. It was walled. Who are they to judge? The first wave of the set at our spot comes in. It’s a right, and I’m in perfect position for it. The shoulder is forming so nice that I know there’s gonna be good shape on it. As I’m paddling for it, I see the guy with the big mouth, paddling on my outside. As I’m dropping in I see him look back. He backs out as I climb the face for a top turn. I shoot out a small bucket of spray where his head just was. My wave mooshes out on the second turn, so I stall and go over it.

     Rick cheers me on when I return, while the other guys paddle away.

#

     Our spot in front of the volley ball nets becomes crowded, so Randy and I head towards Rosecrans. Unfortunately, we’re in the saddle of two working peaks. Just north of 33^rd, I see the best wave that I’ve seen at Porto in a while. On another big, set wave, the line is slightly tapered on the left, but as soon as the wave hits the sand bar, the lip just starts throwing out. It’s a hollow, six-foot left, and no one is on it. It stays hollow for a good three-to-four seconds before it clamshells and turns into a spilling wave.

     I can see Rick on the sand. My bro and I go for our last waves. I can’t say that I scored or even that we made the right decision compared to Klaude. It was a walled session with a few jewels to be had.

     Back at the lot, Rick is still there. He’s fully dressed and snacking on some whole-grain crackers. “Here,” he says, as passes me the Ziploc bag.

     I pull one out, halfing the cracker with Randy. I try to hand it back.

     “No,” he says. “Take it. You gotta eat.”

     “I’m good, Rick. Thanks.” I set the cracker down in the back of his van.”

     Rick grabs the bag and puts it on my driver’s seat.