Pre blog:
I’m not at liberty to discuss where Bri
works at, but she’s been looking for another job since I’ve known her. The
commute from El Segundo to Orange County during the afternoon, rush hour
traffic has been brutal on her, but now . . . she’s found another job. To
celebrate, I made the O.G. call for a staycation Friday. Plus, Surfline’s
upgraded the forecast down south to fair conditions. I haven’t been down south
in so long. I look forward to surfing my favorite cobblestone breaks.
Staycations:
Last night I prepacked the wagon, save for
the NSP longboard that gets strapped to the roof. Usually we pack snacks for
the whole day, but fuck the snacks. My fridge is barren, so we have no choice
but to surf and find some food afterwards.
0545 is a little late to start a staycation
Friday, but we do anyway because we went to bed late last night, and sometimes
sleeping in just feels soo good.
The sun’s already coming up once we hit the
road, which makes me a little anxious. It’s been a while since I’ve done a true
dawn patrol, when the freeway’s still desolate and dark, just a fraction away
from night and dawn.
As we exit Basilone road, we see some peaks
coming in at Lowers, which is no surprise. Over at Middles, the set is bringing
in some lines. However, the lines are long and shoulderless. . . I know what
this means: Middles isn’t working, and if Middles isn’t working, then San
Onofre and Churches might be affected too. But . . . I could be wrong; I hope
I’m wrong.
The morning tide’s been high in the
morning, and as we pass Old Mans we see that our favorite spot is swampy.
Further south, more surfers sit and wait. At Churches, the high tide is more
appealing. The set waves are long and walled (as expected), but they have
shoulders that break wide south. Almost every parking spot is taken. Some guys
pull up next to us. When they step out, they mention the same thing. “What do
you think?” I ask Bri.
“I saw it working at Middles when we drove
by,” she says.
So this is the day I’ve been waiting for.
Finally, I’m surfing down south again at my beloved break. Everything is
perfect. The air is warm, the sun is out, and I’m sure the water temp is good
too. The only problem is that the tide’s a little high. As we walk towards our
favorite break (Mons Pubis) at North Churches, we see that the crowd is
extremely thick. I guess this counts as another problem. A crowd of surfers,
mostly longboarders, have congregated to sit at the same peak. Where Churches
and Middles meet, there’s a peak that works . . . some of the time, but this is
not one of those times. Everything between Churches and Lowers is either flat
or walled. Still, keeping a positive attitude, we paddle out just north of the
pack.
Churches:
The swell is a little bigger than
forecasted, some sets around the four-foot range, but . . . it’s walled. Fuck.
. . Some of the faces hold. I get a couple of waves that hold shape long enough
for some single-shot carves, but most of the waves are closeouts. The peak
where the crowd is, it’s working really well, but it’s too fucking crowded.
Every time a wave swings wide, someone from the main peak is already on it. The
guys we saw in the parking lot paddle out next to us. On the sand, more dicks
are warming up to enter the water. We sit here for an hour, and I do not score.
Bri on the other hand, well . . . she’s
really good on her longboard nowadays. She gets all the small waves that have
better shape. Even on the bigger ones, she’s able to pop up early and make the
sections to milk the rides for distance.
I watch Middles and see that some guys are
getting some decent rides.
Middles:
So we’ve paddled all the way to fucking
Middles. Immediately, I catch a right. It’s lining up like a traditional,
Trestles wave, but the tide’s so high that it makes the wave too soft. I try to
set up for a backhand snap, but I lack the momentum for spray. When I do my top
turn, I bog out and lose the ride. Unfortunately, it’s the same song over here.
The big sets are walled, and guys sitting north of us are taking all the waves.
I’ve set my expectations too high. I
expected that the swell would at least send some scattered peaks, but this
swell is very selective. Long lulls in between keep everyone locked, loaded,
and waiting. Since most of the surfers are longboarders, I can’t compete once a
decent wave comes.
Some shortboarders are ripping, able to
deal with the crowd and take some off of their plates, but this is not how I
want to surf; I HATE crowds.
Three
Strikes:
So we’ve paddled back to North Churches,
and nothing’s changed. Even with the tide a little lower, it’s still too high.
Fuck. . . But the wind is so good. It’s almost 1100, and the onshore wind is so
faint that the water’s not even affected. This swell, these lulls, this crowd.
. .
Surfing supposed to bring stoke, but
instead I’m out here frustrated and not enjoying myself. After Wisconsin and
sticking to the South Bay breaks, I’m just really in need for a rippable sesh.
FUEL:
Today’s low tide is high. In other words,
the surf isn’t changing much. With the holiday crowds already here early, I
make the call to leave. Yup. I had packed for this staycation in vain. Goodbye,
San Onofre.
I take Bri to a new sushi spot that my
homie Tim introduced me to. Zenko Sushi is no longer number one. We have a new
spot now.
El Porto:
So Bri really wanted to work on her tan
today. Also, I really wanted to “surf” today. Even though the south swell is
completely missing the South Bay, we decide to hit up Porto to chill for the
rest of the afternoon into the evening.
Porto, my first surf love. We deal with
your long line of parking to find an empty spot all the way at the end. We feed
your meter to avoid the wrath of the meter Nazis for three hours. We walk past your
good sandbars in front of your bathrooms to the only open surf zone that’s in
front of the tanks. We see your small waves with the humongous crowd that’s
surfing them. We love you because you are just down the street.
#
I forgot to include something. When I had
parked my wagon, I let out a fart, and . . . I had shit my pants just a little.
Motherfucker, I thought. Shit. I turned to Bri and said, “I’m definitely
trunking it now!”
“What happened?”
“I sharted.” We unpacked our gear and headed
towards the rocks. I felt the peanut butter-like substance between my cheeks. “Can
you see it?” I said, as I pulled apart my reggae-patterned shorts from my ass.
“No,” she said. “Wait. . . Yeah, I can see
it.”
#
Bri’s lying on her beach blanket. The surf
is so goddam small. It’s two feet tops, and every first-time surfer in the
South Bay is out in full force. It’s a Costco foamie invasion. But even though
the waves are small, they look rideable, and there’s something about surfing
your home break that makes you feel more comfortable. I got Rick’s Zippifish,
and the random, sporadic peaks will give me a chance to get some waves to
myself. “Hun,” I say. “I’m gonna take a shit as soon as I hit the water.”
“Awww. I feel like I’m missing out.”
I look down and frown. “Well, I’ll wave to
you as soon as I start shitting, that way you know when it’s coming out.”
“Okay,” she says. I lean over and kiss her
on the cheek.
Standing in the waist deep water, I push
against the white wash that’s plowing into me and my board, and then I push the
shit out of my anus. How do I describe this feeling of shitting in my pants? My
anus feels like an ice cream machine, and someone’s pulled the lever down all
the way without putting a cup or a cone underneath it. Now thick chili just
falls from my ass. I feel the weight in my shorts—heavy. The roar of the white
wash rinses the mud from my thigh. Surprisingly, I can smell my shit through
the water. I turn around and see a brown cloud churning and disappearing
towards the shore. I still have some left. Standing frozen on the inside, I
flex my intestines while I wave at Bri. She smiles and waves back.
#
Crowd . . . fuck the crowd. In shit-stained
shorts and my white rashguard, I’m comfortable in the warm water. So many
people, so many waves, and so many uncoordinated strokes from mispositioned
surfers. They allow me to take any wave I want for my choosing. I know the
walls, know the ones that won’t give any shape. Let those guys have them. When
the good ones are on the way, I position myself and get down the line. Even in
two-foot surf, this Zippi makes surfing fun. I try so hard to crank a
front-side snap, but my turns on this thing aren’t sharp enough. Instead of
forcing turns, I just go for distance and finish off a lot of waves with mini
floaters. It’s crowded and small Porto, but I have much more fun than I did at
Trestles. When I call it and head to shore, I feel the water-logged weight of
the Zippifish. Its days are numbered.
#
Back home, Bri’s still full from sushi, so
I make myself a turkey-bacon loco moco for dinner. Times are kind of tight with
resources right now, and it breaks my heart to travel down south just to come
home early. If I go to Trestles again, I need to make sure it’s worth it but
how? Surfline said it was fair, and . . . it was, but the crowd was just too
much. Maybe I need to restrict those trips to the weekdays. With the ASP event
around the corner, I may have to steer clear of that spot for a while. Manhattan
Beach, I hope that you exceed what the forecasters have laid out as your
destiny. Hold me down for a while until that event is over, at least some
punchy, three-foot surf from time to time. Either that, or bring on the winter
early.
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