TO SHARE SURFING, FRI28JUN2013 MOR

Loc: Palos Verdes

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 1-2 FT+, glassy, inconsistent, soft, foggy, kelp infested.

     How do most guys share surfing with their girlfriends? I had such a good session yesterday, but today, this morning, my girlfriend wants to surf. I know that the swell is pumping, the tide is low, it’s a little round, and . . . I worry about her safety in those conditions. She wants to surf, so . . . what’s a good boyfriend to do?

A.)    “I’m gonna surf Manhattan Beach. You should just go to PV by yourself. You’ll have fun, the waves are softer there.

B.)    “I don’t know about you, but I’m staying local. It’s fucking good right now. You should probably stay home.”

C.)    “We should surf PV. It will more manageable out there.”

#

     I’m lucky to have a girlfriend that doesn’t have a life that depends on caking on makeup on Friday nights and dressing up in short skirts that show her snatch to guys in the pubs and clubs. Fuckin’ A, man, my girl likes to surf. Thank goodness . . . no, no trips to the malls to go shopping for useless shit. My girl likes the sound of cobblestones when the waves hit the shore, campfires on the beach, the feeling of going down the line on her longboard, and coming home exhausted and salt riddened from good sessions. That being said, I must share surfing with her, and in doing so, that means sacrificing. I want to surf Manhattan Beach again after yesterday’s epic session, but the conditions are dangerous for her, and I can’t be selfish, thinking about my own surfing. We’ll share, so we drive through the fog towards PV, hoping that the swell has enough west in it to produce some decent waves.

Gloom:

     Yeah, forget about a sunny, summer morning. The fog’s so thick when we park that we can’t see the cove down below. Suit up and walk down, that’s the plan.

     A woman in a Ford Explorer parks behind us, one of the only four cars parked on the hill this morning. She steps out and says, “How does it look?”

     She’s a vet . . . maybe pushing sixty. Her skin’s light and weathered from years under the sun. She smiles under her short, blond hair and cherry-red lipstick. “I don’t know,” I say. “Can’t see anything.”

     She walks to the lookout point and comes back. “You’re right,” she says.

     Bri and I smile at her. She’s a nice woman, but for some reason I can’t help but fit her into the category of Crazy Cat Lady.

     We all change and walk down the hill at the same time. She says, “I surfed Ventura yesterday. It was fun! Oh, and by the way, my name’s Kat. What’s yours?”

     We go through the introductions and make our way down to the cove. The fog’s so thick that we can’t see the lineup. With the low tide, the rocks on the inside are exposed. One longboarder paddles towards us through the fog. “Are there waves?” asks Kat.

     The surfer smirks and says, “Yeah. . .” He frowns, and the look on his face spells disappointment.

     We walk to deeper water and paddle out. The water’s so clear that I can see everything beneath it, so it’s easy to avoid the rocks. The subtle white noise of the white wash gets louder. Clumps of kelp are scattered all around us like land mines. Two surfers sit at the south side of the cove, not far from us. On their longboards, they paddle into one-foot waves. I

     I like dense fog. It makes every wave a surprise. Who knows what’s out there when you can’t see? There might be a good wave coming our way, but on this morning . . . it’s inconsistent and small.

     “Sorry I made you come here,” says Bri.

     “No, that’s okay.” I look down at the Lost logo on my deck. “I was curious to see what this place was doing.”

     The conditions are right for this place: low tide, no wind, super glassy. But there just isn’t enough swell, and since it’s foggy, every surfer who came for a spot check has no choice but to paddle out in order to see the surf. The main peak is crowded. Stand up paddlers even make their way out.    

     The waves aren’t even three feet, but they are rideable. However, the kelp . . . the fucking kelp. Every time I try to set up for a turn, the kelp slows me down like speed bumps on a residential street. I lose momentum and can only trim.

     Bri’s doing fine. Even though her board snags on the kelp, her longboard is able to plow through it, giving her some decent distance.

     We surf for a couple hours and head home. I know Manhattan Beach was good, but that’s okay. It was a reasonable sacrifice to surf elsewhere. I can surf by myself any time I want to, but to share it with someone means to be selfless. I value Bri’s safety and stoke over my own progression. There will be other days to get barrel practice.

     Driving back to El Segundo, the fog finally clears once we reach PCH. I look over at Bri, happy that I’m not driving home alone.