STOKE AFTERBURN (double sesh), TUE 08JAN2013 EVE

 

Loc: Palos Verdes

Time: 1530-1700

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 1-3 FT, occasional 4 FT, low tide, consistent, clean, offshore, glassy.

     I got some renovation going on at my apartment, so I’ve had to steer clear from my house during the daylight hours. I thought these pricks would be done, but they’re not. I can’t be at home, and I don’t know where the hell else to go. Bri gets off of work in a half hour, so I text her and tell her we’re surfing. I pack both of our boards and our gear, and I wait for her until she gets to my place.

Torrance Beach spot check

     One the way to PV, I tell Bri that the surf report says it’s only one-to-two feet. I glance at the coastline on the way there from Manhattan to Torrance. The tide looks drained, and the onshore wind is making the water look like shit. At this point, I expect NOTHING. I already know that there is no way that PV could be good right now; it’s impossible. The surf even looks like it’s gone down in size, but I am more concerned about the wind, and if the water’s gonna be ugly like the last time we surfed here.

     When we park, I am finally resolved to being okay if there is just that random, occasional three-footer. That’s all I ask. A random three-footer here and there, something I can ride. Even if it’s only a few. That’s it.

     The wind is blowing strong onshore when we step out. I walk to the trail so I can at least see the break. It looks like there are small, consistent waves. I try to trick my mind into thinking that they are bigger than they actually appear.

     We change and make the trek down. I’m thinking that Bri can at least have a good session: small, mellow, inconsequential waves. I paddle out first as usual while Bri warms up. I see some longboarders breaking the highline on their small, two-foot rides. I see another go as I let the inside whitewash roll over me. At least it’s consistent. It’s a long ass paddle out. Waves just under three feet are breaking in front of me. Bigger than I expected. As I get closer to the lineup, I have a hard time quelling my instincts to turn and go. The waves actually look rideable with small, peeling shoulders, small but rideable. Finally on the outside, I sit and wait.

#

     I can barely feel the onshore wind. Maybe the wind is dying? It’s fucking glassy, not choppy at all. . . . Wow. There are only about six longboarders out and two groms to the north. The longboarders sit at the main peak, but some of the peaks shift towards me. I turn, I paddle, I scratch out. I scratch out so many fucking times. The shape here is so gradual that I must take off late.

     A set wave swings wide in the middle of the cove. A freckled grom is also darting for it from the opposite side. He’s too deep. I’m still paddling.

     He looks at me and says, “You got it.”

     “Thank you!” I pop up and go right. This is a sub three footer, but I get a little rear hand cutback, and then the wave bogs out once I reenter. Still, the drop was fun. On my paddle back, I throw a shaka to the kid.

#

     After that first wave, there are more . . . so many more. I asked for an occasional three footer, but PV is doing more than that. The surf isn’t big, but it turns out that it’s clean and consistent. I catch so many small waves, almost all lefts, but the Motorboat Too is working, getting me down the line for at least one turn; I’m the single-shot king once again!

     The sets are also working consistently, meaning that when there is one of the bigger waves, it is followed by two or three more. So three feet at PV is not critical, but they are so racy because they are what I would describe as . . . “mooshy walled.” It’s like the wave should be closing out, but for some reason at PV the wave just stays up and holds shape, even while the section is building. As soon as I pop up I’m racing down the line, pumping to get to the end section to finish off the wave with a carve.

     Bri makes it out. She hasn’t been as consistent as she was during the summer, so she’s still rusty. She tries to go for waves that are, obvious to me, too flat. She shoulder hunts and scratches out. I explain to her, as I have before, that the waves here, especially on a day like today, are so non critical that she can get away with going late.

     She says that she’s a little apprehensive because she hit her head last time she surfed here. She paddles again for a wave that’s hella small. There’s no way. But she paddles . . . her board’s about to come back from behind the wave, but no, the wave takes her. She pops up, and she rides it straight. Bri’s not getting every wave, but she’s managing to get at least half of them.

     On one wave, it’s already standing up on the outside. It’s only two-feet plus. She paddles for the shoulder.

     “No,” I say, “go that way.” She knows where I’m talking about. “Go deep!”

     She paddles and disappears. It’s a peeling left, but she pops up late, going right. When she comes back, she tells me that she’s still trying to get her backside down.

#

     As the sun sets, people start leaving. The two groms sit by the north side of the cove for an easy exit when it’s time to go, but something else happens. If it’s possible, it’s like the water gets even glassier. There’s just zero wind. And the sets . . . they get bigger and more consistent, so big that Bri is caught on the inside. It takes forever for her to make it out.

     I catch the first wave of a set, and it takes forever to get back to the lineup. I’m fucking tired, and the sets are breaking much further on the outside than they have all evening. I’m frustrated. Here I am duckdiving when I should be on the outside, getting these waves.

     When the set lulls over, I’m sitting on the outside all by myself. I turn around. Bri is barely just making it out of the impact zone. A left comes. It’s a solid three feet, but I pass it up. I’m tired. Behind it, something else lurks in the darkness. I turn to face the ocean . . . and there’s no way that I’m seeing what I’m seeing. The water is so glassy that it looks like dark, smoothed-over marble. It’s not the moosh wall I was talking about earlier, which is typical of PV. No this is a legitimate, fucking peak. The wave is so peaky that it looks like a ball with a blanket made out of water over it which forms the shoulders. It’s big for that evening, an easy four feet. It’s been a while since I had this feeling, it’s that feeling when you know that it’s gonna be a fucking good ass wave before you’re even on it, a feeling when the wave is coming to you and only you with no one around. It’s like living with no laws, free to do what you want to whomever without any witnesses or repercussions, like time is not an issue, and I can do as I damn well please. With everything else happening in the world and the universe all around me, at this very moment, at this split second, I am going to experience the surfing ideal: A PERFECT WAVE ALL TO MY FUCKING SELF.

     Timing is so crucial. I do not want to fuck this up, as this is a solo act with me being the only thing that can possibly ruin this. As I turn and paddle I see Bri. She’s facing the beach, paddling and not looking back. “Watch out, hun!” I yell. Immediately upon popping up, the face is so smooth and rippable that I’m entering with a lot of speed, from the board’s volume and the wave’s shape. It reminds me of a perfect, Lowers left on a gloomy, offshore morning. The thicker rail on the MB2 has me flying down the line. I pump, still going faster. I have so much speed that I don’t even need to dig into my bottom turn to climb the face with momentum. I grind the face, carving hard and deep, like I’m stomping on the brakes with a splash, and then I redirect and pump to regain momentum. I carve the face again. The wave is soft. I feel my tail penetrate deep and pop back out nice and responsive when it’s time to move. It’s unbelievable, the distance I have. At the end of my fourth turn, I dismount my board in hip-deep water. I give my signature surfer call, the random noise all surfers make in times of ridiculous stoke.

#

     We walk up the trail in the darkness. We can see the lights of the coastline, all the way from Redondo to Santa Monica. We can’t shut the fuck up. I’m so giddy over that last left that I caught. Bri confirms it. She’s equally stoked for the session that we had. Afterburn . . . stoke afterburn, stoke residue. Writing this, I feel the same way. My how things turn out when you least expect it. Only surfing can bring this feeling. I’m glad I’m a surfer. 

There's only one way to calm this afterburn. . . .