THE ONLY IDIOTS IN BOARDSHORTS, SAT29JUN2013 MOR

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Crew: Bri and Klaude

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, glassy, consistent, foggy, fucking cold.

     Rashguard and boardshorts. Wait, let me rephrase that: LONGSLEEVE rashguard and boardshorts. Why? Because yesterday’s wetsuit is still wet, and . . . it’s summer. The water should be a little warmer today. PV was pretty warm yesterday, so today should be warm right?

     The second my feet touch the water, my toes go numb. I turn to Bri and say, “It’s not so bad.”

     She’s the smart one who put on her old, 3/2 wetsuit. When the water hits her feet, she turns to me, scrunches her eyebrows up and makes an “O-face.” Fuck me.

     The water hits my beltline and creeps up my lower back. I can’t feel my balls anymore. I piss in my shorts, and the warmth scatters and runs off like an abused dog who darts for the gate that’s been left open. Fuck. Everyone around me is in a wetsuit. I paddle. I paddle HARD. Must stay warm. The current’s strong, which is good. The shore is foggy. Even better because now I have to force-paddle to stay in place in the spot that I think I may or may not be in.

     Waves . . . the waves are fucking good. I catch a right and force two backhand turns. I don’t know if I get any spray out the back, but at the end of my ride when I step off the rail, my whole body gets submerged under the cold ocean. Ohhhhhh, sooooo collllllllld!

     “Baby, are you all right?” says Bri. “You’re teeth are chattering.”

     Teeth? I have teeth? I can’t feel them. What the fuck happened to summer? Yesterday my apartment was so hot that it gave me a case of the anal sweats, and that was while sitting on my couch watching porn on my iPhone; I wasn’t even jacking off.

     The fog lifts a little, revealing that we’re one lifeguard tower south of where we had paddled out. We see Klaude just north of us. I paddle up to him. He’s in his Rip Curl rashguard and boardshorts. “I’m freezing,” he says.

     “Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”

     Bri goes for a left. It’s critical. The waves are still standing up, just as good as two days ago, except now we have the weekend crowd. She takes the wave late. I expect to see her board fly up in the air, but then the back of her head pops up, and she goes left down the line. 

     “I’m done,” says Klaude. “I’m too cold. Everyone else was like, ‘Klaude, what are you doing?’”

     Outside, there’s such a good set. I’m out of position, watching two perfect lefts peel in front of me. Refusing to submit to the cold, I pull into a couple of waves, but I’m reckless. One of my wipeouts lands me on top of my fins. I feel my back, surprised that I’m not cut. I want barrel practice, but I’m so cold that I can’t enjoy the surf.

     I get one frontside carve. I get good rail on the face, but as I direct myself out of it I fall. A local guy Todsu says, “Nice turn.” I try to smile back without shivering.

     “One more wave,” I say to Bri. “One more. I can’t do this anymore.”

     A peak pops up. We split it. On the inside, after our rides, Bri’s looking at me, smiling and excited about something. Once we’re on the sand, she says, “Did you see that?”

     “No.”

     “Oh my God, I was right in the pocket on the highline. I’ve never caught a wave that close to the pocket before. It was the wave of my life!”

     “Good,” I say. I turn and look through the fog. Surfers are hooting. People are still paddling out. The waves thump as they crash. It’s a good day of surf out there, but I couldn’t enjoy it because I trunked it like a fuckin’ idiot.

     Twenty minutes later, we’re in Mandy’s Family Restaurant. I’m hovering over my hot coffee, thinking: dumbass. . .