YOU MIGHT HAVE A BAD SESSION IF . . ., THU 26SEPT2013 MOR

Loc: 26^th

Time: 0700-0900

Crew: Mel                                                    

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, sunny, consistent, fast, crowded

     You munch on a banana before leaving the house because you figure it’s a good idea not to surf on an empty stomach. Recalling the forecast and how the surf was yesterday, you know that the surf will be smaller today, probably a little crumbly, so you leave your favorite board behind, the Lost Mini Driver made specifically for threading barrels, the one you had taken to Java even though you couldn’t get barreled while you were there.

     As you drive around 26^th Street, your favorite local break, that banana starts hitting you. It’s pushing out last night’s chicken, rice, and macaroni salad like a Spartan Phalanx. You’re anus is the Persian Army, and right now, it’s losing.

     Thankful for the street parking that you found near Marine Avenue, you walk to the 76 gas station around the corner. You take your wallet with you and go over what you’ll say to the gas attendant who will refuse to give you the keys: “I’ll buy something, man. Anything. I’ll even buy a pack of cigarettes.” As you pass the cashier booth, you see Twix candy bars displayed in the window, and you consider offering to buy one of those instead if it comes down to it. To your luck, the bathroom door is unlocked. After you’re done, the flush of the toilet is weak, and last night’s dinner still floats around, slowly in a circle, lingering like it wants to tell you something. You wonder what.

     Now you’re on the sand watching the surf. It’s a clear South Bay morning, and the wind’s offshore. Black dots of wetsuits are strewn along the lineup, and they bob up and over the oncoming waves. You realize you’re wrong. The surf isn’t smaller. In fact it’s bigger and breaking differently than yesterday. The waves are around four feet plus, fast, semi walled, and breaking section on section.

     You loiter through the lineup, maneuvering around the high school groms that have been out since first light. To display proper etiquette, you pass up the first couple of waves and set yourself up for the right-hand peak that’s coming your way.

     After three four strokes you’re in and sliding down the face. The wave is about to closeout, and it doesn’t surprise you, but the wall of water crashes into you with the force of a landslide, something you weren’t expecting. When you resurface, Java comes to mind: the fear you had felt knowing that you were in the impact zone, and the knowledge that the next wave could pummel you into the reef if you weren’t fast enough to remount your board and paddle back out.

     As you return back to the lineup, you see other surfers pointing north, and hoots and shouts erupt through the whole lineup. You look up and see a kid, literally a high school kid no older than sixteen, he’s in the tube, going frontside with his hand in the face of the wave. His efforts to stall in the barrel cause his torso to shake, but he’s stubbornly holding his line as white wash throws out over his head, giving him a dry almond slot of safety. Just like that, everyone catches barrel fever. Davey, the 26^th Street aerialist, pulls into a right on his backside. He gets slotted but the wave pinches him at the end. An old bald guy pulls into the next wave. Same result. An outside right is coming your way. You’re late, but you’re experienced enough to know you can turn and go. You paddle in at an angle, and before the wave pitches you, you grab rail and stick your arm in the face of the wave, but there’s a problem. You’re board is so short that grabbing its rail pivots the board so fast that the fins release from the face. Now you’re air dropping in the tube, upside down as the lip crashes down on you. You resurface, wondering if anyone saw.

     You curse yourself for bringing the wrong board today, but you still commit to pulling into every wave because you want to get barreled badly; you want one just like that kid had. You’re technique’s not so bad, sliding down with a low crouch, hand in the face, grabbing rail both on your front and your backside. Even though you’re getting pinched in the tube, you penetrate out the back in time to beat the next wave, but it’s still not enough. You’re not surfing, you’re catching closeouts. You think about how long you’ve been surfing and the travels you’ve taken over the years. You’ve surfed multiple South Bay winters, traveled to Indo twice, and still, you haven’t been barreled. You wonder how long that high school kid’s been surfing. When you first picked up a longboard, he was probably still a toddler, and yet he got his today: the glory that you’ve told yourself to be patient for—it will come. But you secretly fear that it won’t, fear it so much that you’ve put a barrel curse on yourself.

     On the next rogue wave, you’re in position to go right. The left is too walled. It’s big. You hear a couple hoots in the lineup. You focus on keeping your rail in the face as you draw a long line down, and as you reach for your rail everything goes black. Now you’re suspended, weightless, like a baby in a womb. You’re involuntarily curled into a ball, and even though you’re under water you feel yourself being lifted higher and higher. You wait for the explosion in peace, feeling comfortable in this antigravity chamber, but the wave releases you.

     When you resurface, everyone in the lineup is looking back at you, even Don Kadowaki, the local vet who pays more attention to the waves than the surfers. So is the old lady who wears a fisherman’s hat and rides a blue Costco foam board. Your friend Mel breaks the silence and says, “What happened?”

     “I don’t know,” you say. “It all happened so fast.” You wear a grin that feigns humor but hides humiliation. People divert their attention away from you now that you’ve said something.

     Mel says, “It’s like the whole wave doubled up again and slammed down.”

     You figure that it must’ve looked gnarly, even from behind.

     You find yourself paddling back up to the lineup again after another series of awkward wipeouts. Mel is in front of you duckdiving a wave. After it breaks, you duckdive it too, and as you resurface your head runs into a blunt object. You resurface bewildered, holding your head and saying, “Owwww!”

     Mel’s in front of you, looking behind her, saying, “What happened?”

     “Ahhh!” you say as your rub your head, expecting it to be sliced open and dripping red. “I ran into your board. How did that happen? You were so far in front of me.”

     “I don’t know,” she says. “I duckdived the wave, but it sucked me back. Are you all right?”

     Now you see everybody in the lineup watching you. Some are smiling. You’ve created a scene.

     “Yeah,” you say. “I’m all right,” and you turn your board north and paddle away.

     Back at your car, you change our of your wetsuit and drive home. You think about why you surfed badly today. You blame it on your board, but you know that your ability level is to blame too. You tell yourself that everyone has a bad session every once in a while. You drive past El Porto, glancing at the waves as you pass by. You vow to only ride your barrel board until winter has come and gone.