Loc:
Manhattan Beach
Time:
0845-1115
Crew: KK
Conditions:
2-4 FT, overcast, low-to-mid tide, glassy, consistent, uncrowded.
My friend Cheryl said she had surfed
yesterday and that it was tiny. She asked if anyone was surfing today. My
friends Klaude, Khang, and Rick said they’d be paddling out. When I looked at
the tide chart, I saw that low tide is gonna be around seven, so I thought I’d
sleep in a little to wait for the tide push.
At 0622 I’m woken by a text. It’s Klaude.
“Heading to Venice,” he says.
Okay, I’m thinking. That’s one surfer I
won’t see. At 0822 I’m woken by Klaude’s text again, this time saying, “Heading
to Manhattan Beach.” I sit up, head to the bathroom, and brush my teeth. Then I
get a text from Rick: “42nd Street was fun. Just got out.” Fuck. I
hope that I haven’t missed the window for good conditions, but I’m thinking
that the tide should still be low.
I send out a text to my buddy J, but he
says that the cams look small and that he’s going to stick to Venice since it’s
close. On the way to my favo local spot, I see Klaude’s car parked on the
street. Looks like he scored free parking. I make a round by the lifeguard
station, and YES, one open spot, VIP parking! The surf looks small on the low
tide, but it looks consistent. Something is happening out there. Since there’s
no rush, I take my time changing. I whip out my stick of Waterman’s sunscreen
and apply it to my forehead. The fucking rub-on stick has turned into liquid.
Fuck my ass. Now I got this heavy, gooped-on blob of 35SPF sunscreen on my
forehead. I try to rub it off, and I accidentally rub it into my hairline. This
shit is like superglue in my hair. Fuck . . . especially on a day that it’s
overcast, I’m gonna be the guy with way too much sunscreen on.
I try to wipe off as much as possible and
spread it on my neck and ears. Oh well. It is what it is. Once I’m on the sand,
I see Klaude out there. It’s funny how after surfing with the same people for a
while how you can tell how they look from far away. Just from the way Klaude
sits and paddles, I know it’s him. Even looking at the back of his head, like
on some doggy style, homo love prison shit. True friends can tell each other’s
penises apart. Don’t let anyone else tell you otherwise. If they do, they’re gay.
As I’m warming up, I look down at my knees
and notice how the rubber seals are coming apart. With the morning being
overcast and all, I’m expecting another freeze session. I don’t know how much
longer I can go on with my holy wetsuits.
The tide is low, which makes the inside
waves a little punchy. Klaude is in front of me, popping up on a left. I try to
smile at him, but I remember that he can’t see for shit. When he comes back to
the lineup, we end up next to Roy, Jose, Bruce, and some other locals. We talk
about last week’s camping trip again, not bringing up the stolen boards but
instead talking about how fun it was. We still have stoke afterburn. Orlando,
another guy whose board was stolen last week, paddles up to me. “Hey, Matt,” he
says, “Ahh, I had so much fun last weekend, mon. Next time, I bring my wife and
her friends, so we have girls at the site.”
I smile back and notice that he’s on a
different longboard since his other one was jacked. “I’m sorry that your board
got stolen, man.”
“Hey, no worry,” he says. “Now we know.
Gotta just lock it up. Actually, lucky Don told me to lock my van. I was going
to leave it open.”
“Yeah . . . I guess it could’ve been worse.”
With the tide push, guys start to get some
nice, shouldery waves. By the storm drains, some nice rights are coming in, but
it’s a little deceiving because the shape is mostly walled. Klaude and I go,
gambling, mostly finding closeouts instead of turns, but it’s still fun.
If anything, the lack of a wave buffet isn’t
the ocean’s fault. Roy gets some nice ones, and Orlando kills it on his longboard,
getting distance, paddling in at the last moment, forcing himself into the
waves. Actually, everyone with a big board scores this morning.
About half way through the session, the sun
begins to make its way out, which is a surprise since it’s supposed to rain.
The crowd’s even thinner now, maybe because it’s Easter. For some reason, no
groms are out either, which is very odd.
My wave of the day is this right. Man, I
finally pop up on a good set wave that has shape. As I’m winding up from my
bottom turn to climb the wave, there’s a nice open face, a canvas waiting to be
worked on. With the ease of my momentum from the drop, I do a backhand snap
just before the section closes. I ride it out while leaning forward, and I roll
into the flats through the white wash. Klaude catches the next right. It’s a
little smaller, and he pumps down the line before it closes. I tell him about
my turn.
“Yeah,” he says, “I saw that!”
The oceans definitely changes at ten o’clock.
I expected it to be small, but the swell is building early. A lot more
closeouts come through, breaking way on the outside. Klaude catches a wave all
the way to the inside, right before a long set. He’s inside, paddling and
duckdiving for at least fifteen minutes. Half of the lineup is there with him.
One the outside, a random, rogue five footer breaks. A longboarder is the only
one sitting on the outside to get it. He paddles in and tries to turn too soon,
so he purls his inside rail and nose at mid face.
Now most of the local guys who were here
earlier are gone. Klaude and I decide to call the session on the next wave.
We go to El Segundo for breakfast, but our
usual spot is closed. I’m not in the mood for anything in El Segundo anyway. I’m
thinking about a plate lunch. “Let’s go to Bob’s,” I say.
“Can’t. It’s too far.”
“Okay then. We’ll just go to Mandy’s.”
Right before we pull into the lot, he calls
and says, “Hey, let’s just go to Bob’s.”
#
Bob’s Hawaiian Restaurant. It’s our
favorite local spot for Hawaiian food. As soon as we walk in, Klaude notices the
hawtie waitresses. He says that they all have boobies. Our waitress has the
proper thickness hiding under her jeans that are plugged by UGGs. “Sweet Jesus,”
says Klaude.
He orders a Chinese chicken salad. I’m
starving to death, and my food is taking forever. By the time my order, Da Big
Hawaiian, comes, I’m ravenous, ready to engorge myself.
They bring out his chicken katsu, which
makes me regret my order. If I could have a do over I’d have what he’s having.
The live band is playing, who are three old timers. They mess with the people
sitting in front of them, asking their age, what they’re eating, and “why they
look so serious.” One of the waitresses with major butt and boobies puts a
shirt on. “Were we that obvious?” I ask.
“I hope we were,” says Klaude. That line
gives us a good laugh.
We talk about the day’s surf; we’re having
a typical bromance. I hate that word, but it’s true, it’s exactly what’s
happening. We also talk about our buddy Francis, who used to eat here with us
before he moved back to Oahu. We miss him.
#
Back at the apartment we part ways. He has
a long day of studying. I hit the shower and fight the urge to jack off,
staying away from jizzonline as much as possible. Damn technology nowadays. I remember
when I used to jack off to pictures. My how times have changed. . .
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