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Loc: Churches
Crew: Bri
Conditions:
2-3 FT, glassy, clean, overcast, cool, uncrowded.
Don’t let anyone tell you that it’s summer
because it’s not. Nope, not yet. Last night was cold as fuck. Condensation in
the tent. . . Thank goodness we pulled the mattress away from the walls. The
sound of the waves put me in a paranoid, sleep state. For some reason, I was in
constant fear that the tent was gonna wash away. I mean, LITERALLY, the water
sounded like it was right there. I woke up to the reality that the waterline
hadn’t touched any of our things.
It’s a slow start this morning. There is no
mad dash to rush it at first light, especially not when low tide is a little later.
We wait, cook our breakfast, pack up as much as we can, and then we hit the
surf around nine. Even though we didn’t plan things this way, it works out
great because the first shift of surfers have vacated Churches and headed back
to their cars at the state beach. The surf looked small from the campsite,
especially with this drained tide. The rocks are so exposed that we have to
paddle out way south and away from the normal spot. But there are still waves
breaking through the low tide. Like yesterday, we start off by sitting wide and
to the south. Since I’ve stuck next to Bri the whole trip, I tell her that I’m
going to head to the top of the wave. It turns out that there are waves
everywhere, not for the sake of consistency but because there aren’t even ten
heads here anymore. Churches is so fun when it’s not crowded like it usually
is. How to describe these rides? Well, there’s not much else I can say that
doesn’t sound the same as the last three sessions, but now these are rights.
More waves to ourselves. Plenty of time is spent paddling back to the lineup
after catching so many waves.
Bri is a little apprehensive at going for
the sets. I try to call her into them without being too forceful. She raises
her head while paddling, as she senses she’s scratching out. “Keep your chin
down,” I tell her. Then, she starts catching. She’s really doing a good job, I
mean getting quality, down the line rides. Sure, her pop up is slow, but she’s able
to recover after hitting the base of the wave, and redirecting her nose down
the line to get some distance. I swear, when I was at her surfing level I was
either going straight or just going for bomb, closeouts. She’s so spoiled and
doesn’t even know it. . .
When the tide comes up, our spot slows
down. I head further north, just short of Mons Pubis. As I’m heading there, I
pass this guy that’s sat at the top of the wave all morning. “Good morning,” I
say.
“Morning.”
“It’s small but pretty fun.” He doesn’t
reply. He’s stocky, a little older than me, and has a bald head. As I make my way
out of his range, an outside wave just pops up, just . . . right to me. I hear
him scratching for it behind him, and then I’m faced with the etiquettical
dilemma. . . Am I back paddling him right now? I mean, he’s been sitting at the
top of the wave; he can easily turn and get the shoulder. But I’m not here to
take his wave; I’m just making my way to another spot, plus. . .Ahh, this wave.
Set wave, an easy three feet, and I can’t help myself because I’m at the peak.
I have to, I must go. It’s the steepest drop in of the week. I pump and draw a
highline to make it over a section, and the next is just green glass, a
shoulder just waiting to be ruined, ripped by a dick or a stick, a surf stick.
On this ocean liner of a fish, I bottom turn and rip a smooth turn off of the
shoulder. I hear the toss of water out of the back. So clean and nonchalant on
this wave. Was this how surfing was a long time ago before the crowds took
over? I mean, I get my fair share of decent waves, but barely in an environment
with so much solitude. But then, there’s the guy. I feel some funky energy. Let’s
just call it guilt. I head to the spot that I had initially aimed for.
The tide slows things down, but there are
still some good rides. My creative, inner longboarder (that never came into
fruition) begins to come out. I’m crouching, walking the deck, and facing the
wave backwards. Endless fun, until about 1115 that is. We head back, take hot
showers, stop at Sonics, and hit the road. This was a one nighter, surgical-strike
surf trip. It was perfect for Bri, and who cares if it was small. It was
perfect for me too. It’s nice to surf small waves too sometimes, at least with
the right equipment. It was also nice to just chill out, not have any
expectations, and then to still score anyhow. It’s a rough drive home,
completely BEACHED. My skin begs for mercy to be spared from more sun. My back
muscles ache in a restless twitch, unable to shut off “paddle mode” for now. My
eyes can barely stay open. I’m not thirsty but I know I need more water. I’m
almost reaching Long Beach. I drink the rest of my coffee that might as well be
a placebo. Only twenty more miles to go with counterfeit caffeine, relying
solely on stoke afterburn. I smile at the line of cars ahead. Only a surfer
knows.
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