Time:
0700-0900
Crew: Bri,
Klaude, Mel
Conditions:
1-2 FT+, mooshy, slow, inconsistent.
To make sure I get some weekend bromance
time with Klaude, Bri and I head to Manhattan Beach this morning. We wake up a
little earlier than usual at 0600 in order to get good parking. While changing,
Klaude and Mel drive by and honk. On the sand we see that the surf has gotten
smaller. The tidal swings are getting higher in the mornings, which is not
good. The surf is not only tiny but mooshier than yesterday. But here we are.
Right when we paddle out, a left pops up.
Bri is on my inside, and we’re both going for it. I tell myself that I can pump
fast enough to get down the line and out of her way. When I get up, I pump, but
I almost lose my balance and any chance for a solid carve. When I look behind
me, Bri’s not too far away. “Sorry,” I say. “I thought I could get down ahead
of you.” Bri frowns but quickly changes to a smile. I get the boyfriend pass.
Further south is a pack of SUP guys, and no
surfers want to venture there to try to compete with them and their small-wave robbing
equipment. The best peak is in front of the lifeguard tower, and it’s the
thickest spot in the lineup, crowded with groms, vets, and unknowns. Bri and I
are trying to take the waves that are swinging wide, but waves with quality are
sparse. I get a steep left. I working, pumping, trying to clear the section.
Some stranger even hoots me on as he goes over the shoulder, but the wave
closes out before I can get to the open canvas. In the distance, I see Klaude
and Mel paddle out on the other side of the main peak.
I’m trying to be patient, telling myself
that I should be grateful just for being in the water, but I can’t help but be
bummed. It’s just so crowded. Crowds get me down, but add small and
inconsistent surf to it, and my problem widens tenfold.
After not catching shit, we paddle through
the overcrowded lineup and make it to Klaude. He dismounts his board and gives
us both a hug and a kiss. “Maaaan, you should have came yesterday,” he says. “This
morning I was like, ‘Matt, don’t disappoint me!’”
Orlando and Jose are here too. The lulls get
longer, and every time a wave comes, someone’s already on it. Some guys are
being aggressive and greedy, but I don’t even care anymore nor fight for any of
the waves. Whenever it’s small and inconsistent, what else can you expect?
Melanie asks how I’m doing, and I express some of my frustration. “Why’d you
bring that tiny thing out?” she says, motioning towards my Lost Mini Driver
(not my penis). Gripping the rails of my board, I wonder if I’ve made the right
decision myself. She says she’s riding a six foot six. The board is thick and
wide all the way to the nose. I tell her that Bri wants to taper down to
something around that size. “Cool,” she says. “She can sample my six ten that I
have at home. Klaude can bring it tomorrow!” Klaude acknowledges that he will
be paddling out tomorrow and can bring the board. Bri thanks her and is stoked
to see how she’ll perform on a board with tapered down dimensions.
My last wave is kind of walled. I pump and
try to set myself up for a turn, but I only have time to do a half ass floater.
Klaude waits for me on the sand and says, “Nice way to finish!” I smile back
half heartedly, still kind of bummed with the recent surf.
“I’ll meet you at your car,” I say.
At the lot, I see Shan leaving in his
black, 4Runner. Boards are stacked in the back. He glances over at Klaude and
all the people he’s chatting with before he leaves. To think they were once
brovers. When I reach him, Klaude says, “Here,” and hands me a custom made
shirt that has a design, naming our local break. This catches me off guard. This
is special. I can’t thank him enough. Before leaving, I tell him that Bri and I
will see him out here again tomorrow.
I’m on boyfriend duty for the rest of the
day. Bri’s friends from Oregon are in town to drop off a friend at LAX. Since
some of them haven’t been to L.A., they have us meet them at the Santa Monica
Promenade.
Holy shit . . . this place is CHAOS. At
first it didn’t seem that crowded, but half way through, there are food tents
set up. It’s assholes and elbows of locals, tourists, bums, and street
performers. I’m profusely sweating from being exposed to the sun’s rays and the
chicken shawarma grills. Bri’s friends can’t decide on where to eat and insist
on tracking down a place with a fucking happy hour. AIN’T NO FUCKING HAPPY HOUR
AT 2:45 PM!!!
I hate crowded lineups, so you can imagine
how I feel in this place. I’m still a little beached from surfing over the last
three days, and this Santa Monica crowd is not my scene.
Once we’re home I exhale hard and take a
shower to wash the grease off. I’d rather stay close to the beach, catching
one-foot waves on a waterlogged Zippifish than be surrounded by Santa Monica
shoppers any day.
 |
| Santa Monica Place parking garage stairwell. Nice. . . |
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