THAT WAS ME, TUE 16JULY2013 EVE

Loc: El Porto

Time: 1800-1945

Crew: Bri                                                    

Conditions: 1-2 FT, scattered, onshore, choppy, consistent.

     My sister shows up at 1700 and relieves me of uncle duty. Since I missed out on going to the gym earlier, I’d really like to make up for it with an evening surf session. And then again, I just want to go to the beach period. It’s hot outside, the sun’s still bright, and I hate the thought of staying inland, especially when the sandy beach is just a couple of miles away. I haven’t pulled a local evening session since I’ve been back from Java.

     I know that the wind is on it, the surf will be small, and that I probably won’t even get a turn, but . . . just the idea of standing up on a wave and going straight, not even down the line, with the sun on my back, dripping wet from head to toe . . . how can I not go? This is the summer, a Southern California summer. Today’s surf culture is not what it was ten, twenty, fifty years ago, but I love being able to call myself a surfer and am more than proud to be a part of this community. Summer time is for the beach. Take advantage of it now. Winter is coming.

     With no school until August and a part time military commitment, what good am I if I remain a dry landlover for the rest of the evening? I go straight home, load up my gear, make sure I have quarters, and head to El Porto.

#

     As Bri and I pull into the 45^th Street parking lot, I say, “There’s not gonna be any parking.” It’s still early, and I’m sure that everyone and their bastard sons are at the beach, but there aren’t any cars behind us. Also, there isn’t the signature long line of cars in front of us. An SUV pulls out by the bathrooms, so we score on parking right away.

     From the lot, the surf looks rideable. There’s windchop and tiny windswell, but a bunch of longboarders are out there, and with Rick’s Zippy Fish, I’m guaranteed to catch some waves.

     Since Bri’s tired, she brings the beach blanket and reads a book. Even though the other surfers are in wetsuits, I have to try and trunk it; I want that free feeling of paddling unrestricted on this stylish fish. I shoot Rick a text just in case he decides to drive down for the sunset.

     I watch out for the lifeguard flag just north of tower forty two. The last thing I need is for the lifeguard to come out with his bullhorn, telling me to get my ass out of here.

     The water’s cool, but I’m confident that my body will adjust. Once out in the lineup, I take a look around to see the company that I’m in. There are a lot of guys on soft top longboards. They lie on their boards too far to the rear and scratch for waves that have already broken. They stand up for a moment of glory before falling with their arms flailing. Behind me on the inside, surfers are ditching their boards, unable to turtle dive the two-foot surf. A couple of buff guys sit in the lineup on shortboards, scratching out on the tiny waves. A couple thoughts occur to me. One thought is on the buff guys. I had a “buff guy” stage once. I was a gym rat, and the beach was the perfect excuse to show myself off. It’s true. I was a douche. The only things I was missing were the tattoos, muscle shirts, and spiky hair. These guys, I’m looking at them. I was just like them. I’ve learned a couple of things since then. Once you’re addicted to surfing, everything else takes a backseat.

     Surfing opened the passenger door and said to the Gym, “I’m riding shotgun,” while the Gym frowned and climbed into the backseat, whimpering away as he buckled his seatbelt.

     Gym said, “But . . . but—”

     Surfing cocked his hand back and slapped gym across the face while his mouth was still open. Blood tricked down the corner of Gym’s mouth. Surfing then grabbed him by the back of the head and smeared Gym’s blood all over his face, laughing and saying, “Why you bleeding? Why you bleeding?”

     “Surfing!” I said. “Leave him alone. He’s had enough.”

     Gym sat back against the seat. Surfing and I sniffed the air and looked at each other. The car smelled like fresh shit. . .

     In fact, nowadays I just can’t fuckin’ stand being in a gym. I feel so confined. Being around the guys who grunt so loud that everyone hears them, the guys who slam the weights, and the motherfuckers that can’t stop flexing at themselves in the mirror, all of those people just radiate so much energy that doesn’t jive with my own. When I do workout, I’m out the door in less than an hour. Mister and Mister buff, sitting out here on boards more for image than surfing, they’re bodybuilders first and surfers second, maybe third or fourth for all I know.

     The other beginners out here, struggling on their soft tops . . . fuck, that was me too. When I first started longboarding, this very hour was prime time. Why? Because less people surf when it’s blown out and crumbly. I used to be so insecure that I didn’t want other people seeing me surf, and I was so worried about being in the way. This hour with the wind strong, the surf choppy, and the waves barely a foot, this was the hour, in my Barney days, that I used to shine! I admire these surfers, coming out here, dedicated, stoked for going straight. I commend thee.

     At least this windswell is producing some surprise peaks. I can see them in the distance, knowing which ones will stand up with at least a small shoulder. Because of the mid tide, the two-footers closeout and reform before hitting the inside. I take off deep and late on the Zippy, able to stick my landings, hold my lines, and milk the waves for all they’ve got. This session isn’t for turns, it’s for funning around.

     I walk the board a couple of times, successfully pulling off some switch foots. I also experiment with walking the nose, turning, and riding the board backwards. A foam rider paddles past me, smiling and jabbering about something. I have no idea what he’s saying, but he’s happy. I smile back.

     I keep falling off of my board when I stand completely backwards, so I ride a lot of waves, twisted around, facing behind with my legs in place. It’s still fun. Other surfers look my way. Yes, you’re a Barney now, but one day, you’ll be a complete jack off like me!

     Two guys are riding pods, and they’re able to get some single shot turns, but . . . they’re engulfed in the midst of the foam army. They get dropped in repeatedly by surfers who haven’t put in enough time to know etiquette yet. Frustrated, they kick out with grimaces and paddle back to the lineup full of aggression.

     On the shore, I see Bri watching. I wave, and she waves back. I catch my next wave and do the Ravishing Rick Rude (WWF Wrestler back in the 80s). Going left, I clasp my hands behind my head and let out some pelvic thrusts into the El Porto air. When I get back to the lineup, I see that Rick and Jane have arrived. I paddle in. I’ve had my fair share of waves. Time with friends is just as important.

     Rick watches as Jane plays on the shorepound in her little one piece. I’m stoked that Rick’s somehow found a way to escape and get out of the house. We all stand on the shore and talk for a while, and Bri has to hold me from behind to keep me from shivering in my shorts. 

     When the meter maid arrives, we hop in our vehicles before we fall victim to her wrath. My phone beeps. I pick it up. It’s a text from Rick, who’s parked just a couple of cars away.

     His text reads: Did you want ice cream from Rite Aid? My treat.

     I show his text to Bri, and we both smile at each other. I’m so blessed to have someone like Rick in my life. Also, some pistachio nut ice cream in a sugar cone sounds good right about now. It took me ten minutes to drive here from home, cost me three dollars to park for two hours, but the sunset over the 45^th Street Tower is free. Leaving the El Porto parking lot, a woman in short shorts walks her tiny dog on a leash. Her ass cheeks are hanging out, but of course, I'm not looking at that. I’m just wondering what kind of shampoo she uses to get her hair so bouncy.