FOR BETTER WAVES, SAT 09NOV2013

Loc: Huntington Beach

Crew: Bri

Time: 0845-1045

Conditions: 2-3 FT, sunny, glassy, inconsistent, racy

     The local surf in the South Bay isn’t looking that great this morning, and Surfline’s report for HB is only better by a fraction. Plus, Surfline’s report of HB is for south of the pier. There’s no guarantee that the other breaks away from the pier will be working the same, but the thought of a weekend crowd here in the South Bay deters me from staying here. I’ve been scoring in HB lately. With the possibility of a thin crowd and scoring an uncrowded peak, Bri and I drive to HB for better waves.

     We check Bolsa Chica first. I’m not expecting much. All I’m really asking for is at least two feet, something I can pump on and at least set up one solid turn.

     The crowd factor here is more prevalent than it is during the week, but Bolsa is so spread out that the cars parked behind each tower are still sparse in comparison to the likes of Porto.

     We step out for a look and see some longboarders sitting in the water, all spread out with room. The surf is one-to-two feet and gutless. Bri and I wait for a set, but it doesn’t come.

     I’m actually not bummed out though. Eh, it’s doable, and I’m always in a better mood with uncrowded surf. I didn’t expect much to begin with, and the surf has potential for at least one good, three-foot roguer to break up the lulls. “Let’s check it a little further south,” I say.

     Seapoint looks a little better as we drive by. On the south side of The Cliffs I see scattered peaks over two feet in front of Goldenwest. The breaks north and south of the pier look even better. Fuckin’ A.

     Another surprise this morning is the overcast. The sun looks like a glowing bulb behind the marine layer. The sky is gray all the way out to the horizon, and when Bri and I reach our surf destination it’s a little difficult to make out the waves.

     The tide looks drained out even though it’s rising, but over the low surface there are fast, little two-foot closeouts. They start off as peaks but race away. We watch the surf a little longer and notice that some of the waves hold enough shape for at least a turn. There are only a few people out. I have a feeling that the rising tide will improve the conditions. I’m stoked. This might be a fun session.

     As Bri and I paddle out, the sun begins to burn off the marine layer like the way a windshield heater defrosts condensation. The water is cool but within minutes I’m already acclimatized.

     Surfers are spread out around us, far enough where sharing isn’t hogging. I catch two waves right away. I pop up fast but the waves close out. Too racy. Bri scratches out on her first couple waves, finally catching a small closeout to shore. And then . . . nothing. . .

     There’s a serious lull. Some one footers roll through. Bri struggles to get into them. An occasional rogue wave sprouts up way on the outside, too far for anyone to get. Bri lets the current take her north, and she sits way on the outside.

     Now the sun’s blazing. I’m hot in my wetsuit. Everyone is stagnant, and I’m wondering if driving down here was a good decision or not.

    

     Once the tide fills in a little bit more, something happens. After the first hour, the surf gets more consistent. I catch a smooth, peaky, right that’s glassy and fast. I pump on my back hand and get two snaps, feeling the satisfaction of distorting the lip.

     A guy sitting outside watches me as I kick out. He looks back out into the horizon, probably waiting for one too.

     The rogue waves turn into consistent sets. The lulls turn into short breaks in between. There are still some inside waves, but when the sets come, they sprout up these small mounds of water, but they stand up so fast and violently over these HB sandbars.

     I struggle to turn because I keep getting caught behind the sections, so finally I say fuck it and just pull in on everything.

     I haven’t had many sessions when all I do is pull in, but the conditions are ideal for it. The waves are standing up and racy over a medium tide, and some of the sections are a little hollow. Towards the Santa Ana River Jetties, I see guys pulling in, getting some tube time and getting pinched at the end. I figure today’s a good day for barrel practice.

     Instead of just popping up and feeling the wave shut down, I spring to my feet and catch glimpses of the green and silver swirls before they close out. At least I have that, some kind of perspective before the wave shuts down.

     My brother had taught me how to go backhand, so I have fun pulling into these three foot faces that stand up and go vertical. It’s a thrilling feeling to grab rail, stall with my back arm, and just slow myself down while the lip is curling over me. Even though I’m not making it out, I’m finally able to slow down time just a little bit. Instead of pure obliteration I’m focusing on obtaining “the vision.”

     Bri even works her way out of her funk and starts paddling into the bigger waves. We split a peak together, she going left and I right. I have a long section to work with. I go down the line and see the wave wall up, so I crouch down and grab rail. I get no vision on this one. My timing is off. Perhaps I should have just pulled in from the start. All I know is that I still have a lot to learn.

     Bri paddles back towards me on the outside. She’s smiling. “Good one?” I say.

     “Oh my God,” she says. “I didn’t stand up, so it doesn’t count, but I caught that wave on my stomach. My eyes were closed, but when I looked up, I saw the wave going over me, and then it just shot me out!”

     Fuckin’ A. She got belly barreled.

     After two hours I’m done. I had played Call of Duty: Ghosts pretty late last night, and all of the barrel practice forced some water into my ears.

     Turning around, we look back at the uncrowded surf. Peaks are still coming in. It could even get better with the rising tide. The water’s still glassy and the wind’s so light that I just have that feeling that it will be like this for most of the day.

     Later that evening, Bri and I are with her parents. They’re from Oregon where it’s thirty degrees and gray skies all day. I never eat anything at the sandwich shack at El Porto, but we go there and grab some drinks to watch the sun go down. Rosecrans has the best peak right now, surprisingly. Even though the wind’s onshore, it’s only putting a light texture on the water. The waves are coming in a little lined, but there are some fast, pumpable corners at the end. Most of the surfers in the water are beginners, so most of them purl or ride the waves straight.

     I mindsurf it, picturing myself popping up fast, and pumping down the line to set myself up for one mean carve. I grab my sweaty cup of Dr. Pepper and take a sip. One surfer out front sits all alone in the lineup with his face towards the horizon.

     My woman’s right next to me, and her parents are looking out at the sunset. “It’s beautiful,” her parents say. “We understand why you guys live here.”