Loc: Middles
Time: 0730-1000
Crew: Solo
Conditions:
2-3 FT+, sunny, cold water, offshore, inconsistent.
Pre Blog:
I had no idea when my first camp trip to
Trestles would be this year, but I knew that it would be soon, as the winter
swells start to fade, bringing on the first wave of south swells. Over the last
couple of years, I’ve scored Trestles in the early spring, sometimes as early
as February, but March and April, those are usually solid months.
Bri and I haven’t had our Staycation Friday
in quite a while, and since I’ve been feeling better, I knew that this Friday
we’d be going down south. When I looked at the forecast, I found that not only
was Friday good, but the swell would be peaking the following day. For shits
and giggles I called the campgrounds to see if there was a spot open for
Friday.
“Yes,” the receptionist said. “One night,
fire pit, on the beach. Would you like to reserve?”
I hadn’t planned on this, but . . . why
not? Bri and I wouldn’t have to drive home, dead tired after an all day surf stravaganza.
We could have a little bonfire, cook some S’mores, wake up early the next day,
put in a morning session, and then be back home before it’s dark.
“Ma’am. . . . Yes, I, Would . . .”
After reserving the site, I got a bit
excited and couldn’t help sending an invite out to all my best mates. Usually I’d
keep the invites exclusive, but if I’ve learned anything from these camping
trips, it’s that seventy-five percent of the people I invite don’t show up
anyway.
Rick, Khang, Klaude, Dais, and Hideki
responded right away. I didn’t want to jinx the trip by over inflating my
expectations, by pouring my heart into it, unable to sleep in the midst of a
possible, epic sesh.
Epic sessions are few and far between, but
. . . sometimes with the right wind,
swell
direction
tide
conditions
SOMETIMES
things work
out
just right.
The Drive:
Bri and I wake up at 0530, and it’s still
not early. It’s still not early because we aren’t surfing local. Sure, if we were
going to PV or Porto, fuckin’ A, we’d be super troopers. But no, 0530 is not
early enough because we still got a fucking drive down south.
We packed the night before, so we change
and do one last scan for any “oh shit” items we might leave behind. We’re
clear.
I’m surprised that the freeway isn’t raging
traffic yet at six in the morning. We still take the carpool lane. “Gold dust”
plays on the stereo, which amps me up for the thing that should not be said. I can’t remember for the life of me,
anything during this drive, except:
Once we reach the Cristianitos exit, I tell
Bri the same story that she’s had to hear every time we pass it: “I thought it
was an accident, but there were cars backed up all the way here in the right
lane, waiting to exit Basilone.” That was in January 2012, a big WNW that
wrapped around and swung south came in, the biggest and most consistent that I’ve
ever surfed Trestles.
When we reach Basilone Road, we can see the
surfers sitting at Lowers, but nothing is breaking. It’s a lull. On the drive
to Churches, I’m thinking that I just want it to at least be two-to-three feet
and rideable without too much wind. That’s all I want, just rideable surf, and
I’ll be happy.
We drive under the trestle and get a first
look at Churches. It’s firing! Occasional four footers break on the outside
towards the top of the wave, while some waves are still swinging wide all the
way south by the first beach campsite.
I’m speechless. I was so worried that we’d
get skunked, but here we are, and there’s surf!
Bri sees that I’m stoked, because I’m
pointing out each rideable wave, unable to stay in one place. “Where do you
wanna surf?” she asks.
I look at Old Mans. I know she wants to
surf there because it’s more mellow, but it looks smaller over there, plus I
know it will be more crowded.
We hop in the car and check out Old Mans.
It’s not as good. Back at Churches we change and decide to just paddle out at
Middles, gamble against Churches and see if we can score some surf. Usually I
make Bri paddle all the way from Churches, which did feel like a long paddle at
one point, but I think those long paddles definitely help your surfing; it’s
better to do them. But of course, I don’t tell Bri this, and I need to make
this her day too, so I don’t mind taking the sissy route by walking to Middles.
Surprisingly, the center of Middles
actually has some waves. They are not as consistent but they are empty. We
paddle out here, duckdiving some waves towards the outside. There are mostly walls
at this spot. As soon as we make it out, a lull hits. It feels like forever,
but of course it’s just that feeling when you can see waves breaking but you
haven’t had one yet. Lowers is breaking, even Little Lowers just a little south
of it. I want to go there, but I know I’m being impatient.
I paddle into the next wave, a right. It’s
barely three feet, but I still work my way down the line and get a turn before
it ends. I think a one turn wave in the South Bay is something to be stoked
about, but expectations here at Trestles are higher, where at least
two-to-three turns are common.
Bri gets a wave going straight. It’s fun
here, we have it to ourselves, but it’s too inconsistent.
We work our way towards my old spot, Battle
Position, but the rocks that formed the BP have been altered and reconstructed so
that it now looks more like a half of a large barbecue grill. Here I get more
waves, even taking a couple short lefts that are mostly closeouts. No, the surf
isn’t epic, and it doesn’t look as good as Churches, but we are scoring waves
with only a few heads. I get some rights that are down the line, getting turns,
nothing critical in the sub three-foot range. On the way back out to the lineup,
I see the biggest set of the day, forming up just outside from where Bri is
paddling. She sees the set but is maneuvering very hesitantly.
“Goooo!” I yell.
She turns without a purpose, paying more
attention to the oncoming wave than getting into position. She bullshit paddles
on the shoulder as she lets the wave pass her, a solid four footer with a
tapered shoulder, a guarantee down-the-line wave for at least four turns,
possibly the wave of Briana’s life if she didn’t bitch out on that fucking
wave.
“What are you doing?” I say, but then I
notice the second wave of the set. “Goooo, go, go!”
Bri turns towards the outside and lets the
wave go past her.
I’m in the impact zone on the last wave of
the set, so I duckdive it and make my way to the lineup. I’m an anal asshole,
so I’m biting my lip, trying hard not to be that dick boyfriend. She’s not
looking at me either because I can tell she feels my assholish energy. Anyway .
. . I basically tell her that she could have had the wave of her life right
there, and then I explain how Trestles is such a mooshy, forgivable,
not-critical wave that she should just go for the big ones because wiping out
here is not so bad.
“Yeah, I know,” she says. “I’m just kind of
scared of the big ones.”
To calm myself, I paddle to Little Lowers,
where I’m graced with front row seats to the Lowers show. Of course, the waves
coming here are taken by the longboarders first, so I paddle back to by Bri
since I can’t get shit.
Time flies by pretty fast. It’s been about two-and-a-half
hours, and I’m shivering my ass off. On the way back to the wagon, we see that
Middles is still breaking.
#
We head to Café Del Sol. Starving, we order
to machaca plates. Afterwards, we get to the campsite and meet my friend
Cassady from school who’s brought some beers. He surfs Old Mans while Bri and I
play cards. Rick pulls up shortly after. It would be the beginning of a good
trip.
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