Loc: North
Churches
Crew: Solo
Conditions:
2-4 FT, warm, sunny, light wind, clean, uncrowded.
I’m feeling the pressure from two fronts.
First, I have my second trip to Indo coming up, and I should be stoked, but
it’s hard to when I have a short story, a three-part project, a presentation, a
fiction and poetry portfolio, and a fifteen-page research paper due. The second
front looming in my mind is the preparation for my trip. I have a laundry list
of things that my brother needs, and on top of that, there are several things
that I need as well. I tell myself not to stress. “This too shall pass” (who
said this?). Since I don’t have class on Wednesdays, on Tuesday night I decide
that a mandatory staycation is in order, just a day to find a quiet place to
write close to the water where I can catch some waves too. Before heading to
school, my “camping kit” is preloaded in the back of my wagon.
On Tuesday night, after my evening class, I
head to Del Taco before hitting the road down south, for a place to “surf bum
it” for the night. My buddy Al calls, telling me that he’s about 99% sure that
he wants to go on this trip with me to surf Indo. He has a million questions,
and I have a million unsure answers, all leading to the possible fortunes of
stoke that may await us if he comes. I kill off my tacos and fries and come to
the conclusion that I’m a Carl’s Jr.’s guy.
It’s a quiet drive down south, and when I
find a place to park in front of Churches, the beach and campsites are vacant.
I brush my teeth in the darkness on the moist sand, set up my sleeping bag in the
back of my wagon, and crawl inside it. Surfline says the surf is supposed to be
good tomorrow, so I wonder if that rain tapping the roof of my car will affect
it.
#
I wake up to dark clouds. Other surfers are
parked next to me, still in their vehicles, wondering if they should “do it” or
not. I prop myself up to look outside. South wind is on it, making the surf
choppy. My initial plan was to dawn patrol it, but right now I’m going back to
sleep. At about 0800 I get up again. Most of the surfers left, save for a few.
Churches looks horrible. The tide is also high, making the waves break a little
closer than usual. But don’t get me wrong, it’s not flat, but the waves are
coming in like lines without any shoulders. I walk to the latrines to brush my
teeth, and when I get back to the car, it starts to rain.
One of the reasons I came here was to find
some solitude to write my short story. Thinking about story ideas, I filter
through memories of getting rejected by chicks back in my “Hollywood and
Highland” days and random stuff from Iraq. Then I think about Al, how he’s
trying to join me in Java. We were roommates in Iraq. Every day, we walked that
mile to get to chow, a mile there and a mile back, while being forced to hold
in our diarrhea under the hot Iraqi sun. Light bulb, smile, laugh, and just
like that, I have my story.
In the pouring rain, with heavy drops
landing on my windshield, to the point that the surf, the sand, and the trees
in front of me become a blurred, dripping painting, I write. I write in this
mobile state, it’s one of the greatest pleasures of “writing,” regardless if
you’re getting paid for it or not. To think, there are some lucky few who can
make a living this way. What I would give to live the rest of my life like
this. A wagon with surf boards, sleeping bag, something to write with, and
siphoning the world in my head onto the page . . . yes, that would be nice.
At about eleven, I figure I’m due up for
brunch, so I drive to the store. I walk through the aisles, looking like
someone who spent the night in his car, and grab a couple sandwiches. At the
coffee shop next door, there aren’t any other patrons in sight. The woman
working there welcomes me in with an “Aloha” in her British accent. Since I’m
the only one here, she lets me sample some leftover smoothies.
I write a page or two here, and then I head
to the library next door. Again, it’s quiet, with very few people. With a desk
placed in front of a wet pane, I continue to write again. At 1500, I stop my
story at a point where Al must make a decision to shit his pants or shit in a
concrete bunker. The rain has stopped, and I’m wondering what the surf is
doing, so I head back to Churches.
The south wind has backed off, and the
water starts to clean up. Scattered patches of light clouds push north and out
to sea. Some of them are still dark, but there is a glow in them, a premonition
that the sun’s radiance is close to being unsheathed. The tide is super low,
which is why there are only a couple guys out. I open my laptop and start to
write again, but my instincts are telling me to walk the path. How do I know
that Middles isn’t working? Maybe even Uppers might be good right now on the
low tide. I close my laptop and take some time out for myself, change, and walk
the Trestles path solo.
All of Churches is maybe two-to-three feet,
but the tide isn’t right for it. Maybe in another hour, but not right now. I
walk . . . and walk . . . all the way to Middles. Not satisfied. Lowers. Of
course it’s working. It’s crowded with photographers and people shooting video
from the shore. I continue all the way to Uppers, where two guys debate on
where to paddle and do so right in front of me. I sit on the sand with my board
right next to me, hoping that the surfers will catch a wave to sell me on this
spot, but the shape is poor, closeout after closeout. It’s been a while since
I’ve walked this much before paddling out. Basically, I’m window shopping,
trying to find the spot that’s working best with this tide, skipping from one
store to the next, with a pocket full of stoke, but waiting for the right place
to spend it.
Of all places, north Churches, AKA Mons
Pubis, is where I find myself. All the way from my car and back, and . . . the
tide is starting to fill in a little. More surfers are at the top of the wave
at Churches, congregating around one spot that’s breaking. Mons Pubis isn’t
working exactly well, but it’s better than it was looking earlier. Finally, I
submerge and make my way out where no one else wants to sit.
The sun’s rays finally break through the
cloud cover and shine onto the water, giving the atmosphere a tinge of citrus
yellow. Something about the clouds in the distance, the patches of ocean with
spots of metallic light, and the beige of the sand make the day prematurely age
when there is supposed to be so much sunshine left. I get the side glances from
the surfers sitting about twenty yards away, thinking that I’m either sitting
in the wrong spot or know something that they don’t. Well, the answer is both. I
know this spot works, but it doesn’t seem to be working right now, so
technically, I am in the wrong spot. Where they are sitting, it’s more
consistent, and where I am, it’s a long wait. But they have the crowd to deal
with, and I only have my thoughts.
My first wave is a right, and I’m able to
get one turn. After that, a series of lefts start coming in. The shape is
walled, but for some reason, it holds, leaving me with a good, three-foot face
to work with. I’m so eager that I lose balance on my first turn and fall. I
calm myself down and go again.
The wave is doing something interesting
that I’ve never experienced here before. It starts very mooshy, stands up, and
then it bottoms out towards the inside, with a small, closeout barrel section.
Left after left by myself, I’m guaranteed two turns and a closeout section to
mess around with. At the end of one ride, I pull in and watch the lip curl over
me before I punch out the back. I practice some floaters, climbing the face
from the momentum of my initial drop; it’s so easy to practice these at
Trestles. After two hours, only a couple surfers sample my spot but leave. I
had intended to surf here until sunset, but I need balance, and I have to decide
whether Al will shit his pants or in the concrete bunker.
Back at the wagon, I’m satisfied with my
session. I skip the shower and head straight to Café Del Sol where I kill off a
machaca place, and . . . I’ve eaten so many machacas that I am over them; I need to find a new spot to
eat in San Clemente.
Exhaustion hits me later that night, dark
and alone in my wagon. Al shits in the bunker, using a sock to wipe his ass. I
shut off my computer and brush my teeth outside while the waves crash just
yards away. Zipping myself up into my sleeping bag, I’m overwhelmed at the
thought of how such small things can make one’s life so complete.
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