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Loc: El
Porto
Conditions:
3 FT, scattered peaks, sunny, crowded.
I’m doing the grad-school hustle, trying to
surf and find time to blog about it in between a demanding school schedule. It
didn’t occur to me that being in grad school is like a full time job until my
buddy Al talked to me the other night, saying how much he hated school, and
that he can only imagine how much extra work I have to do in post-graduate
studies. Well, regardless . . . here I am a week later, finally writing this
thing. Here’s what I remember.
It’s
Wednesday, and
the swell is on its way out.
If I want
to get wet at all, now’s the time to do it.
I get up,
get dressed, pack up, and cruise down the Porto lot first, as usual. It’s so
hard to avoid Porto. As much as I say to myself, “Nah, I’m just gonna head a
little further south,” it’s like destiny beckoning at you as soon as you near
45th St. Some universal energy forces you to flick that turn signal
and make that left.
Down the
hill
Down the
hill
Where the
peaks are
I cruise through slowly, watching the
waves, weaving through the people walking around. Old timers, new school
rippers, cubicle clowns, nine-to-fivers, familiar faces, new faces—there’s just
this . . . “scene” here. Although, I’m not complaining, as I am
part of it.
The peaks are scattered. Not big, but
workable. The Tanks look empty, less people there. I cruise on through and then
go to my intended destination.
I score free street parking and wave at a
couple guys who know my face on my way to the jog/walk path.
Not as good
Not as good
as Porto
of course.
But I don’t
want to pay for parking
Not right
now
Not when I’ve
already scored
here
I hover around Rosecrans, hoping to find
something. Eventually, I give in and park by the Porto bathrooms.
Out comes
the credit card
To pay for
surf
Along with
the money
A piece of
my soul goes in the machine. Fuckers
I remember a time when midweek sessions
meant fewer people in the lineup. Either people are rich and don’t have to work
anymore or people are unemployed and have more time to surf. Probably the
latter.
I find the channel where no one wants to
sit. I wait here patiently. The water’s a little cold but the sun is out. The
swell is fading, getting even smaller tomorrow and through the weekend. I’m not
sure how to feel about the crowd around me. I don’t feel different, in fact I
feel too similar: just another surfer squeezing myself in, trying to get a
wave. Longboarders, shortboarders, everyone is out.
I paddle
Someone’s
on it
Back out
I paddle
Another guy
is on it
I back out
I sit
And sit
The next set comes, swinging south outside
of the crowd, but there’s a guy sitting further on the outside. I start to
paddle for it, but I know it’s no use. I let him go. But right behind him is
the second wave of the set, pretty much breaking in the same spot.
YESSS
I’m behind the section when I pop up, but
my timing is good—I’m not too late or too early. With my Motor Boat Too, I
clear the first section easy and make it to the face of the wave. I pump,
bottom turn, and get my first little carve off the lip. There’s still face and
shape. I get a second turn. I can’t see all the way down the line because I’m
paying attention to the lip, watching how it’s crumbling, seeing if there’s
gonna be a section that I’m gonna have to make. I pump, draw a high line, and
make it to the open face again. My third turn is easy. I’m not trying to “gouge”
or do anything too aggressive. Instead, I’m focusing on milking this ride. A
three-turn wave at Porto doesn’t come very often to me, and this being my first
ride of the morning, first wave in a while, I’m not gonna let myself fumble and
eat shit prematurely. I’m all the way on the inside where guys are just
paddling out at the end of my fourth turn. I kick out and land on top of my
board, clean. The guys paddling out saw me, and they look back at me as they
make their way out. It’s not a look that says, “You rip,” no. It’s that look
that says, “Fuck, that guy got a long ride . . . I want one.” It’s the same
look that I still give to many surfers, the “other” guys who are actually
catching waves when I’m stuck like I’m sitting on a dick, hating, wishing I
could get me some too.
And
that’s pretty much where the rest of the
session goes.
There are just guys on waves. I don’t feel
competitive. One surfer yells at another who is about to drop in on him. Normal
energy for this place. I’m only out for an hour and a half.
At home, I check Surfline, and it said that
this morning had good conditions. I guess it wasn’t so bad out there. Just hard
with so many people. I was a one-wave wonder, but with four turns. . . . Given
the crowd factor and how rare a four-turner is in these parts, I’m grateful.
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