Loc: Hammerland
Time: 1015-1145
Crew: Solo
Conditions:
4-6 FT, clean, glassy, offshore, dumpy and barrels, gnarly, crowded.
On the way to Manhattan Beach, I get a
glimpse of Hammerland. There’s a lone left with nobody on it. Wow, I’m
thinking. It looks a little hollow, empty, but at the same time I think: It’s
gonna be one of “those” days.
I pull into 45th. It looks
walled, not worth the paddle out. I go further south, score on parking, step
out, and check the surf. It’s bigger here, just as walled. I see a corner or
two. Some pro in a white and neon orange wetsuit is being filmed. He’s catching
the inside waves. I see him crank two turns, stall, pump on the inside section
and do a 360 air attempt. Impressive, but he’s the only one catching waves.
There’s a gym bag in the back of my wagon.
In it is a set of Skull Candy headphones, tennis shoes, a gym towel, and a
lock. I’ve brought this with me in case the surf sucks or is too walled. Yup .
. . there’s the gym bag. And then . . . there’s my conscience. . . . “Practice
pulling in.” Direct words from my bro. It’s because in Java this summer it’s
gonna be the real deal. No turns, just barrels, and anyone that knows me knows
that I still have yet to be barreled. I suck at getting barreled. I just do. If
I didn’t, it would’ve happened by now.
So, that being said . . . I can get in my
wagon, head to the gym, and work on my flabby glutes. . . . Or . . . I can get
some barrel practice.
DO I TAKE THE RED PILL OR THE BLUE
PILL?!
KING OF THE
MOUNTAIN:
I’m watching Hammers from the Grand Avenue
parking lot. A set wave comes in, breaking just a little wide off of the jetty.
It’s round but fast, FUCK-ING FAST! I’m cursing myself while I’m suiting up,
filled with anxiety. I’m a masochist; I must be. My surf demons are coming out.
I imagine that I’m gonna be getting worked, pounded, humiliated, and yet I’m on
this self deprecating tirade while I’m waxing my board, shoving quarters in the
meter, and getting ready to paddle out. I’m a buffoon on different levels, but
I think I’m so God damn hard on myself because I REALLY WANT TO GET BARRELED. I
mean, I really want to get better, to just reach this fucking milestone so bad,
you have no idea. I’m like the soldier that hasn’t been to combat, the teenager
that hasn’t gotten vagina yet. No bragging rights, not part of the cool crowd.
Of course, I’m not a bragger and fuck the cool crowd, but I think you know what
I’m saying. I am hard on myself, I want to be the surfer that I visualize
myself being, and I want to at least reach a level closer to my brother too,
and every time I get close and don’t reach it, it fucking kills me, so that’s
where this anxiety comes from.
I begin my trot to the jetty, and now I see
that there are now guys sitting on the left. As I get closer, I see a guy catch
a wave next to the rocks, pull in, and drive before being swallowed up. It was
a fast wave, but he pulled in and made it some distance. I respect that.
The lifeguard station is being manned. I
imagine what the lifeguard must be thinking, that he’s watching guys one
awkward wipeout away from needing assistance. At the same time, he gets the
real life show; front row seats to the best surf report of the South Bay. What
a job.
I wait for the right window, thinking that
this lifeguard is probably betting himself whether I’m gonna get worked or not.
The water’s cold, but not as cold as Sunday’s chill fest. I try to calm my
adrenaline by breathing slowly, and miraculously I pick a good window, avoiding
oblivion.
Three guys own the top of the wave at
Hammers, while at least a dozen other guys are sitting on the right on the
other side. Another guy paddles past me, and he exchanges greetings with the
guys at the top of the wave. I faintly recognize two of the guys, but other
than them, I’ve never seen the other guys in my life. That’s when it occurs to
me, this hierarchy that takes place when the South Bay gets walled. When the
conditions get gnarly out here, in contrast to the everyday crowd, only a
certain breed comes out to play. When the conditions are walled and dumpy with
an occasional barrel, there are only a few takers. And right here before me, is
an exclusive group. . . . I have a feeling I don’t belong.
I can’t insert myself into the lineup. For
one, I have to be honest. I’m not gonna sit at the top with the wolves if I can’t
even handle these fucking waves. I sit wide as usual and watch . . . and watch .
. . and watch. Guys are getting waves at the top. A lot of them are closeouts,
but some of them get distance. Some guys take off right in front of the rocks
but further out and barely make it. I watch until I get frustrated. I’m mad at
myself again. What the fuck am I doing out here? Those guys look back and see
me sitting in the same fucking place holding onto this board like it’s a dick I
can’t get off of. Finally, I go. I just go for the fuck of it. Go just to go
instead of sitting here. I’ll take the fucking waves nobody wants. FUCK IT.
I catch a bomb, a less walled bomb, and
wouldn’t you know? It’s actually fun! I pop up early and pull in, just enough
to get a glimpse before I’m pulverized. I resurface. I’m okay. Guys on the outside
watch me paddle back. I catch another one. Same thing. Fuck it. Closeout, pull
in, little shot of the barrel, just enough to get a whiff, not even a TASTE, but it’s better than nothing. I
get more confident, sit closer to the rocks. I feel I’ve earned a spot closer
to the jetty.
The set waves are no joke. They are so big
that you’d think that they have to be walled, but there is a shoulder all the
way at the end. The waves break different at the jetty. Guys are catching them
really far out, making it past the rocks, and pumping all the way until it gets
hollow towards the inside.
I try to paddle for these, but since I’m
not at the top of the wave, I don’t have a chance; someone’s always on it. Out
of frustration, I sit a little on the inside to catch the insiders, but I’m a
bit deep on one. I paddle and get catapulted. Still, when I resurface I’m all
right. Charlie the Porto vet paddles past me and says hi. He’s a cool guy. He
makes it to the lineup where he’s greeted like a gladiator making his way to
the arena.
MISSED
BOMBS:
Fuck, my bro told me that his friend Daz
had said, “Talking about your surfing is like talking about sleeping with your
wife . . . you just don’t do it.” At first it didn’t make sense to me, but now
I understand why. It’s because it’s an honest account that really, most people
wouldn’t want to share with anyone else. In my case, it’s really humbling. I
don’t have the stories to brag about triumphant breakthroughs about being spat
out of big barrels. No, I have to tell stories about eating SHIT! In fact, I
don’t even think rippers would even be interested in this blog because their
levels are beyond this; they’re past this phase.
There’s a bomb, easy six feet. It’s big, I’m
at a deep take off spot, it looks tapered, but it’s so intimidating. I mean, I
know it’s gonna go round, it has to with the way everything is breaking. My
balls shove up to my stomach, and I let it pass. Now the demons come back. I
hate myself. IDIOT.
On the next one, a guy is deeper than me,
but as he’s paddling he lets up. I’m paddling too. His eyebrows rise. I can’t
hear him, but his lips are moving, saying, “Go.”
I paddle. It’s a steep drop. As I’m sliding
down the face my foot slips to the nose of my board. I eat shit. Fuck, I tried.
Now the sets are really coming in. I see
everyone facing the jetty, and I hear people yelling. I look over, and there’s
a guy, high and dry on top of the rocks. He’s not like, at the rocks where it
meets the water. He is almost on top of the high rocks were people can walk on
TOP of the jetty. He’s shaken, struggling to crawl off.
A half dozen “Are you all rights” can be
heard until the kid makes it. I’ve seen his face before.
On every bomb, someone is on it. I’m not at
the top of the wave. I can’t get a ride. I almost do, but this guy goes. I see
the lip curl over him as he leans backwards and puts his hands at the small of
his back, stylish. When he resurfaces on the inside, he says to his buddy, “I
hit my nose.”
I don’t know exactly how he got hurt, but
he paddles in. No mas.
I really want to end my session right, but
my meter’s almost up, and it’s a long jog back to the lot. I catch a closeout
in.
It’s an odd feeling coming home. I love
surfing, I do, but at the same time it’s disturbing how this new level of
surfing that I’m trying to achieve . . . fuck, man. It’s not easy.
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