CLOSE, SAT12OCT2013 MOR

 

Russ getting barreled

Loc: DMJ

Time: 0630-1030

Crew: John A., Gary, Russ, and a bunch of Russ’ friends.

Conditions: 3-5 FT+, overcast, offshore, CROWDED

     It’s day three of Staycationing. I slept a little better last night but not by much. When we park at DMJ, I tell everyone about how I only brought one wetsuit, and how I’m not looking forward to putting on a cold, wet one.

     “Use my three two,” says Russ. I decline, but he insists, so I get to sample some of Quiksilver’s latest technology.

     The surf look small, and the grey sky looks so ominous that I have a feeling that the wind’s gonna turn onshore and repeat the end-of-days conditions from last night. The tide’s even higher this morning, and the peaks look jumbled and soft. There’s already a crowd here, and more are arriving. It must have been really good yesterday.

     We all sit, stuck in a lull, while oTHer guys start paddling out straight towards us. Russ turns around, and he has this disgruntled look on his face, like the way someone looks like after burning his toast. John comes off of camera detail and joins us. Most of the waves are only breaking on the outside, and the decent waves are only breaking in one spot, so everyone is locked in and waiting. Getting a wave is hard. I’m in position for a good left, and I get bagged by two guys; it’s a double fuck of a ride. What’s worse is that the guy who snaked me doesn’t even look up or acknowledge. It’s just another jackathon for him.

     I paddle away and sit closer to John A.

On, Part II:

     The tide’s getting lower, and the outside waves start to break. I get a couple small waves, good for some single shot carves. On the inside, I see John take a little three footer. Its shoulder is tapered down like a drooping, laundry line. He sticks his hand in the wave’s face and rides just in front of the pocket.

#

     We’re both sitting for a wave. A juicy one sprouts up. He says, “Yeah, Matt!” This morning’s a little nerve wracking, as the size and the tide are beginning to work in unison, so these waves are meant for pulling in. I’m a little nervous, but I tell myself that I have to go. It’s good practice for the winter.

     The wave stands up, steep and critical. I get the drop, reminiscent as last night’s Lowers’ session, and make it down to the base of the wave. The section builds as I’m on the shoulder. However, it’s so fast that I have to pump to keep up with it. Suddenly, the face stands up and above my head. Miraculously, my body’s developed some kind of instinct. Instead of freezing up, I put a hand in the face like John did and do some light, subtle pumps down the line. I expect the lip to plow into the side of my head but it doesn’t. I’m not getting barreled, but I’m right outside the pocket. Then the next section stands up so fast. I go from being in the pocket to being way behind it. My natural instincts abandon me. My subtle pumps can’t keep up with the wave, but they still work on auto pilot. The wave swirls over my head, and for the first time, deep as I’ve even been, for at least two seconds, I am looking through the swirling eye inside the barrel. The bright opening at the end reflects light from the outside which makes the inside, white wash surrounding me shine back in silver streaks. The opening gets smaller. I want to make it out, but all I can do is hold my line. I don’t bail but get clobbered at the end. When I resurface, I’m so eager for recognition. I find Gary in the lineup and paddle back towards him to tell him about my wave. While heading to John, some guy tells me that he saw me getting barreled. “Yeah,” I say. “But I didn’t make it out.” It’s my wave of the day, wave of the trip. I want another one so bad. I’m so close.

     John’s on the shoulder, watching me on my next attempt. I drop in late but manage to pull in. This wave isn’t as delicately set up as the last. Instantly, I’m in a fast, white-washing slot. I see and hear John rooting for me through the opening, but I get side clobbered by the lip. Tumbling on the inside, I resurface unscatched. John is yelling, “Yeah-haaa!” with two fists clenched and held up towards me.

     I go back to my car and switch to my quads. When I come back, the waves are even better. I hear someone in the lineup say, “Every wave is a barrel right now.” The waves are fast, pull-in-only rides. I try. For the rest of the session, it’s wipeout central for me. I eat it and get worked on the inside. So many guys are going for the waves, and I have to turn around and ride the white wash in on one occasion to avoid getting run over. I duck dive a set wave, and it yanks my board away. It forces my head into the sand, pushing my chin against my chest. In dark silence, I feel and a hear my neck pop and crack.

     Now the “barrel experts” go to work. All around me, guys aren’t making it out of the barrels. Gary, even John don’t make it out. Towards the Jetty, I see Russ on a backhand left. He’s not super deep, but he’s getting covered. The wave looks like it’s breaking in slow motion. Perhaps it’s the calmness in Russ’ face that’s doing this. Another guy gets a backhand slot. I see him from deep inside, pumping and then stalling just at the right spot so he’s not too deep. He stays covered up until he chooses to penetrate out the back. It’s a reminder of how much more I still need to learn.

     It’s funny how the longer you surf, you realize how much you didn’t know back then, but at the same time you realize how much you still don’t know. I know that getting barreled isn’t just about pulling in and waiting for it to happen, but this is where I lack experience. I need to learn how to think and be “active” in the barrel, mainly being able to still pump in a compact space, something I’m not used to. I’m still at that stage where the rushing sound of water inside the tube makes me clench, making me believe that I’ve lost the ride when all I need is to do one, little thing differently. But still, I’m getting closer. I’m stoked off of that wave this morning. I hope to get closer this winter. I’ll have no choice but to.

     On the inside, I try to catch a wave on my belly to shore. I purl doing this. Stupid. Noobish. The fin hits my thigh. I feel bare skin. I cut Russ’ wetsuit. FOCK!

     When everyone’s back at the parking lot, he tells me that it’s okay and that he’ll just bring it to the repair shop. And now I’m on a long drive home. I stop by the Long Beach Poetry Festival and show my face for a half an hour, and then I go do some grocery shopping. Bri calls me from New York and tells me that she’ll be flying in early. I spend the rest of the day cleaning the apartment and cooking into the evening.

     So . . . my staycation was a success. Every session wasn’t epic, and it was lonely at times. Failed by humanity, I was dropped in on and had my car scratched. Aside from some throaty barrel attempts I paid my dues in wipeouts, tenfold. But yet, it feels nice to be back in my small, studio apartment. Ghirardelli dark chocolate brownies are in the stove, Bri’s here sitting next to me, and we’re sipping on Aruban beer. I’d surf every day if I could, but sleeping in the back of your car to attain that surf can get old. I can appreciate hot pho on a cold night, but I also appreciate the creature luxuries of my TV and my feet on the coffee table. All Staycations come to an end, and this “end” is a good one.