WELCOME BACK TO MANHATTAN BEACH, WED19JUN2013 MOR

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Crew: Bri, Christina, Khang, Dais

Conditions: 2-3 FT, light onshore/sideshore texture, consistent windswell.

Pre Blog:

     I’ve been home for almost a week and surfed Wednesday through Saturday. I’ve taken a break from writing so I can unwind, but I think that all of my writing from Java was so draining that it was nice to take a break from the laptop. Yet, here I find myself again, four days from my last surf and feeling like I need to sit down with a cup of coffee and write.

     The trip is over; this is true, but as every surfer knows: surfing is a journey experience. Back at my home break, the journey continues.

First Session Back:

     Like I had said, I’m coming off of a month trip where I was surfing four-to-five hours a day. After flying in on Monday, Tuesday was an easy call for a lay day. I needed quality time with Briana and needed time to settle back in, to reduce the effects of jet lag. But on Tuesday I felt like a big part of me was missing, like I wasn’t myself. The water . . . I needed to get back in the water.

#

     Wetsuit. How long has it been? Only a month, right? Wetsuit . . . Klaude had suggested that I would need it, at least at first to get acclimatized. Okay, before we get to that, let’s go over how my morning starts.

     It’s 0500 and I’m wide awake. Java is in the southern hemisphere, and I was caught off guard by the short days, and I’m even more surprised at how the sky is already semi lit this early in the morning.

     I boil some water and make Bri and I coffee to get us going; it’s the coffee that my bro had given me in a gift bag, the instant coffee that we were drinking in Indo. Usually instant coffee sucks ass, but this stuff isn’t so bad. 

     It’s early. . . I’ve forgotten how privileged we are to surf in Cali during the summer. There’s no reason not to wake up at 0430 and be in the water forty-five minutes later.

     We drink our coffee, pack up, and we reach the beach by 0530.

     The surf . . . well, there’s a little wind on it, but I wasn’t expecting much anyway. The point is just to paddle out, mess around, and catch a couple of waves.

     Mike, the Vietnam Vet, is parked in the VIP section, as close to the water as possible without living here. I wave, and he waves back through his driver’s-side window.

     The surf doesn’t look great. No one’s even out. How can no one be out? I mean the sun’s not over the horizon yet, but everything is well lit.

     We walk across the run path and watch the surf over the railing. I’m skeptical. Maybe I won’t paddle out.

     When we turn around, we see Rick and Mike standing by Mike’s truck, shooting the shit about the surf. I walk over and give Rick a hug. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since I’ve been home, the first familiar face that I’ve seen aside from Bri. “It looks okay,” he says. “I was at Porto earlier, and it actually looks fun here.”

     “You gonna do it?” I ask.

     He scratches his head. “I don’t know . . . I’m tempted, but I might just go to work.”

     We talk a little bit longer, and as soon as he leaves, Bri and I start changing.

#

     I’m not thrilled to have to wear a wetsuit again, and I’m a little nervous thinking about how cold the water might be, but still, I’ve brought my 2/2, shortsleever in case it might get warm. It’s my Hurley, disco wetsuit, the one with the white shoulder pads and loud ass colors. I don’t like drawing attention to myself, but I love how it’s shortsleeve and how it was also FREE.

    

Expectations:

     So this is where I’m gonna sound kind of lame, but I hope you will understand this. . . I had experienced after my Bali trip two years ago that I had set higher expectations for my surfing when I returned home. The day after I had flown back from Bali, the surf was good at Porto. I was pulling into everything, trying to force the barrel. Even though it wasn’t “barreling,” I guess I had felt that I had a lot to prove.

     Now I had said that I’ve officially killed my ego after getting humbled at Machines in Java, but being back home, I’d like to show some improvement on these waves. Java was a training ground for me, and, naturally, who wouldn’t want to see how his surfing would now look like at his home break?

Feet on the Sand:

     Since Bri and I arrived, the lineup’s gotten crowded. We choose to paddle out a little south of the lifeguard tower, away from the main crowd. The water’s not so bad; it’s cool but manageable. I paddle out ahead of Bri and sit with her once she makes it out.

    

To Rip or Not to Rip?:

     So . . . this is the part of the blog when I tell you that everything comes together, after getting my ass kicked at Machines that I just go ape shit on these waves, that I pull my first air, turning heads, causing people to ask, “Who is this guy?” Instead, I am FRUSTRATED. The water’s a little choppy, and the surf is only two-to-three feet. It’s that windswell surf, where every peak is a surprise: it may open up or it may close.

     My 5’9 Motorboat Too feels too small underneath me; I have to get used to my old equipment again. The first waves I catch are closeouts. Yup, Donny Duckbutter in his disco suit, not tearing up the dance floor. I’m forcing my rides, trying to make the sections and get to the face, if I could only get to the face I’d crank out a turn or two!

     I get a right. One turn. It’s not enough. On a left, I can’t get a carve. What happened to my progression from Choco Point? What happened to my dead ego? Why is it back, telling me that I must stand out, that I must have a breakthrough right fucking now?

Real Progression: 

     Bri . . . she’s been surfing while I’ve been gone, the first time she’s had to surf without me. I’m sitting next to an older, local vet named Oscar. We watch Bri paddle really late for a left. Windswell peaks can be fun. In this case, the wave jacks up at the last second. Not critical and not round, but it still requires some speed on the pop up. She disappears behind the wave. “Awwww,” I say. “I don’t think she—” Then I see the back of her head rise from behind the wave as she surfs down the line.

     “She made it!” says Oscar.

     I wait until she resurfaces on the inside, and then I throw her a thumbs up.

#

     Khang, Dais, and Christina arrive within the hour. It’s so awesome seeing everyone. We didn’t plan on making this a DRC surf session, but just about everyone (minus Cheryl and Klaude) has shown up on his own accord. Its hugs all around, surf bonding in the water.

     Khang wants to know about Machines. Unfortunately, I don’t have much to tell him. “I tried,” I say.

     “So what do you think it was that stopped you from getting barreled?”

     Honesty. . . I think for a moment. What should I say? Should I defend myself or exaggerate, put a little extra mustard on my tale when all I really have is watered down ketchup? Honesty. . . It’s so easy to exaggerate when it comes to surfing, and for those who love it that much and want to be good, sometimes it’s hard to come clean when you’ve failed expectations. With a straight face, I say, “Fear.”

     Don K. I think he’s the labeled “king” of this surf spot. He’s the coolest dude ever, a veteran and a local shaper who rips and paddles out every day here. “How was Indo?” he asks.

     “Humbling,” I say. “I got humbled. It was heavy. I got my ass kicked, couldn’t get barreled, but I sat on this left hand point break. I got turns. . .” Here I go, offering up an explanation. Why do I feel like I need to explain myself, like I couldn’t make the cut in basic training or lost a job promotion because of poor performance? Our conversation is short.

Fairy Tale and Truth:

     Java, Bali, and Indonesia in general. No one wants to hear about turns, and I can’t blame them. It’s all about the images and connotations associated with “INDO.” No barrels, no story. I can talk about the food, the culture, the people, and my growth as a human being, but that’s the long version, and no one wants to hear that.

     Growing as a person. I must grow past the bullshit. I don’t have that barrel story. I’ve received the looks, the reaction that says, “If I was there, I bet I could have _________ (fill in the blank).” Well, my blank has been filled, and what I fill it with is my own experience.

     Sure, would be traveler, go to Machines. I bet you’d get barreled, double barreled and spat out with a stylish look back into the tube that you just came out of. Go and see; experience it for yourself.

     I must grow to be okay with not having the story that other people want. I must grow to know that Java was my experience. If I’m happy and fulfilled from my trip that is all that matters.

Happy and Fulfilled at Home:

     So how do I do this? On one right, my wave of the day, it’s a sloppy, three-foot right, and . . . I force it. I force each turn because I’ve been waiting for a wave to lineup (or for me to surf it better). I give in, wanting to please those around me, to have something to show so they can say, “Wow, he’s surfing better now.” Growth and evolution doesn’t happen overnight.

     “Damn,” says Khang, “you broke a fin loose on one of those turns!”

     Maybe I’m being too hard on myself. It’s my first day back, and it’s hard to rewire my brain to surf for myself, to not have to “prove” anything. Forgive my humanness.

     To me, Bri is the surfer of the day. I call her into as many waves as possible, especially when I’m catching her looking at the oncoming bump while she’s still sitting there. “Go, go, go,” I say. “This one, go.” I don’t yell, but I talk to her, and how impressive is this. . . She whips her board around fast; she used to have trouble doing this. One-two-three strokes, and she’s sliding down the face late. Every time, I see her successfully stand and ride the wave from behind. Textbook. I’m so proud and stoked to see how she’s progressed.

#

     We surfed for a little over two hours. Despite the crowd, we were able to get waves. It was great just being around the homies again. Dais is doing well, Christina is recovering from a car accident, and Khang got his promotion. All is well in the South Bay.

     Looking back on that morning, I can’t help but see the dilemma in myself. One, the need to have to explain myself combined with the feeling of shame that I didn’t have “the barrel story.” Two, the need to prove something in the water, like I had to really display the fruits of my trip. Perhaps the “fruits” of Java aren’t in the water, but in my heart and in my soul. However, let’s be hard on Donny for now. It’s justified. “Donny, I thought you had some kind of spiritual breakthrough during your trip. Where did it all go?” It’s in there. Trust me, it’s in there. Read on, dear reader . . . read on.