Loc: North
Churches
Conditions:
1-2 FT+, light onshore, inconsistent.
I love waking up early while camping. It’s
a waste to let any dawn turn into day without witnessing the change, at least
when you have a tent on the beach.
Bri’s still knocked out. I put the kettle
on the propane burner and prepare some tea. The recent tidal swings have been
severe because of the full moon. Right now the tide is in the negatives. Out
over Old Mans, rocks with green grass are exposed. The waves are clean and want
to break, but they need more water. One-foot peaks peel just in front of the
cobblestones. Out in front, a man walks his German shepherd over the receded
shoreline. Even I’ve never seen the tide this low.
Mons Pubis:
Old Mans looks like crap, so after a light
recon towards Middles, we decide that north Churches is the call.
There’s a law enforcement surf contest at
south Churches, so we try to avoid the crowd at all costs. We paddle out in
front of a cliff that has bushes that look like a patch of vaginal pubes. Klaude
had officially named this spot Mons Pubis. When it’s working, there’s a nice
left that peels all the way into Middles, but today’s small surf on the low
tide is only producing short rides. Like yesterday, we milk it for all we can,
rapid fire style.
As the tide reaches mid level, the shape
gets much better than Old Mans. The lefts get a little longer, and even though
the waves are smaller than three feet, I still have fun on some pumpy sections,
ending those waves with nice turns. We have the spot for an hour and a half,
but we end up selling it. Four off duty, law enforcement guys paddle out,
wearing their dickbroom mustaches. They have terrible, styless haircuts,
indicative of the American Lawman.
A cloud hovers over my stoke. Out of all
the places to paddle out at this empty break—Middles only has two Longboarders,
and these guys could easily paddle out closer to the top of the wave instead of
Mons Pubis, but they have to paddle out here.
One with a baldhead smiles in our
direction. I return a half ass smirk. They paddle into waves that Bri and I
were getting earlier. I dart out to catch the last wave of the set. I catch it
and pump down the line hard. One of them is on the shoulder, about to drop in.
Full of territorial, bad energy, I make the section, forcing him to pull out. I
force a gouging carve on the end section; it’s dark and stokeless.
Sitting on my board, Bri and I have no choice
but to give in. These cops (or firemen or whatever) do know how to surf. One of
them paddles by us and says, “How you guys doing?”
“Okay,” I say. “Milking it.”
He laughs. “You kind of have to today, huh?”
Still sitting here in my spot, I do my best
to let go. I don’t own Mons Pubis. How many solo sessions have the DRC ruined
in this very spot? In the past, my crew and I have infiltrated breaks where
only one guy was sitting. Share is the mantra; I have to share.
Well, right after the invasion, the wind
turns up a notch. With the swell small and the tide rising, the surf gets
mooshed out fast. Bri and I catch our last waves, satisfied that we caught the
best window of surf this morning.
Kid
Servers?:
After being in Java, I have so many places
on my checklist to eat at, and one of them is Denny’s. Like my friend Reece had
said when we were drinking at the park in Indo, “I love Denny’s. Moon Over My
Hammy!” When he had said that, I thought about Denny’s, pancakes in the middle
of the night if you want them. How in the hell can you beat that?
We walk into San Clemente Denny’s, and I
hear a voice ask, “How many in your party?” I look around.
“Hun,” says Bri. I turn around, and she’s
motioning down in front of us. I look again. What the hell . . . there’s a
little kid working here.
“How many in your party?” says the short,
curly-haired kid.
“Two,” says Bri.
“Two,” repeats the kid, as he holds up two,
tiny fingers. He turns around, grabs two menus, and says, “Right this way.”
How interesting, this little man in a Denny’s
uniform: black shoes, tucked in buttoned-up shirt, nametag, with his black
apron.
The whole time while we’re eating, I watch
bewildered diners’ reactions at the site of the miniature host. It’s just
interesting seeing little kids fill adult roles.
Before our pancakes, we start off with
biscuits and gravy. I highly recommend tearing some up after a morning surf
sesh. We gobble up those biscuits fast. They taste like . . . America.
Evening
Sesh:
Howling wind all afternoon, even into the
early evening. It’s terrible. Old Mans is so blown out that it’s out of the
question. Only two guys are on it, pure rubbish.
We make the trek to Churches. It’s kind of
working, but all the surf competitors are on it. Mons Pubis is marginal as
well. We gamble on Middles, but the wind is blowing so hard that it gives the
waves werbles, where the lip of the wave has this wobbly chop to it. The wind
hits my face, chilling the water. I’m cold. Bri’s doing much better than I am.
The stoke I had this morning is gone. Even though I’m happy to be out here for
our anniversary, I had hoped for a little bit more surf than this. Even the
camp trip before I had left to Java was frustrating for me. Everyone else had
good sessions, but Trestles and I haven’t had our energies in sync.
“I’m usually not the kind of guy who goes
in to check out another spot, but can we go to Mons Pubis?” I say.
“Sure,” says Bri.
And Mons . . . is only a fraction better.
We still stay out just before the sun sets, since we don’t want to cook in the
dark. We walk back to camp, and I have an unfulfilled feeling. This is the
smallest surf that I’ve been in since I’ve been home, and after Java I can’t
help but feel a little let down. I know my expectations were low driving out
here, but into our second night, I’m feening for good waves.
Fire:
Fire ring on the beach, it’s one of the
highlights of camping here. Sometimes I contemplate on not reenlisting in the
military, but for a SoCal surfer, military perks come in handy. I mean, I get
beachfront parking at many SoCal, premiere breaks; I can get these campsites
and share them with my friends and family; I can stay on post and use the
facilities without having to immerse myself in the civilian population. Okay,
maybe scratch the last one, but all in all, military perks in SoCal mesh so
well if you’re a surfer. Even though I have my deployments overseas here and
there, those months away from home are made up when I come back. I camp here so
much, and this fire on the beach with the sunset in the background, while my
girlfriend fires up the carne asada on the picnic table behind me, it makes my
life so rich.
One pound of carne, six burritos, and two
cans of beans later, finds Bri and I exhausted and full again. We didn’t waste
much time today. In between sessions, we lay out on the sand while reading . .
. we went in the tent and went to pound town, and then we surfed. Now, it’s
another day that’s come to an end. We tried to burn all of the firewood, but there
is so much, and I can’t take it back with me.
We clean up hunker down in the tent,
zipping up the flap behind us. With the sound of the cobblestones colliding and
the roar of the ocean, our tent shakes in the darkness even though there’s no
wind.
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