BACK FROM OREGON SESSION, THU 25JULY2013 MOR

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0830-1030

Crew: Bri                                                    

Conditions: 1-3 FT, scattered, light onshore, inconsistent, medium-to-high tide.

     First off, I’d like to say that my trip to Oregon was awesome. The people were cool, even though they liked to stare at my dark ass, walking through their streets. Most importantly, Bri’s family was so welcoming to me. They treated me like one of their own, and Bri’s mom spoiled us with so many home-cooked meals. Her bacon-wrapped, shrimp tacos were the best!

     Even though I had fun in Oregon, I mind surfed a lot, thinking about lefts and power carves. Being home now, I’m frothing to get back into the water. Yesterday the surf was too small and miserable to paddle out, but today, at least it was rideable.

#

     I should have woken up earlier, especially when I check Surfline’s tide forecast. Fuck. It’s 0745, and the tide’s already coming up a little bit. However, on the surf cam, the tide looks low.

     Heading to Manhattan Beach, I’m not expecting much. The lines over the smoke stacks and tanks at El Porto look small and crumbly, but it is lining up a little better than yesterday.

     Lucky for us, we arrive just as the street sweeper and the meter maid have gone through, so we have a whole street of empty parking spots to choose from.

     “We can’t park here,” says Bri. “It’s from eight to nine.”

     “I know,” I say, “but usually street cleaning won’t fuck with you as long as they’ve already cleaned the street.” A black, convertible Mercedes Benz has been ticketed in front of us.

     My Mini Driver is still at Rick’s, so I’m armed with my Motorboat Too and Rick’s Zippy Fish. Double armed, I walk down towards the beach with both boards.

     Surfing Grandma of the OC says that the water temp has dropped, according to her blog, so I opt to wear my tattered, Rip Curl 3/2.

     Even though the wind is a little onshore, for the most part it’s on the glassy side, but . . . the swell is a little weak. With the south swell building, it hasn’t wrapped around into the bay, and it probably won’t. There is a little windswell, and the lines are coming in a little long and walled, but there are some shoulders. If in the right spot, some waves might offer a turn or two.

     I’ve longed to be in the ocean again. Oregon might have good surf for all I know, but that was the only thing missing while I was there: waves. After dreaming of surfing and keeping my eyes glues to Surfline’s fair and good ratings, I come home to this. The South Bay window has officially closed. I bury the Zippy’s nose into the sand and opt to use the Motorboat. I know there’s a wave out there with my name on it.

     Most of the locals have already clocked out from their first shift. Right now the water is filled with second shifters, faces that are somewhat familiar but not familiar enough to talk about third-world whoring with.  

     Bri and I sit just south of the tower, scratching out for the first fifteen minutes. The waves are small and soft, but worst of all, I get hung up on the lip, just barely scratching out. I can’t help but think that if I had my Mini Driver, I would have gotten those waves. I don’t have to say anything for Bri to read my mind. My face says it all. “Need more volume,” I say. But then, the Zippy is right there on the shore. I could switch boards, but I’m stubborn. Zippy is my last-resort board. I just can’t ride it the same, can’t carve on it the same, can’t try to throw the tail out on it. It’s not Zippy’s fault. I’m sure there are surfers out there who can rip on that board.

     I get a lot of closeouts. Just can’t get up fast enough to race down the line. Bri gets a good left. When she comes back, I ask, “How was that?”

     She smirks and says, “There was a little girl in the way.” I look back, and there the girl is, alongside other beginners in the lineup. Hey, we were all there once, right? Shit, I get in people’s way today still.

     The surf is a little inconsistent. The waves look tiny, but they stand up just enough, in the two-foot, plus range. I get one in the perfect spot. I pump, and it lines up for some distance. There’s a section in front of me, but I do a quick, little check turn off of the lip, emitting a little splash out the back, and make it through the flats before kicking out. It’s my best wave of the morning, not much but good for today.

     Into the second hour, the tide mooshes out the surf a little. More guys leave, and the early third shifters start taking their place. I scratch and scratch and scratch to no avail. I catch some white wash to shore and change weapons.

#

     It’s Zippy time. This damn thing is a boat. I duckdive the inside wash, feeling the volume of this wide-nosed machine. The north current has pulled the noobs towards the Brick House, which has cleared a space for me and Bri.

     A three-foot line pops up out the back. I’m in position to drop in at the shoulder. The wave’s a little racy, and with all of Zippy’s volume, I pop up early as fuck. The thick ass rails sling me down the face with speed. Holy shit. I was falling behind the sections earlier on my Motorboat, but this board has me racing down the line faster than expected. I glide past two sections and try to unleash a carve on the lip. I don’t, or . . . I try, but the rails are so full that my efforts translate into a check turn. I pump past the end section and kick out clean.

     Sure, I’m not getting the usual, carvy performance that I like, but this board transforms my session. Now every wave is rideable.

     I’m battling it out at the peak with some surfers who also refuse to succumb to the current. I take off too deep on a couple of waves, resulting in me only going straight. The rising tide dwindles the shape even more. I goof off on my next couple of rides, going switch foot and backwards before falling off. By 1030, the party’s over.

     At the top of the hill, I see Macias pull up in his White Tacoma. “It’s Jon,” I say to Bri. “Fuck, I should tell him that I can’t go to his baby shower.”

     Bri looks at me with a serious face. “You’re going to his baby shower, babe. You have to! He makes an effort to surf with you.”

     “Okay, okay,” I say.

     I sneak up behind Macias and slap his ass. A random pedestrian behind me smiles at this. He was once an ass slapper of men in his younger days too. I can smell it.

     “You’re leaving?” says Macias.

     “Yeah,” I say.

     “Awww.” He looks down the hill at the surf. “I got your text. I came as soon as I could. I thought you’d still be out there.”

     I tell him that I’ll be going to his baby shower on Saturday, and then we hug and go our separate ways.

     So at least I got to paddle out, but today’s sesh was unsatisfying. The south swell is building though, and tomorrow I’m faced with the decision of where to go and surf, but I’ll be making a journey without my magic board, and that’s not good. HB? Trestles? All day staycation? Stay tuned. . .