Loc:
Manhattan Beach
Time:
0715-0900
Crew: Bri
Conditions:
1-3 FT, scattered, onshore.
I’m following Surfline’s recommendations,
staying local since everywhere (except South Orange County) has a poor to fair
rating. I wouldn’t mind going to Bolsa, but I can save that for later in the
week. Local was good yesterday, and I know that today’s swell has tapered off.
I just hope that there are some scraps left over.
#
I was supposed to wake up at 0530, but
thanks to season three of Game of Thrones,
Bri and I roll out of bed an hour late. I’m tired. We’re tired. Surfing drains
the body, especially if you go to the gym afterwards like we had done
yesterday. I went to go and babysit while Bri followed it up with a run around
El Segundo.
Brushing my teeth in the bathroom, I hear
Bri say, “My body’s sore.”
So is mine. How about a lay day? My body
could use it. The bed’s inviting, and my muscles could easily sink back into
that mattress and relax. It’s a battle between the Surf Gods and the Bed Gods.
The Surf Gods say, “Holy shit, Duckbutter!
You best unfuck yourself and get your goat-smelling ass in gear! You’re an hour
late! Fill up those hot water jugs and grab your gear! Move it!”
The Bed Gods say, “Maaaaaan, fuck that
nigga. Ey, homie. What you need to do is fuck what that other muthafuckah is
sayin’, come back here right unduh deez sheets, close your eyes, and wake up
around ten o’clock after you nice and rested, and then tear into them carnitas
you got in the fridge.”
Damn these voices in my head. I walk out to
the living room and ask Bri, “Do you wanna surf? I know you’re tired. I’m
tired. You don’t have to.”
She cracks open her eye lids while still
sitting on the edge of the bed. “Yeah. I wanna surf.”
#
I shoot Macias a text message, letting him
know that I’m leaving the house. I had invited him for a paddle out last night
and told him that I’d be out early. He texts back: Running late today, huh
buddy?
This infuriates me. I text him back: Better
to be an hour late than a year late.
He says that he already started working,
and that he won’t be able to make it.
“Don’t tell Shan we’re going,” says Bri.
Now I have those two guys in my mind.
Despite our differences, they’ve been there for me in the past during my low
times. They’ve checked on me by their own will and have asked to meet up and
talk. How many times have I said that I can’t let surfing define my
relationships?
Macias . . . Jon Macias. He gets the ghetto
pass. Why? I know that he won’t paddle out by himself. If he paddles out, it’s
to hang out. I’ll catch him another day.
Shan . . . my girlfriend doesn’t like him. It’s
not that I don’t like him, it’s just that his surfing. . . (Reader, do you ever
struggle with your friendships, trying to see the ultimate good in people, no
matter how challenging?)
When we park up the hill from the beach, I
shoot a text to Shan letting him know that I’m here.
“You didn’t text Shan, did you?” says Bri.
“No. I didn’t,” I say.
#
The wind is on it. Onshore wind doesn’t
guarantee a skunked session. Sometimes onshore surf can still be fun, so long
as the rest of the conditions are in the “green.” In this case, small lines are
rolling through, the sun is out, and the tide is just about to bottom out. If
there’s a good window to surf it’s now.
On the shore, most of the locals have
paddled out in front of the brick house just north of the tower. This spot
works well and shuts down on the medium to high tide. There’s one of my
favorite lefts just south of the tower, but it’s hard to gravitate towards it.
With the lack of a crowd there, I wonder if it’s inconsistent there. I begin
walking towards the brick house, and then I ask Bri, “What do you think? Where
should we paddle out?”
She looks past the brick house further
north and says, “There’s no one over there.”
We walk pass the king of this local spot,
Mr. Don K. “Don,” I say.”
“Hey, what’s up?” He smiles while zipping
up his wetsuit.
“Did you hear about yesterday?”
“No,” he says.
I smile. “It was gooooooood.”
“Oh . . . no, I didn’t hear that. I had a
dentist appointment.” He grabs his board. “But thanks for rubbing it in!”
Bri and I have chosen to go with the trunks
and rashguards today, since yesterday was so warm, but . . . today there’s more
wind. There’s a 50/50 chance that we may regret this.
I walk out to the water first while Bri
warms up. When my feet touch the water, I turn around quickly and start walking
back to her. Her face expresses concern. “We’re going back,” I say. “It’s too
cold.” I point back up the hill. “We’re changing into our wetsuits.” Her mouth
hangs agape. I smile and laugh, and then I head back towards the water.
#
The inside is just as consistent as
yesterday but with smaller waves, still posing a challenge to the handicapped
duckdiver or a beginner surfer. Just as I reach the lineup, a random, four-foot
peak just juts out right in front of me. I turn and go for it. Bri is barely
paddling over it. The wave breaks right on top of me. With the rest of the
locals watching, I eat shit on the late takeoff and get sucked under.
The water is a little cool, but it’s
manageable. Bri’s already shaking in her rashguard. She struggles like
yesterday, trying to find the right place to sit. I don’t blame her. I’m so
used to these local conditions that I find them fun, but for her . . . she hasn’t
seen it like this much. Usually when we’ve been out here, we’ve surfed it on
some wrap around groundswell from the south. Windswell is different. Eventually,
she picks a bump that stands up just enough to let her in, and she rides the
fast corner to shore. She’s learning.
For me, it’s hard to get a good, clean,
down-the-line ride, but I do my best. Some of the peaks jack up unexpectedly,
and most of them look like they’re going to break but don’t.
The local vets are sitting directly in
front of the brick house where it’s most consistent. Davey, who’s recently
shaved his lumberjack beard, rides the lefts well. He’s able to clear the
sections with his long floaters, sticking three-sixty airs and landing them.
The airs aren’t massive, but they’re legit. Don K. takes a lot of waves too,
but I only see him from the pop up, getting up fast and early, already with his
arms bent at their elbows with his slight crouch, eyeing the line he’s about to
draw like he’s a painter staring at an open canvas. Ross is out there too. I’d
like to hang with the big boys, but they are in a different league. They own it
right now. Those waves are theirs.
I get a couple of rights and get one turn
at the most. The lefts are lining up better, and it’s the choppy, fast waves
that are the most fun. I love popping up and seeing an open, racy section in
front of me; all I need is a little shoulder. So long as it’s not closing out,
I love pumping and making those split second decisions on where to draw my
line. Should I go high or mid face? Should I try to do a floater or see if I
can get a turn instead? I’m addicted to the speed because I know that that’s
when I have the green light to carve. I do this thing now where I gain more
torque by throwing my front shoulder forward and raise my rear arm (on my
frontside). It doesn’t feel experimental anymore but technical, like the way a
Muay Thai kickboxer uncoils when he blasts the kicking pads with his shins. My
Lost Mini Driver has made my surfing experience so much better. I catch more
waves with it and have enough volume to make paddling easier (I can go on and
on so I won’t).
About an hour in, the tide slows things
down. It’s expected because the smaller swell is more vulnerable to the tide.
The wind also comes up, which makes the conditions worse. I try to scratch into
waves, but they moosh out. Most of the waves are closing out now. It’s hard
even to get a turn. Also, I’m getting cold. My lack of waves results in the
lack of energy being burnt. “A couple more waves and I’m done,” I say to Bri.
“Awww,” she says. “I was just warming up.”
“Well . . .” I’m a bitch, “we can go for a
couple more. You can.”
After my next wave, I motion that I’m
heading towards the shore. Bri follows me in.
We approach Christina who’s just shown up
with her Trader Joe’s back and her blue Zippy Fish. “Awww,” she says. “Early
birds.”
We give her our first-hand accounts on the
surf, and then she heads to the water. Shan shows up to, just seconds behind
her. He’s brought out his single fin, longboard.
#
After a large breakfast, we take a nap
before heading to the gym. The problem is that we’re so drained that we sleep
through my alarm. No gym today.
Back at my sister’s house, we hang out with
Taco the dog and my niece Nyki. I made amends with Taco yesterday and told him
how sorry I was for beating him.
I get his leash and head towards the door, signaling
that it’s time for his walk. He’s still scared of me, so he’s reluctant to get
too close. Bri picks him up and brings him to me, and that’s when a stream of
piss leaves his doggy dick hole. I’ll have to clean that up.
Without a gym session in today, I
contemplate on an evening session. I know it will be blown out and terrible,
but it would be nice just to catch a wave down the line, going straight. No
turns necessary, I would be happy to be in the water one more time today. I’m
lucky to be this close to the ocean.
Nyki’s behaving and happy, in her bedroom
watching Charlie Brown. Bri’s passed out on the couch with a book on her
breasts. Taco’s knocked out on the sofa, curled into a doggy ball. Cars swoosh
pass on La Tijera Boulevard just outside the open, living room windows. I walk
to the bathroom and close the door. Out comes the carnitas that I had for
breakfast, nice and solid as an acorn in one, nuggety log. I wipe my ass, and
there’s no shit on the paper. Ahhhhh yes . . . today’s a good day to be alive.
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