Loc: Churches
Crew: Bri
and Rick
Time: 0645-0945
Conditions:
3-5 FT, overcast, drizzling, consistent, crowded.
Since today is Bri’s birthday, I give her
the genuine option of where to surf. I say “genuine” meaning that I try not to
commandeer the decision into what I want to do. The swell will be at its
biggest today, so South Bay beach break is out of the question. Turkey day was already
a closeout sesh. We need turns or shape, one of the two.
Yesterday she had decided on a choice
between Palos Verdes or Bolsa Chica. PV sounded good, but we were worried about
the crowd factor. The winds at Bolsa Chica would also be questionable. “Churches,”
said Rick, yesterday in the lineup. When Bri and I drove by to borrow his
hooded five mil for Bri, he said, “Churches,” again. “I’ll drive. It breaks
good on the northwest swell.” Churches, long rippable right handers. Bri’s
sold.
#
Rick shows up to my apartment at 0500. I’m
already in the garage getting my gear together. I walk up and look in the van,
and Rick looks dazed, like he’s hung over or still half asleep. Even his hair
as all fucked up: hair unevenly sticking up around the crown of his head like
George Washington having a bad hair day. I ask him if he’s all right. He takes
a while to respond. “I’ll drive,” I say.
Bri’s conked out in the back for most of
the journey. Even with the sky getting lighter, it reveals gray clouds without
a break for sunshine.
When we reach the military camp grounds on
San Onofre, we see that the swell is showing nicely over here. Old Mans is a
little mooshy, but there is size. A light drizzle dots our windshield, making
everything outside grayer and more cold. Even though Churches and San Onofre
are ideal summer-time spots, it is breaking classic out here in the dead of
winter.
Peaks start rolling in, and guys are
getting three-four turns on four-foot waves that peel for a hundred yards a
pop. But it’s crowded. Middles is always an option when this place is too
crowded, but the surf here is so inviting that we have to try.
One of Rick’s old buddies from Charlie
Company 3-160th Infantry is parked by us, an old short and ripped
Polynesian guy who looks like a surfing Manny Pacquiao, just more wrinkled and
leathery. He has a huge flag pole sticking out of the back of his truck, its
banner in spray-painted black letters reads: SURFER.
#
Bri and I paddle out first, sitting wide to
the south away from the main pack. I tell Bri that I’ll try my luck here first before
paddling north. Of course, every wave has a surfer on it. Only people like us
want to sit this wide. It’s a double edged sword. We hate crowds, but our
isolation prevents us from getting waves. I paddle closer to the top of the
wave. Just then, a wave passes me up and begins to stand up on the inside. I
turn around and see that Rick has just made it out to the lineup. He turns
around and gets it without being in the water longer than a couple of minutes.
Bri and Rick stay in the same area. I shift
positions, sitting in the pack, outside, and then finally on the inside. A wave
comes my way, but I’m too deep for the right, so I say fuck it and go left. I
pop up and see that there’s an open face to work with. I feel the raciness of
the wave. I guess the lefts are breaking faster. I pump and set myself up for
one deep carve. It’s not a long epic right, but I’m stoked.
Again, I get another left. No one wants the
left. Two solid waves with a turn each. I paddle further out into the lineup with
a smile on my face.
In the distance, Bri and Rick are sitting
more towards the top of the wave. I see him calling Bri into a right. He
watches her as she pops up, and keeps going and going. I want to wave to her,
but she can’t see me. Rick waits for her to look his way. They wave at each
other.
And just like that, from my vantage point I
see Bri on at least three long rights, the same rights we had gawked over when
we arrived. Now Bri, my woman, is on those big rights. She’s not turning, but
she doesn’t have to. All you have to do is stand up on one of those long waves,
and you can get the ride of your life.
I’m now on the north side of Churches, but
I’m taking the rights now. Even though it’s crowded, there are enough scattered
waves that many people find themselves out of position for, giving up the rides
for those who lurk on the peripheries.
My wave of the day is a late takeoff right.
I’m getting more used to my quad fins now. Winding up for the bottom turn I see
two surfers trying to get the wave on the shoulder. I’m like the terminator, targeting
that one spot on the shoulder where the first dude’s face is. I climb the face towards
his head. He stops paddling and watches me. I lean forward as if falling and
whip a backhand snap at the top of the shoulder. With speed, I crank out a
second turn. After that, the wave mooshes out.
At the top of the third hour, Bri and I
catch a wave in and find Rick at the van. He’s eating his snacks, talking to
his old Army buddy. It’s still cold as shit. Regardless, Rick whips out three
birthday beers.
“It’s your birthday?” says the petite
Polynesian. Out of nowhere, he breaks into the happy birthday song. Right
there, with our hair matted in saltwater, our toes on the cold pavement with
sand stuck to our heels, with freezing hands with freezing bottles of beer, and
with the cool drizzling droplets landing on our faces, Rick and I sing along
with the happy-birthday tune while Bri’s awkward smiles transforms into a
genuine one.
Loc:
Oceanside
Crew: Rick,
Gary, Bri
Conditions:
drained tide, fast, walled, hollow, empty
Rick really wants to meet Gary who’s in
Oceanside. I’d rather stay at Churches. The surf is good, Bri is surfing it
good, and why increase the distance to drive? Well, but we are in Rick’s
vehicle, it’s a rare day off for him, and he needs to take advantage of the
moment and milk this trip for as much as he can.
When we reach Oceanside, Gary, Matty C.,
and a couple of his homies are already there. Matty’s done surfing for the day
and says, “I had eight barrels for breakfast with a side of barrels.”
Now I’m with Bri, watching Rick and Gary
already in the lineup. There is nobody here, save for a few heads, but the
whole beach is ours. It’s still overcast here, but the clouds have shifted from
a dark gray to a blinding silver if you stare at the sky to long. The wind’s
howling offshore onto the low-tide waves that are pounding the shore. I tell
Bri to be careful and to be very picky.
I want to be picky and wait for something
with shape. The waves are coming in at about three-to-four feet, but a set
sprouts up on the outside. The surf just feels so sketchy because of how low
the tide is, yet big set waves are rolling in. The first one is an A-frame, but
its perfect hydro-dynamic shape is menacing. I’ve said this before: sometimes
perfectly shaped waves are more intimidating than big closeouts. I fake paddle
for it and let it go. I’m nervous, having the worse jitters that I’ve had since
surfing Java six months ago. I tell myself that there’s no reef here, and that
if I hit the bottom, at least it will just be sand.
So I go. The lefts wall up. I move down the
line, kicking out before the closeout. I catch a right that looks walled and
critical. I straighten out and see that the shoulder is still peeling away from
me. Fuck. I could have maybe gotten barreled on the one. I go for the medium
sized ones, still pulling in and grabbing rail, but going nowhere.
Bri is wisely sitting there, not choosing
to go. She looks at me and smiles. I think she’s already gotten satisfaction
out of this birthday trip.
I see Gary on the shore, and Rick says that
he had hurt his shoulder. After a couple more closeouts the rest of us go in.
Gary meets us on the sand, fully dressed. “It
still looks fun,” he says, pointing out to a fast inside wave that spits before
the hollow section pinches.
“You wanna go back out?” says Rick.
“Whatever, up to you,” I say.
Rick and Gary talk it over, debating on
surf, grabbing food, and then the prospect of Rick getting into trouble with
his wife since he had left this morning to “surf” but she had no idea where.
“Let’s grab something to eat,” says Rick.
Thank goodness.
#
 |
| little does he know... |
We eat some Mexican food at Roberto’s. Rick’s
the only one who orders chicken in his burrito, and as we’re leaving he has to
take a shit. On the way home, he has to shit again. Once we reach home, Rick
has to take another shit. Bri and I ordered the carnitas, so we’re all right.
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