THE HIATUS SESSION, FRI 19JULY2013 MOR

Loc: Rosecrans

Time: 0600-0900

Crew: Rick and the WHC                                       

Conditions: 2-4 FT, scattered, light onshore, choppy, consistent, high tide.

     It’s 0520, and I’m driving between 26^th Street and Rosecrans, looking for free fucking parking. Fridays are a bitch because of street cleaning. Why am I up so early? One, because I told Rick that I’d surf with him and his homeboys. They don’t like my favorite spot, so if I want to surf with Rick I have to be flexible. Two, because I’m flying with Bri to Oregon tonight to meet her family, but her family isn’t what has my anus gaped. I’ll be back on Tuesday night, which means that I’ll be without surfing for four whole days. Do you hear me? Four days without surfing.

     I can’t find an open spot that will be free of the street cleaner’s wrath, so I park on Rosecrans, where I’ll have to move my car by 0800 to avoid a parking ticket.

     Since my Mini Driver is in the shop (Rick’s garage), I have to make do with my Motorboat Too this morning. I unsheathe it from my Creatures’ surf sock. I haven’t ridden it in so long that it looks like an artifact. My wax job from a month ago is patchy, so I grab a fresh bar of cool water wax and go to town on it. As I rub it on, the old wax starts to flake off, leaving nothing but the bare deck. Motherfucker. I whip out the basecoat, trying to rewax the bare areas, but it’s not sticking.

     “Matt!” I look up. It’s Rick coming down the hill. “You shouldn’t park here,” he says. “Street cleaning. You should park up by the meters.”

     “The meters are the same thing,” I say. “I’ll have to come out at eight anyway.”

     “Yeah, but if you feed it now, it won’t charge you until eight.” He looks down the hill at the surf. “I gotta get going. Gary, Dave, and the boys are already out there. I’m late.”

     At my new parking spot up the hill, I’m still faced with the dilemma of my board. I’m furious and frustrated, trying to force this wax on, but it still resists. I should just strip the whole thing, but . . . it’s almost 0600. I’m running late too. I should be in the water. Don’t be an idiot, just put on as much wax as possible and head out.

     I haven’t surfed Porto in the morning since I’ve been home (about a month), and I’m stoked to see that the surf is uncrowded at this hour. That’s the only reason why I don’t surf Porto so much anymore—the crowd. At least my spot has familiar faces, and people who know each other don’t want to snake each other. There’s an order and unwritten rules to follow, which of course get violated from time to time, but it’s not the killing field that Porto is.

     Rick and all his boys are out. There’s Dave T, Gary and his son Russ, Manny A, and Jimmy B. We’re all spread out, and some nice, four-foot sets start rolling in. The sandbars here are a little better than my spot, perhaps. The south swell seems to be wrapping around into the South Bay a nicely, and the energy of good surf is in the air.

     The wind is light onshore, creating just a little texture on the surface, but it’s still on the glassy side. I scratch out on my first couple of waves. I do everything I can: scratch, kick, and try to go late. The waves break a little later than expected. The swell has decent size, but it’s a little mooshy because of the tide. In fact, the tide will be topping off around eight o’clock, so it’s still getting higher.

     I feel off without my Mini Driver. I already feel the loss of volume just paddling around on this board. I get my first left. Rick backs out for me, which is rare because he’s a reptile. My board feels so loose that I struggle to get my footing as I setup for my first turn. I get a small carve, not able to milk the wave for its riding potential. On my second turn, I lose balance and fall backwards. Reaching the surface, I see Rick at the lineup, smiling and giving me a thumbs up.

     Everyone else makes a killing. They position themselves in the right spots, throwing out buckets. It’s different surfing with Rick and his boys, but they’re so much better than me; I know that surfing with them will help me progress, but it’s also inspiring because these guys are older and they’re still ripping. I hope to shred when I’m shriveled and old.

     By 0700, I remember why I don’t surf here. It’s fucking CROWDED. Holy shit. . . I mean, no one was here at first, and now all of Manhattan Beach has trickled in through the parking lot and down the hill. Fuckin’ A, man. Too many people and not enough waves. The rising tide and wind make the waves less consistent and choppier. I struggle to find a wave with shape. Needing some breathing room, I paddle up to Rick and tell him that I’m paddling further south. What I don’t tell him is that I might paddle all the way to my favorite spot.

     I paddle south, catching rights to help me in my campaign to cover some distance. During my journey, I just so happen to paddle right into the perfect spot for a right. A guy, who’s been waiting here, turns and goes on the wave even though I’m in position. I still take the wave, and I’m behind him. After a couple of pumps, he looks to his rear, sees me, and kicks out.

     Now, I don’t know if what I did counts as back paddling, but I was literally paddling from point A to point B and just so happened to come up on a wave. I’m upset that that guy went, but I press on, hoping to see some of my boys.

     When I reach my favorite break, I see that none of the DRC are out. I know that Khang had told me last night that he’d be surfing here today, but I don’t see him. A lot of the usual locals are missing. A surprise. On a day like today with a good rating, there aren’t as many people as usual. A sense of emptiness overwhelms me. I feel as if I’ve betrayed this spot or missed out on something because I wasn’t here earlier.

     The tide is killing it. When I had first set eyes on the break in front of Rosecrans at 0545 in the morning, that was the closing window of good surf. Now the waves are sectiony, inconsistent, choppy, and mooshy. Even Don K, the king of this break, is riding a fun-sized board.

     I catch a left and purl. On a right, I lack the volume to get down the line and just bog out. Fuck. It’s not Surfline’s fault. They usually don’t determine a forecast depending on the tide.

     Despite the conditions, I can see that the swell has potential. The south swell is producing waves, and some of them are still breaking through the tide.

     After a while, I get in sync with my old board. I catch a racy left and pump to the open face to set up for a monster turn. On my Mini Driver, I usually end up with a slow and deep carve. I turn with the same power that I normally do, but on this board, it’s so loose that I’m unprepared for how easy its tail throws out. I almost do a layback snap from pushing so hard, but what really surprises me is how I’m able to bring the board back under my feet and recover. Even though the wave is now white wash, I ride out of it. I miss my Mini Driver, but it’s nice to practice turns on my smaller board too.

     I hunt for another good left, but I end up with rights, precision rights. I call them precision rights because I’m feeling how snappier this board is. On my Mini Driver, I have to put a lot of weight on the tail on my backhand snaps, but on my Motorboat, it’s like I just point and shoot or . . . eye the spot where I want to snap, and then bam! Really sharp and concise. This is fun.

     Too bad the tide has shut down everything. I had planned to surf until 1000, but at 0900 I have to call it. I’m done. The waves are too sectiony, and turns are hard to come by.

     Back at my wagon, I see that Rick and the boys have already left too, probably much earlier when the surf took a shit.

     Now I’m at home, packing my bag, thinking about this trip. I guess my body can use a break. My knees have been bothering me, and this morning’s paddle has made my left shoulder a little tender.

     Bri says her mom makes good, homemade biscuits and gravy. I’ve never had homemade biscuits and gravy before. I just hope that her family is ready for a Black man to sit down at the dinner table with them. I hope that I won’t be woken up in the middle of the night to barking dogs and a burning cross on the front lawn. I should wear a hat and buy some skin bleach.

     AND . . . it looks like there’s still some swell when I get home. I’ll be resting, recharging, and refueling in the meantime. I’ll be taking a small hiatus, ready come back and go straight vagina these some waves. Awwwww yeaaaaah. . .