Loc:
Huntington Beach
Crew: Randy
Time:
1200-1600
Conditions:
4 FT, offshore, cool, sunny, mid-to-low tide, empty
It’s my first surf session with my brother
Randy since he recently arrived for the holidays, and with the recent bump in
swell, we’re parked in front of my favorite local break. The surf here is a
little smaller than Porto, where we had just came from, and the crowd is just
as thick. For a Monday, a lot of people already have the holidays off or they had
just said, “fuck it,” and called in sick. I can see what the excitement is over
this swell, but it’s still on the walled side. Porto had decent size but not
much shape, and add a full crowd of hungry surfers on top of that—anything with
a shoulder will have dozens of takers.
“We can go down south,” I say. “We’re
supposed to do sushi with the boys later on anyway.”
“Yeah,” says Randy. We both gaze out at the
surf. A wave breaks and closes out onto the shore. “If we go to HB, the wind
might be on it though, and the tide might be too low. I know what it does on
low tide.”
“Well, we can surf Porto where there’s
surf, but with how crowded it is there’s no guarantee that we’ll even catch any
waves. Or we can go down south, where I know it will be empty.”
#
Driving past the northernmost peak at Bolsa
Chica, we see a three-foot A frame break. A longboarder is going right, the
shoulder in front of him peeling like a right at Middles. His ride continues
until he disappears when I past Seapoint. The Cliffs has peaks too, not as big
as the South Bay but waves are going unridden with a medium crowd.
Along PCH, cars are parked in long lines,
but there are so many decent sandbars that they can handle the capacity.
When we reach our surf spot, we change
without checking the surf. A guy leaving says, “It’s still fun out there. I
hope you guys score some good ones!”
I’m surprised at the friendliness here, and
I’m hoping that it is still fun out there like homeboy said.
I whip out the Mini Driver and my brother
uses the old Tokoro that he gave me before he had initially left to Indo, a
6’0” standard shortboard, a board that feels much to chippy for me since I
started riding my new board.
The wind is switching sideshore from the
north, but I don’t say anything. I look at Randy, and he’s looking down as we
walk to the surf, probably thinking the same thing too. But at the water’s
edge, we see that the water is still glassy. Only a few heads are out, but the
surf is inconsistent and appears small.
A wave breaks a little to our north, a lone
and soft A frame that a surfer takes in.
“That’s our peak,” says Randy.
#
The Right
Recipe:
Even though the tide is getting low, some
of the waves are still breaking softly. I’m first to draw blood, catching a
rampy two-foot right. On my voluminous board, I’m able to crank out a sharp,
backhand snap, clean and precise. It’s not round HB but there are small and
playful conditions for powerful carves. I go again on another right and bust
another snap.
Paddling back to the lineup, Randy says,
“Damn, I haven’t even caught a wave yet.” He looks down at the Tokoro. “This
board feels huge!”
So a lull ensues, and the swell doesn’t
seem to be hitting this part of HB anymore. Either that or it’s dying out. The
wind switches from sideshore to offshore again, making the water even more
glassy. Then I can tell that today is one of those ideal SoCal days when the
wind remains offshore.
Bumps start coming in from the outside, and
with the tide getting lower, I only know from experience that the waves will
double up quickly once they hit the sandbar.
Randy’s on my inside, heading straight for
the middle of the peak. As I paddle over the shoulder, I watch my brother
calmly do a late take off, going left. From behind the wave, I watch it curl
over, revealing streaks of whitewash up an arching back of water, like millions
of mini torpedoes firing straight up and curving down into the sand for a
massive explosion. And all the way at the end, where the shoulder is, I see my
brother break through the highline and blast the lip of the end section,
sending an enormous bucket out the back.
#
My Turn:
I know I have to try today because my
brother’s here. Not only that, but with the lowering tide, those rippable
sections are becoming more sparse. The waves are breaking faster, which means
that I must pull in.
I take off on a wave, but I straighten up
because it looks walled. Randy goes again, getting barreled once more on his
forehand. Now a rogue wave approaches. I’m deep towards the inside, but I
paddle out towards its shoulder to meet it. A guy is on my outside in perfect
position, but I can’t let this wave go. I can’t let this turn into a “I
should’ve gone” situation. So I turn and go. I’m late. My board is angled for a
late take off, and as I pop up, the wave is going round under my feet. I’m
getting more used to this now: I’m looking down, and everything underneath me is
turning green. My only concern is keeping the nose out of the water, and pretty
soon the green underneath becomes the green beside me, and then the green
spilling over me. The guy on my shoulder looks inside the barrel, sees me
inside, and pulls out. I’ve survived this late drop, but the speed has caused
me to fade out too far. I crouch and feel the face of the wave with the middle,
ring, and pinky finger of my left hand. I need to pull in to at least mid face
to gain momentum, but I’m flat on my board where the lip’s about to be. After
that, everything goes from green to white, as I’m pummeled into the shallow
shore.
When I resurface, I see Randy going
extremely late on a right. He gets pitched even worse than I did. “Are you all
right?” I say when he resurfaces. No response.
#
Barrel 101:
“What happened with that one?” says Randy.
“I was in it, but I faded out a little too
far.”
“Yeah, you looked late.” He gives me some
pointers, tells me that I need to make sure I get that one pump while I’m
dropping in to get under the lip. “You’re too upright,” he says, placing one
palm over his chest and sticking it out. “You wanna get down there and crouch
like you’re in the barrel.” He places one hand by his left ear, his right arm
and hand extended out. He looks at me again and says, “You know what I’m
talking about. I couldn’t really tell you these things before because . . .”
“Yeah, I couldn’t even relate back then.”
“Yeah, and your surfing’s much better now.”
Two groms paddle out next to us and share
the peak. Some clean, three-foot barrels roll through. One of the kids goes.
He’s a dirty blonde probably in the sixth grade. He makes it all the way to the
end section and yells out to his friend, “I was getting barreled the whole
time!”
On the next wave, I go left, pull in, and
get pinched. It’s a typical ride: no drive, pull in, wipe out, the end.
“What happened with that wave?” says Randy.
“Oh . . .” I say. I have no idea. I guess
the thing that went wrong with that wave was just ME. Suddenly I’m mad that
that little kid had gotten barreled so easily. The two turns I got earlier have
now been cancelled out by my inability to barrel ride. I think about how I
always surf poorly every time I surf with my brother, poorly on my part and how
my surfing looks in comparison to his. I’m always out of my comfort zone with
him, but Klaude had recently told me that it’s being outside of our comfort
zones that makes us grow.
#
Long Time
Coming:
A four footer rolls my way, bumping up from
way outside. Randy’s closer to the peak, but he looks back at me and says,
“Go!”
I’m not late like that set-wave barrel
attempt that I had earlier. I’m kicking and scratching hard, J.O.B. style,
fully committed. The water’s so glassy, like pure Trestles marble when the
sun’s going down, but there’s a lift to this HB wave. I’ve always said that
there’s something scarier about big, clean waves—the shape is there, now all
you have to do is have the balls to pull in.
And as much as I want to say that what I do
next is textbook, I have no idea because I’ve never made it out of the barrel
before, but since I’m paddling in at the shoulder, I’m not forced to fade out
too far. I keep my drop-in line tight to the face of the wave, the water under
me becoming greener and rounder. I crouch down and make myself as compact as
possible, my right arm stiff and outstretched while my left hand is close to my
face. The shoulder in front of be becomes rounder until it’s curling over my
head. The shoulder that was once next to me is now in front of the pocket,
further away. My fingers skim the smooth face of water beside me, and I hold
this line until I catch up with the pocket. I eject out of the barrel, holding
a high line. I can’t believe it. Mark the date, officially: 16 DECEMBER, 2013,
Donny Duckbutter has finally gotten his first in-and-out barrel. Two trips to
Indo later, multiple winter ass beatings at Porto, and now here I am at the end
section of the wave. How many times have I sat out the back, watching guys
shoot out of the end section, knowing that the only way to get there is
threading through the barrel. I’ve never stood here before. On the highline,
the wave is still rampy, and I want nothing more than a finishing gouge, so I
fade out hard on the bottom turn to set myself up, but the shoulder stands up
and goes hollow again. The lip comes down on me, and I miss the double barrel,
but that’s okay. I came out cleanly. There was probably only three feet of room
inside the tube, but I made it. I’m counting it.
#
The Risks:
I know that I’m a Barney compared to my
brother, so I try hard to filter my barrel stoke. If Klaude, Dais, Rick, or any
of the DRC were here, I’d be as giddy as a fourth-grade girl. “I just kind of
got my first barrel!” I say. “I wasn’t too deep, but I was in there.” I show
all my teeth, unable to close my mouth. Light reflects back up towards my
brother’s neck and face, the water glassy like a pool.
He smiles. “Good,” he says.
My brother tries to call me into the next
waves. I want another barrel, but the tide is getting lower and the waves are
breaking faster. I go on a right, immediately pig dogging. The water swirls
over me, but instead of wiping out, I am driving inside the barrel. I’m moving
so fast that I can only see the nose of my board. As the water crashes over me,
I get a glimpse of the sand before I get pinched in inches of water.
I pull out on another wave. Randy tried to
call me into it, and as it passes he watches it peel to the left, empty and
unridden. I force myself to go on the next wave and get pitched. I toss my
board and cannon ball into the water. My heel hits the sand bottom hard as if I
had jumped onto concrete. When I resurface, my heel hurts, but I get back on my
board towards my brother.
At the fourth hour, the tide is so low that
everything is closing out. The surf crowd goes from thin to nonexistent, and
then we leave too.
#
So now I sit here with a sprained ankle
that was well worth it. I’ve tried to be as humble as possible when it comes to
getting barreled, so much to the point that I have never claimed to be
legitimately barreled until that Monday on December 16th. So is it
possible for people to get accidentally barreled? If it is, I’ve never been so
fortunate. If anything, I’ve learned the hard lessons of “trying to get
barreled.” You can throw on a Kai Neville or Taylor Steele flick and watch Dion
Agius or Mikala Jones pull into barrels with ease. It’s so easy to fool
yourself from the futon in your home, thinking that it looks so easy. Bali and
Java really brought me to reality, that the sharp reef that lurks underneath
can add to the already insurmountable amount of stress of pulling into barrels.
Porto has shown me the raw power of monstrous closeouts that can bring you
close to drowning before you even have a chance to sit on the outside for a
wave. HB and Oceanside have exposed how technically flawed I am on critical
drop ins. Yet I somehow made it; I dropped in with decent timing and chose a
line that had me threading the barrel. Accident or progression? All I know is
that I hope I can do it again.
And what now? You know that feeling you get
after beating a video game? Finally beating Mike Tyson in Punch Out or saving the girl at the end of Double Dragon. You lose interest in the game and look for another
one, but in the case of getting barreled, I’m so far from feeling accomplished.
If anything, all I’ve gotten is a taste, nothing more. Not being deep enough,
missing the second barrel section, and getting pitched at the peaks, instead of
saying that I have finally gotten barreled I would rather say that I can
finally start getting better at them.
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