THE CURSE OF KHANG, SAT06JULY2013 MOR

The secret to homosexual connotations is in the MOUTH

Loc: Golden West (Huntington Beach)

Crew: Klaude and Khang

Conditions: 2-3 FT, inconsistent, overcast, mooshy, weak.

     Rick and I were texting back and forth all day yesterday about today. He wants to drive to Oceanside for a surgical strike. He, his brother John, Gary (AKA Balls Deep), and Gary’s son Russell have seats reserved in his van. One slot is available for me. The problem is that I have a family barbecue to attend in Sherman Oaks at two in the afternoon. If I ride with Rick, then there’s no guarantee that we’ll be back in time. If I drive south, then I’ll be exhausted before I make that long drive to the valley; plus I’ll be tired at the barbecue.

     I told Rick that I’d have to pass. Instead I decided to gamble on HB for the south swell.

#

     I wake up at 0445. I’m tired. I hit the snooze button and cuddle up to Briana’s curled body. At 0510 I force myself out of bed. Klaude and Khang are supposed to be here at 0530.

     I’m still packing snacks when there’s a knock at the door. I open it. It’s Klaude. Usually I’d let him in, but Bri is sleeping in full view. “I’ll be right out,” I say. I pack a couple of oatmeal cookies and head out the door.

     After loading up our gear, Khang drives up. Together on the 405 South, we embark on a journey that I’ve made many times in the past. Huntington Beach. I haven’t surfed it yet since I’ve been back. Over a year ago, Francis and I used to score this spot all the time. I don’t know how we got so lucky. I used to think that every drive to HB was worth it, but for some reason I’ve had the shittiest luck scoring here since Francis left. Last semester, I only had one good session that I could remember, and that was at Bolsa Chica. Most of the time I had driven south only to discover walled waves, blown out by the south wind. I hope today will be different.

     When we pull up, we see that the flags are blowing onshore. It’s bad news. The energy is off in the parking lot. Only one person is suiting up, it’s empty, and there’s no surfer buzz of guys running over the sand to rush the surf.

     I park, and we walk out to the shore. There it is before us: small and crumbly waves that are sectiony with short shoulders. We three gaze out in silence, telepathically agreeing that we’ve just been skunked.

     A long time ago, I made Klaude drive north with me to a south-facing break near Point Dume. We had gotten skunked. Despite Klaude’s pleas to head back to Manhattan Beach, I forced him to go to County Line. The surf there sucked, and Klaude was a little pissed off at me over that. “I just wanted a say in where we would surf,” is what he had told me. I learned from that.

     “So,” I say. “I’m open. We can either go back to Manhattan Beach or check Golden West since it’s in that direction. Or we can paddle out here. I’m cool either way.”

     Klaude and Khang look out and ponder. Poor Khang. Every time I take him surfing down south, ninety-nine percent of the time we get skunked. He’s either cursed, or every time he’s with me he’s cursed, or . . . every time we surf with each other we curse ourselves.

     The boys are cool with Golden West. When we arrive, we find that there’s a WSA surf contest going on. Even though it’s crowded, the waves here look much better than South Huntington. I suggest looking at Bolsa first, since I have a parking pass, but our recon there is fruitless. Golden West it is.

     I never realized how mellow Golden West is. The surf is packed because the contest has pushed everyone south, but the lineup is filled with beginners. Kids on longboards struggle to paddle and stay stuck to their decks. Others are riding the white wash on the inside.

     Klaude has to take a shit, so Khang and I wait for him on the sand. The water here is glassy, and we watch a three-foot, rogue wave pop out the back. It’s a bit sectiony, but the wave offers a left-hand shoulder that peels all the way to the competition zone. Klaude comes back and sees the waves. “I’m stoked now,” he says.

     I can’t stand crowds, but I can manage my way around beginners. We sit in the lineup, paddle around like starving sharks, and then we sit and wait some more. It was good earlier, but the surf has slowed down. When the first outside set rolls through, Klaude and I are out of position and have to paddle out to beat it. Everyone else scrambles for the first waves, which leaves Klaude and I alone out the back. A three-foot peak forms in front of us.

     I’m paddling into this left. It’s a signature HB wave, quick from the pop up and going racy fast. I get two pumps in before my first baby cutback. It feels so good. Redirecting my board down the line, I get top turn and kick out clean on the end section. Paddling back out, I see Klaude riding the wave behind mine. Fuck yeah. We’re like a one-two punch.

     Now, I can’t really tell you what happens after that. I mean, the waves slow down. The surf gets even more inconsistent as more surfers arrive. Pitiful. . . Waves form on the outside, and every surfer can’t get into them, save for the guys sitting on the shallows. For the next hour and a half, we jockey for position, take closeouts, and have to prostitute our anuses just to get a turn.

     At the two hour mark, we call it. No más.

Pho Session:

     Khang knows the spots in Westminister and Garden Grove. We meet up with Hideki and have brunch at a Vietnamese restaurant. What happened was Hideki had paddled out to the spot in South HB that Klaude told him we’d be surfing at. We surfed Golden West while Hideki had been in the water, waiting for us all along. 

     Hideki says, “Chris told me to bring you. He said that he feels like he knows you after reading your blog.” (Chris, I thank you for your interest in reading my stuff. It means a lot to have a reader, no matter who it is. Thank you.)

     After a round of beers, Pho, and egg rolls, I’m ready for a nap. 

Smokey’s Dilemma:

     So my best friend has to get rid of his dog because he’s moving from a house into an apartment. I’ve done my best to see if my family or close friends can take him. Before taking a nap, my sister texts me, asking me to bring Smokey so her family can meet him.

     I’m driving on the 405 North towards the valley with Smokey in the back of my wagon. So far he hasn’t shat or pissed in here, so that’s good. He sticks his head out the window and lolls his tongue. For the first time in my life, I’m cruising solo with just a dog. It feels good being a temporary dog owner. 

     My brother’s ex girlfriend Jessica shows up with my nephew Jaya. I feel guilty for never spending any time with him. I’ve been an absent uncle, and with my brother thousands of miles away, I feel the guilt of not being a part of my nephew’s life. I never had a male influence in my life until I moved to Maui for high school, and besides my grandfather, the male influence in my life wasn’t positive at all.

     With nervous hands and Jessica watching, I carry Jaya into my sister’s pool. It’s his very first pool experience. He’s scared at first, but eventually he gets comfortable, wanting me to take him over to the deep end. He won’t have many father-son moments in his life. I know what that’s like. The only memories I have of my dad is him coming home from the pineapple field when I was a little kid in Maui. He picked me up once, and I felt the sharp, wiry pricks of his mustache when he kissed me. The other memory I have of him is when he came to Los Angeles unannounced. I was watching Looney Tunes. Tweety Bird said, “I tawt I taw a putty tat,” when I saw my dad push my mom on the bed and hit her. Both of my sister’s tried to restrain him, and that’s when the bedroom door slammed, leaving me in the living room. I was in the second grade. I hope to be a part of Jaya’s life to give him some better memories than that. Right now I’m stoked that Jaya’s first time being in a pool is with his uncle Matt.

     I keep an eye on Smokey. I’m nervous that he’s gonna bite one of the kids or jump on the table and start eating the food, but he’s fine. If anything, he’s just curious walking around my sister’s house, checking his new surroundings. My sister tells me that she’s willing to take him temporarily until my bestfriend finds Smokey a permanent home. 

The damn dog loves Bri more than he loves me.

     Family, food, and French apple pie. I went from Huntington to Westminister, to El Segundo, to Lawndale, to Sherman Oaks, and back to El Segundo all in one day. I’m so tired. I’m supposed to get up at first light and surf again tomorrow. I don’t know if I’ll be able to.

     It’s a quarter to one in the morning. I rummage through the fridge for some post sex apple pie. “Hunnie,” says Bri, “you shouldn’t eat so late. It’s bad for you.”

     “I know,” I say, but I can’t stop my spoon from shoveling food into my mouth. I lie back down and wait for Bri to fall asleep. In the darkness I hear her heavy breathing on the pillow. I try not to wake her up when I open the Marie Calendar’s pie box again.