Loc:
Rosecrans
Time:
0830-1000
Crew: Solo
Conditions:
1-3 FT, sunny, warm air, cold water, offshore, high tide, slow.
Pre Blog:
I have a free moment this early afternoon
to sneak in a surf post before class, and it just about breaks my heart to see
how long it’s been since my last write up. The last one I did was about the
paddle out we did for PABS. I wrote that on February twentieth. I went through
my files, thinking something must have went wrong with Blogspot, that maybe I
posted something and it didn’t go through. I open my DRC Word document, and
there it is: nothing since that last post. But now it all makes sense. I had a
sore throat Wednesday morning, four days before the paddle out, and I had
surfed three times with it. I think it was that night after the paddle out, I
had shined my flashlight in the back of my throat and saw that it was a
warzone. Quarantined, I was sick and had the worst coughing fits, keeping me
awake throughout the night. With blistered throat, I did my best to hawk up all
that green, thick, goo that was down there, chillin’ out, just lounging in my
lungs. Fuckers. I stayed out of the
water, despite KK’s and Rick’s (my surf mentor) phone calls about the surf. It
hurt to hear what I was missing out on. Finally, on Wednesday the 27th
I went for it.
Nurse Me:
Yesterday (TUE26FEB), Bri told me . . . No.
She made me promise that I’d go to the doctor. “I was talking to my dad,” she
said. “Whooping cough is making a comeback.” She scrolled through the screen on
her iPhone, reading the symptoms out loud. They seemed half right and half
wrong.
“Tomorrow,” I said. “I promise I’ll go.”
“Here.” She handed me some a small jar of
Vicks VapoRub. “My mom said to rub some on your chest and feet . . . and put
socks on.”
The concept sounded ridiculous, but I read
the same thing online the night prior. The last time I had needed such a remedy
was when I was in kindergarten or first grade. All I remember was the gray
sweater that I wore to bed, my dad rubbing Vicks on my chest, and then putting
a heavy coat around my nostrils without kid gloves, like he was putting
ointment on a dog with some kind of skin infection. And now, there I was. I
felt like a baby, having to do this again.
#
As I turned off the lights and lay down, I
braced myself for another night of cough wars, and then I remembered the Vicks.
I got up and slathered it on as Bri had instructed earlier that day.
Surprisingly . . . I slept well.
Welcome
Back:
It’s been so long, I’m thinking, while my
car warms up and I’m filling my hot water jugs at the kitchen sink. I let out a
couple coughs. I’m not one-hundred percent, but I’m close enough to it to surf;
I have to.
I head to the garage and knock the dust off
of my boards. Poor fellas.
The sun hits the side of my face as my
wagon climbs the hill, passing the El Segundo, LAX lookout point. How I missed
this feeling. I take the usual route, passing Porto first. The conditions are
clean, but the tide is making things slow and soft. I head a little south to my
favorite spot, and it’s . . . bad. Smaller. If Porto isn’t appetizing then you
can imagine what my favorite, local spot looks like. I cruise back towards
Porto, driving parallel to the beach on the inside street, when I notice an
empty spot right where it intersects at Rosecrans. I’ve never scored parking
right here before. I expect to walk a little north and surf the peak in front
of the sandwich shack.
I begin to change, and as soon as the cool
air hits my skin my body goes cold, colder than usual. I hate feeling “off.” I
haven’t been sick in a while, so I have a lot of pride, and I can’t believe
I’ve been out of the water this long. I sacrificed a week. Dead or alive, I’m
paddling out.
Instead of walking north, the less crowded
peak just south of Rosecrans is more appealing. The waves aren’t as good, but
as the set rolls through, a lone surfer catches a two-foot left. SOLD!
Cold water at my feet, I feel the chills as
I submerge for my first duckdive. All experiences are taken in a little
different when you’re sick; the perspective and sensation changes: the combo of
cold water and hot air against my back gives my forehead a dull ache; time
elapses slow but disdainfully as I sit in the lull; the impulse to be
aggressive and hunt for waves is lost.
I sit deeper for the lefts than the lone
surfer and scratch out on the next wave. I sit more towards the inside and
catch the next wave, my first in over a week. It’s only two feet, but it has
shape. I trim, trying to turn, but I lack momentum. I walk the nose on this
playful little shoulder, taking it for what it’s worth. It’s still satisfying.
As the spot slows, we both shift north to
sit at Rosecrans, where everyone else has congregated. I catch a couple more
rides, all trims. I try to force a backhand snap, but it’s not happening. The tide
rises higher, making the waves mooshier. I do my best. Zippi Fish, oh Zippi Fish, where art thou?
I paddle to the top of the wave, thinking
that I need to at least end this session on a good note. The first wave of the
next set is taken by a longboarder. I have the second one to myself. It’s a three-footer
but a closeout. I take it in on my belly.
An hour and a half, it wasn’t much of a
session, but it was nice just to be in the water again. Coughing in my car, I
hope that I haven’t pushed it too much.
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