IN DESPERATION, SAT 05JAN2013 EVE

 

Loc: El Porto

Time: 1530-1700

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 3-5FT, high tide, walled, consistent.

     Yesterday, my brother and I did a surf check from Manhattan Beach Pier to El Segundo Beach. Everywhere was closed out. This morning, I checked out Manhattan Beach at first light because the tide was high. Same thing. Conditions like this are a joke. I can recall days when it was so flat, just not enough surf. Day’s when you’d wish for anything with size, even closeouts. I parked in the dark lot at Porto, staring at lines coming in. Swell and size were not an issue, but there was no shape to them. I turned around and went home.

#

     I’m done with my school meeting at 1445. Sitting in my car, I check the surf report on my phone. It says: El Porto 3-5 FT, Fair to Good. The wind report looks good, but best of all, the tide is about to top out. I expect the high tide to soften the walls a little bit and give them some shape. My surf gear is still in the back from this morning. Off to Porto I go.

     Driving down the hill on 45^th Street, I see some lines coming in, but I can’t see the end of them to tell if there are shoulders or not. I give Klaude a call. He says that the morning was walled but that the DRC still came out to play. I keep the conversation short, as the next set coming in is big, but there appears to be some shoulders at the end of these long peaks. I tell Klaude I’ll talk to him later.

     The sun is on its way down, and the scattered cloud cover gives the ocean a light blue, metallic appearance. The waves are still racy, but the shoulders look makeable.

     I’m stoked. I feel the cold evening air on me as I change. The wind is slight onshore, but there still isn’t much texture on the water. This could be a good session. Other surfers are watching it. Some are changing at their cars, the last evening push of surfers begin to rush it, some cars enter the lot, and a biker yells, “Watch it!” to a young lady crossing the beach path. I hope I score.

#

     The inside is really consistent, but I punch through it without burning too much energy. The paddle out is long because of the tide. Once I’m out there, I catch my breath and watch my surroundings. There are surfers from Rosecrans to 45^th, but the crowd is fairly light. Right away, a left comes. Since the tide is high, I catch the wave as it’s spilling. It’s a big, mooshy drop, and I trust that my new board will get me down the line. Then, as I’m sliding down the wave and try to point my nose down the line, I lose balance and fall. When I resurface, I think about how that could’ve been a really good ride. There was some shape to it. As I paddle back to the lineup, I imagine what it would have felt like to pump down the line and get a little carve off the face. It would’ve been nice.

#

     I must have paddled out between windows. The onshore wind grows stronger, finally giving some chop and texture to the surface and also knocking down the waves faster. The tide is going down too, so the shoulders I saw earlier begin to disappear; the walls come in. What a shame . . . it’s consistent but with nowhere to go. Every other surfer is going for the fuck of it, hoping that something will open, but upon popping up, the supposed shoulder stands and shuts down. Every once in a while there’s a little bit of shape, but it’s like a lotto drawing, and most of us don’t have the winning number. On every wall, there seems to be a shoulder somewhere all the way at the end, somewhere where . . . I am not, nor are any of the other surfers.

     The current is strong, sucking all of us south. I fight the current to stay between 45^th and 42^nd. I think about all the other things I could have been doing. I could have been at home finishing my surf blogs, finally catching up. I could have been doing anything productive, anything except waiting for the wave that will never come.

     Miraculously, I get an inside wave that’s about three feet; only the small ones have shape. I get one little check turn off of the lip. That’s it. The whole session. That’s my wave of the day.

     On the inside, I battle the consistent white wash. I duckdive a wave when I feel the nose of my board hit the sand. I stand. I’m in the shallows close to shore. I get on my belly and paddle again. A guy way in front of me is walking his board out. I slide off my board. Still, I’m in shallow water. I turn around. I haven’t moved. I only have fifteen minutes left on the meter. I turn around and head to the showers.

     People all around have their cameras out while I’m changing. I check to see what they’re looking at. It’s the sunset. What a funny thing to take in after complaining about the surf. Yes, the surf sucks, but here I am, here is everyone else. Whether a lover of the South Bay or people just in town for the day, this is what we have for scenery: sandy beach, bikers, joggers, chicks running in tight stretchy pants, dogs, and beach bums. The scene looks like someone adjusted the brightness, turning it all the way down, like the way a picture would dim out on a TV, but the only incongruence is with the pink in the sky, the pink between the streaks of grey clouds. The rest of the surfers make their way in underneath this pink. Waves close out in the foreground of the sky, but seeing the pink sunset makes me think that things could be worse. Look where I am. I could’ve been in Long Beach, Gardena, Lawndale or Hawthorne, but I’m a couple minutes away from the surf now in my small, humble enclave. I’ve moved back to this vicinity. Out of all the places I could be, I’m at the place that I love the most.

     Driving out of the lot and up the hill onto Highland Avenue, I can’t help to think how glad I am that this is home.