IT DOES BARREL, THU27JUN2013 MOR

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, offshore, consistent, round.

Pre Blog:

     Last night, looking at the surf report, I felt it in my bones. Something about my soul’s yearning and something about the conditions for tomorrow’s surf. The tide would be bottomed out at first light, and the surf would be three-to-four plus. Something about that plus sign at the end and the way that I’ve seen the sandbars working, the best that I’ve seen the local sandbars since before my deployment to Iraq in 2009. In the past I’d look at the forecast and wait for the higher tide. Avoid it when it’s dumpy is what I would have thought, but there was something about the forecast that told me that the low tide and dump was just what “it” needed.

Be a Local Again:

     After scoring free parking a couple streets down from the surf, I begin my trek to the sand. Consistent with June, it’s a bit gloomy out. It’s not the appetizing summer, sunny morning that one in SoCal would expect. Hard to compare this surfing experience from the one I was still experiencing just ten days ago.

     When I reach the sand, I see that the surf is a bit drained out. Guys are walking their boards out to the impact zone. Surfers are paddling south to fight the current, still unsure of where to sit. The forecast is accurate with surf in the three-to-four foot range, but it’s dumpy . . . of course it is. I thought I would be. I’m not surprised, and I tell myself that I’d wait it out in my car a little longer if I had VIP parking by the lifeguard tower, but I don’t. There are a few corners, quick ones, good for a turn or two.

     Wading through the ankle-deep water with my board in hand, I see a guy hanging out with Ross the Ripper and Don K. He takes a rampy left and pumps down the line like he’s setting up for something. I’ve daydreamed and mindsurfed exactly how this guy is surfing. At the end section he boosts and does a small three-sixty air, sticking the landing. He was only inches above the wave, but he broke the fins loose. It counts. He holds both of his hands up at shoulder level and clenches them into fists. 

     Ross follows up with a left of his own. Trading off a wave with his friend, he contorts his body and unwinds to unleash a powerful, front-side hack.

     There’s something in the air about the surf. Only the dedicated, veteran crew is out this early, and they’re all surfing it, stoked as kids. I paddle out, smile, and wave. They do the same back; they recognize my face.

Magic Board:

     I never thought that I’d use this Lost board as my all around board. The dimensions were initially meant for East Java barrels, and despite failing at my barrel attempts during my vacation, this board has worked on different waves. This morning as the tide push begins, some of the waves are walling up and going round. How ironic that this board that I had bought for Indo will be tested to suit its purpose here at my home break.

     In front of the lifeguard tower, there’s a local guy paddling for a set wave. I don’t know his name, but he’s always out here. He’s an older guy with leathered skin and short hair. He looks Italian, but I could be wrong. A bunch of guys hoot him on his wave. He paddles, but then he stops. He’s caught in that moment when the wave should let him in, when you pop up and should slide down, but he’s suspended, and he stuck high on the lip. One or two more strokes would have done it. They guy looks towards the crowd with an “oops” face and goes over the falls. Seeing this reminds me of my brother’s advice when he took me to Machines: “Always put in a couple extra paddles. You’ll think the wave is gonna let you in, but it won’t. You’ll get lip launched. Always a couple extra strokes when it’s round.”

Pull In:

     I couldn’t get barreled in Java because I was defeating myself and wiping out in my mind before I even popped up. The reef, the reef and the size were the beasts that caused my cowardice. But here at my home break, where I feel most comfortable, the waves are going round, playful round just under five feet, and there’s no reef. What better conditions could I ask for? I have no excuses. On this morning, winter’s come early. The South Bay isn’t supposed to be this good in the summer. I look towards the sand in hopes to see some of my homies warming up, but none of them are here. I wish I had someone close to share this with me.

     Others drift south, oblivious to the current’s power. I fight it and keep position in front of the tower. This is good. Fighting the current is a must, for paddle improvement and to hold down a spot for myself.

     Sitting in the lineup and looking out, my excitement gives me subtle anxiety and makes my stomach light. I’m going to pull in on every wave today.

Making it Out Isn’t Everything:

     Those five words above, right there, Klaude had told me that when I was in Java. “Making it out isn’t everything.” Those words make more sense to me now. In Java, I had placed my expectations way too high even though I acted like I didn’t. I couldn’t silence the critic in me to come back “with my shield.” I should have aimed to accept that I might “come home on it” instead. Plus I’m not a barrel expert, nor have I ever been barreled before, so . . . why expect so much? Just go for it. Pull in and see what happens. It doesn’t matter if I make it out, but pulling in is the only way that I can progress to do so.

Go:

     On my first wave, I paddle and kick, and then I stop. The wave should be letting me in right now. It has to, you see because my intention is to slide down and draw a line close to the face, but why the fuck am I hung up? The wave lets me in as it’s curling, and it closes out as I draw a line straight to shore. Fuckin’ A. I forgot to follow my brother’s advice.

     Close outs, most of the waves are closeouts, but it doesn’t matter. Pre-Java Donny Duckbutter would have straightened out. “Not worth it,” he would have said. “Closeout . . . nowhere to go.” But Duckbutter 2.0 is willing to give it a try. He’s pulling in with both arms extended, trying to make himself small. He’s barely in there long enough to get a glimpse of the opening at the end, but he’s making it out the back unharmed after every attempt.

     Most vets say, “The barrel is the safest place to be in the wave.” I thought that was bullshit before, but it’s making sense to me. Frontside, I just bail out the back as the wave is closing out. I’m unscathed and in good position to get to the safety of the lineup instead of having to paddle back out from the inside.

Perspective:

     Let me be honest. . . Not all of the waves are hollow. Some are spilling, and I catch these with the intent to pump down the line and get a couple of turns. However, some of the faces reform and offer and almond slot on some of the sections. I miss these. Instead of pulling in, I pump past the section and go for some carves, and today on this Lost board, man . . . my carves are solid and full of rail. Since being home, these are the best turns that I’ve had on this board. I realize how well this board works, and the funny thing is that it’s not because of my surfing. These waves are standing up Huntington style, so they give so much speed that it’s impossible to lose momentum.

     Anyhow, I beat myself up a little for not pulling into those sections. You see, I’m only pulling in from the drop, and I’m not used to waiting for a section to open. This will take more training and more time.

     There are other waves though that are coming in walled, and they have so much water behind them. The ones with a little shoulder at the end, they look fast, but for the first time in my surfing career (we all have one, paid or not) I notice that those aren’t “throw away” waves. Those are the ones that will do it, the ones that will open up.

Breakthrough:

     One of those waves is coming. It’s the first wave of a set. I’m deepest for it. Guys on the shoulder are already making a move, and they’re not looking back. I’ve never paddled into round waves before without pre defeating myself, but this time it’s different. I’ve also never had the appreciation for round waves here because I could never tell that I was in one. With a new perspective, I feel how the wave is picking me up and how fast it is. I appreciate my hard paddles and splashing kicks, a few extra ones for good measure as Randy had taught me. My timing is good, popping up with ample time before the wave closes out.

     Fuck . . . it does barrel here. It always has. I was just too inexperienced to see it. When I had seen other guys get barreled, I would ask myself, “How? How did they know?” I’m not saying that I “know” what they do, but I do “know” more than I did before.

     A local guy is paddling into the shoulder. He doesn’t see me. I hate to call off a fellow local who I respect, but I have no choice but to yell, “WOOOOOH!” to call him off of the wave. He turns around and sees me.

     What do the vets and the gifted do in these situations? Maybe I should fade out, draw a line back in, check turn, and put a hand in the wave and stall. “Barrel technique” was what my brother had said in Java: “You have to work on your barrel technique.” My barrel technique is in its infantile stages, so I pull in off of the drop and hold a line close to the face.

     Any time that I’ve been in “the tube” in the South Bay, it was brief, and as brief as this tube ride is, it’s the longest that I’ve ever been in one at home. It’s like the flipside of that backhand barrel attempt that I had in Java. For the first time here at home, I’m watching the water swirl over my head as I’m in the barrel just behind the shoulder. I’m in there long enough to see down the line, how the face is building up so vertical right in front of me, and then . . . time inside of it is just too fast for me. I can’t keep up. Maybe I should be looking at the exit instead of the water. Am I looking at the water? Too fast. Even though I can’t see my own face, I imagine that I’m grimacing as I’m staring down the barrel of a gun. Hold the line, I’m trying, and on the highline at the very end, I’m pinched and get sucked down on top of my board.

A New Addiction:

     I feel like how I felt after that backhand barrel attempt on that right-hand slab in Java. I had almost made it out; it was possible: if I try hard enough I can get barreled.

     In this present moment, I’m paddling back to the lineup with an open grin and eyes wide. The guy who had almost dropped in on me says, “Sorry ‘bout that, brah. How was it?”

     “Oh!” I say. Fuck, here comes the giddiness (Let’s just skip my girly moment).

     Epiphany, realization, or whatever you want to call it, I can get barreled here; it does barrel here. Who cares that I didn’t make it out. I want . . . another wave.

     The crowd is thicker now as we enter midmorning. The current still drags guys north, and I’m still fighting the current to get back to my spot that’s right in front of the lifeguard tower.

     I don’t get another wave like the one above, but I’m going for broke, pulling into every closeout that comes, and then I realize that I’m being greedy. I need to chill out. No one likes a wave hog. Settle down. . .

     Halting my campaign, I let the current take me a little north where the rights are breaking, and the backhand barrel attempts are just as fun.

     Pig dogging . . . I had never pig dogged until Java, and even though I didn’t get a month’s worth of practice while I was there, I’ve done it enough to know how to do it. That being said, it doesn’t mean that I do it well.

     Grab rail and pull in. The positioning in the wave spells commitment and confidence. I understand why some people like backhand barrels more than frontside ones. Technique . . . I’m so guilty of loving the image of myself being in the slot (even for a mini second) grabbing rail with my right hand in the face of the wave.

     On some of the attempts, I’m in there long enough just to hold that line and slow down time and be in the moment before the wave closes out. Addiction. I’m addicted to these small, playful, round waves.

     On the inside, I even see one of the local guys (he rides a neon pink fish and has a burly beard) pull into a left-hand barrel. He’s going down the line as the face stands up, goes vertical, and cascades over him. I see him through the water: one, two, three pumps, and then he gets pinched on the highline.

     It’s not just me. Even the guys with status aren’t making it out.

So Now What?:

     The wind and the tide comes up, making the waves both mooshy and choppy. I head back to my car, and as I’m changing, I see Khang’s van drive by. Khang didn’t see me, but he’s heading over to the parking lot. Fuck, I wish he came out earlier. I shoot him a text and drive out.

     So now . . . Manhattan Beach and Porto, I see the South Bay differently. It’s not HB here, and it sure as hell ain’t Trestles, but . . . there are waves here, good ones. The sandbars are working, and with the right conditions and the right swell, it barrels. I’ve been to Bali and Java, looking for a surfing experience that has been right here all along. I think I’ll be spending a lot more time earning my stripes in the South Bay.