THERE’S STILL SWELL, WED 09JAN2013 MOR

 

Loc: El Porto

Time: 0900-1100

Crew: Khang

Conditions: 3-5 FT, high tide, consistent, clean, offshore, walled with some shoulders.

     These recent swells have shown that the South Bay beach breaks like the higher tide. When I check out the cams from home, I decide to wait it out until the tide drops a little, since things look swampy from my computer.

     I show up to a crowded parking lot, but a lot of people on the first shift have to go to work. Some of the waves are walled, but because of the tide, some of them have shape too. I saw the jetty when I drove by. It still looked a little swamped, but I ponder about taking my chances there. I shoot a text to some of the boys to let them know where I’ll be.

     Ideally, I’d like to sit at 45^th. It’s just my old spot, especially because there’s a left that breaks there sometimes. And then again, the right in front of the tanks was working pretty well yesterday too. When I make it to the sand, I see Big Man sitting at 45^th. I feel kind of stupid for ruining his wave yesterday, so it’s an easy decision to sit at the tanks.

     The water’s much colder this morning. There are a few heads where I am. Mark AKA Surfing Santa is on his longboard, but he catches his last wave when I make it out. I’m in my loud ass, Hurley, disco suit, the one that I let my brother borrow while he was here. It demands attention, and even though I don’t want any of it, it’s bone dry compared to my two other wetsuits that I used yesterday, not to mention that it was FREE.

     When I make it to the lineup, it takes a while to catch a wave with shape. My first wave is a left. The shoulder lines up, but it mooshes out and makes my turn flat.

     Charlie (the skinny, bearded ripper) paddles out where I am. I know him from the time I went to Camp Pendleton to assist with the Jimmy Miller Foundation. We surfed with some Wounded Warriors. On the next wave, we both paddle for it. It’s a right. He’s on my inside, and I’m watching to see if he’s gonna get it. He stops paddling, looks at me, and says, “Go, go, go!”

     “Thanks!” I pop up and try to set myself up for a turn, but it closes out. I paddle back out.

     “Did that one hold?” he asks.

     “No.”

     “Looked fun anyway.”

     I smile. It’s nice to start the morning with good etiquette. I see him later going on a right, and this guy just surfs fucking amazing. The wave is only three feet, but it’s a little hollow. He crouches low, damn near plastering himself along the face of the wave with his head leaning over the nose of his board, getting barreled before the wave closes out over him. It’s a hell of a sight to see. If I was on that wave, I wouldn’t have even seen that potential; I would’ve gone straight!

     I catch a couple more rides, but it’s the same. The waves I choose moosh out on the inside. Not all of the waves are mooshy, as some have decent, down-the-line shoulders, but I find myself too deep on many. I go deep on a right. A longboarder is on my outside. He still goes, technically snaking me, but I was so far behind the section that I couldn’t make it to the face anyway.

     He paddles by me and says, “Sorry I dropped in on you.”

     I resume paddling. “No worries. I was way behind the section anyway.”

     “Yeah,” he smiles. “I didn’t think you were gonna get it.

     The same guy is in perfect position for a bomb left. I see him paddle into the shoulder and pop up before I have to duckdive the wave. I turn around and see him resurface on the inside, missing the peeling line.

     “That was a good wave,” I say.

     He smiles and looks down. “Explosion. I just . . . I was too late. I popped up and was like, ‘Ohhhhh!’” He wiggles his hands in front of him.

     “Well, there’ll be more.”

     “Let’s just cut to the chase,” he says. “I blew it.”

     Most of my rides are fast or I mistime the waves, going too late to pop up fast enough to get down the line. My best wave is a right. It’s peaky and shouldery. I pump and get one backhand snap. It feels good and quick, like my nose just wipes the wave from twelve to six o’clock.

     I tell myself to go for it, to see if I can just pull into some of these rights that are opening up, but it just feels too weird. Trying to get barreled going backside, just the act of practicing it feels awkward.

     Khang makes it out. It’s too bad that the tide is now at midlevel and going lower. The wind is turning a little onshore and the shape is getting kind of walled, but the left at 45^th is starting to work and go hollow. I see Charlie again, this time on a monster left. The shoulder there is working so well. There’s a hollow slot, just a small almond. Charlie is in there, I mean he is so fucking SLOT-TED. The guy’s so thin I feel like no one else there could have squeezed inside of that tube. He’s like a daddy longlegs spider just sprawled against the face. He’s going frontside, so he's stalling with his rear hand. His limbs are so lanky he looks more like a bug with long claws against the waves face. He’s deep, and the wave is running, turning into white marble from the inside. He holds his line until the barrel clamshells, devouring him inside. It’s one of the best, first-hand, ridden barrels that I’ve witnessed at El Porto.

     Khang and I split some waves, but they are almost all closing out. My two hours is about up. I tell Khang I’ll see him later and make my way in. I’d like to surf again in the evening, but I’ve been surfing a lot. I’m tired, and I don’t feel like making the South Bay tour all the way to PV. I’m gonna take some time out for myself and just chill. Maybe there will still be some swell leftover tomorrow.

STOKE AFTERBURN (double sesh), TUE 08JAN2013 EVE

 

Loc: Palos Verdes

Time: 1530-1700

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 1-3 FT, occasional 4 FT, low tide, consistent, clean, offshore, glassy.

     I got some renovation going on at my apartment, so I’ve had to steer clear from my house during the daylight hours. I thought these pricks would be done, but they’re not. I can’t be at home, and I don’t know where the hell else to go. Bri gets off of work in a half hour, so I text her and tell her we’re surfing. I pack both of our boards and our gear, and I wait for her until she gets to my place.

Torrance Beach spot check

     One the way to PV, I tell Bri that the surf report says it’s only one-to-two feet. I glance at the coastline on the way there from Manhattan to Torrance. The tide looks drained, and the onshore wind is making the water look like shit. At this point, I expect NOTHING. I already know that there is no way that PV could be good right now; it’s impossible. The surf even looks like it’s gone down in size, but I am more concerned about the wind, and if the water’s gonna be ugly like the last time we surfed here.

     When we park, I am finally resolved to being okay if there is just that random, occasional three-footer. That’s all I ask. A random three-footer here and there, something I can ride. Even if it’s only a few. That’s it.

     The wind is blowing strong onshore when we step out. I walk to the trail so I can at least see the break. It looks like there are small, consistent waves. I try to trick my mind into thinking that they are bigger than they actually appear.

     We change and make the trek down. I’m thinking that Bri can at least have a good session: small, mellow, inconsequential waves. I paddle out first as usual while Bri warms up. I see some longboarders breaking the highline on their small, two-foot rides. I see another go as I let the inside whitewash roll over me. At least it’s consistent. It’s a long ass paddle out. Waves just under three feet are breaking in front of me. Bigger than I expected. As I get closer to the lineup, I have a hard time quelling my instincts to turn and go. The waves actually look rideable with small, peeling shoulders, small but rideable. Finally on the outside, I sit and wait.

#

     I can barely feel the onshore wind. Maybe the wind is dying? It’s fucking glassy, not choppy at all. . . . Wow. There are only about six longboarders out and two groms to the north. The longboarders sit at the main peak, but some of the peaks shift towards me. I turn, I paddle, I scratch out. I scratch out so many fucking times. The shape here is so gradual that I must take off late.

     A set wave swings wide in the middle of the cove. A freckled grom is also darting for it from the opposite side. He’s too deep. I’m still paddling.

     He looks at me and says, “You got it.”

     “Thank you!” I pop up and go right. This is a sub three footer, but I get a little rear hand cutback, and then the wave bogs out once I reenter. Still, the drop was fun. On my paddle back, I throw a shaka to the kid.

#

     After that first wave, there are more . . . so many more. I asked for an occasional three footer, but PV is doing more than that. The surf isn’t big, but it turns out that it’s clean and consistent. I catch so many small waves, almost all lefts, but the Motorboat Too is working, getting me down the line for at least one turn; I’m the single-shot king once again!

     The sets are also working consistently, meaning that when there is one of the bigger waves, it is followed by two or three more. So three feet at PV is not critical, but they are so racy because they are what I would describe as . . . “mooshy walled.” It’s like the wave should be closing out, but for some reason at PV the wave just stays up and holds shape, even while the section is building. As soon as I pop up I’m racing down the line, pumping to get to the end section to finish off the wave with a carve.

     Bri makes it out. She hasn’t been as consistent as she was during the summer, so she’s still rusty. She tries to go for waves that are, obvious to me, too flat. She shoulder hunts and scratches out. I explain to her, as I have before, that the waves here, especially on a day like today, are so non critical that she can get away with going late.

     She says that she’s a little apprehensive because she hit her head last time she surfed here. She paddles again for a wave that’s hella small. There’s no way. But she paddles . . . her board’s about to come back from behind the wave, but no, the wave takes her. She pops up, and she rides it straight. Bri’s not getting every wave, but she’s managing to get at least half of them.

     On one wave, it’s already standing up on the outside. It’s only two-feet plus. She paddles for the shoulder.

     “No,” I say, “go that way.” She knows where I’m talking about. “Go deep!”

     She paddles and disappears. It’s a peeling left, but she pops up late, going right. When she comes back, she tells me that she’s still trying to get her backside down.

#

     As the sun sets, people start leaving. The two groms sit by the north side of the cove for an easy exit when it’s time to go, but something else happens. If it’s possible, it’s like the water gets even glassier. There’s just zero wind. And the sets . . . they get bigger and more consistent, so big that Bri is caught on the inside. It takes forever for her to make it out.

     I catch the first wave of a set, and it takes forever to get back to the lineup. I’m fucking tired, and the sets are breaking much further on the outside than they have all evening. I’m frustrated. Here I am duckdiving when I should be on the outside, getting these waves.

     When the set lulls over, I’m sitting on the outside all by myself. I turn around. Bri is barely just making it out of the impact zone. A left comes. It’s a solid three feet, but I pass it up. I’m tired. Behind it, something else lurks in the darkness. I turn to face the ocean . . . and there’s no way that I’m seeing what I’m seeing. The water is so glassy that it looks like dark, smoothed-over marble. It’s not the moosh wall I was talking about earlier, which is typical of PV. No this is a legitimate, fucking peak. The wave is so peaky that it looks like a ball with a blanket made out of water over it which forms the shoulders. It’s big for that evening, an easy four feet. It’s been a while since I had this feeling, it’s that feeling when you know that it’s gonna be a fucking good ass wave before you’re even on it, a feeling when the wave is coming to you and only you with no one around. It’s like living with no laws, free to do what you want to whomever without any witnesses or repercussions, like time is not an issue, and I can do as I damn well please. With everything else happening in the world and the universe all around me, at this very moment, at this split second, I am going to experience the surfing ideal: A PERFECT WAVE ALL TO MY FUCKING SELF.

     Timing is so crucial. I do not want to fuck this up, as this is a solo act with me being the only thing that can possibly ruin this. As I turn and paddle I see Bri. She’s facing the beach, paddling and not looking back. “Watch out, hun!” I yell. Immediately upon popping up, the face is so smooth and rippable that I’m entering with a lot of speed, from the board’s volume and the wave’s shape. It reminds me of a perfect, Lowers left on a gloomy, offshore morning. The thicker rail on the MB2 has me flying down the line. I pump, still going faster. I have so much speed that I don’t even need to dig into my bottom turn to climb the face with momentum. I grind the face, carving hard and deep, like I’m stomping on the brakes with a splash, and then I redirect and pump to regain momentum. I carve the face again. The wave is soft. I feel my tail penetrate deep and pop back out nice and responsive when it’s time to move. It’s unbelievable, the distance I have. At the end of my fourth turn, I dismount my board in hip-deep water. I give my signature surfer call, the random noise all surfers make in times of ridiculous stoke.

#

     We walk up the trail in the darkness. We can see the lights of the coastline, all the way from Redondo to Santa Monica. We can’t shut the fuck up. I’m so giddy over that last left that I caught. Bri confirms it. She’s equally stoked for the session that we had. Afterburn . . . stoke afterburn, stoke residue. Writing this, I feel the same way. My how things turn out when you least expect it. Only surfing can bring this feeling. I’m glad I’m a surfer. 

There's only one way to calm this afterburn. . . .

A GOOD HARD LOOK AT YOURSELF, TUE 08JAN2013 MOR

 

Loc: El Porto

Time: 0830-0930

Crew: Khang

Conditions: 4-5FT, high tide, a little walled with some corners, hollower with the tide drop, consistent.

     I haven’t surfed in a couple of days. I looked at the cams yesterday. No bueno . . . at least no bueno enough to get my ass up, pack everything, and head to the beach. It looked like there was a lot of wind on it. Something told me that the swell would back off a little bit. Combined with offshore wind, I had a feeling that there would be potential this morning.

     I have to handle some things around the house, so I leave a little later than usual around 0800. The morning’s already looking good. With clear skies and offshore wind, I only wonder if the surf is living up to the equation. As I drive down Grand Avenue, I can tell that the tide is really high, which is maybe a good thing, hopefully taming the recent, walled conditions. I first head south of Porto for a look. I see Don K. and some other locals out there, but the shape looks a little walled here. I have a feeling that Porto’s a little better.

     As soon as I pull into the lot at 45^th Street, a car pulls out. I park right there, opposite the stairs. I can’t say that the peaks are well defined, but I can’t say that it’s walled either. It’s like a cross between both, some sections with shoulders and the bigger sets without (unless you’re on the shoulder). Either way, the conditions look the best that I’ve seen them in a while, so I suit up and send a couple text messages off to the guys who might be off today.

     Both my Tokoro and my JS are down, leaving me with just my brand new board. It’s a little nerve wracking being in this situation with a lack of a quiver. One false move can leave me boardless and waiting for repairs. Although, the tide is so high that a lot of the waves are mooshy, perfect for my Motorboat Too.

     The paddle out isn’t so bad. I keep a mental note not to ditch this board on any duckdives today. I can’t risk another ding, especially not on this board; I’ve learned my lesson.

     The crowd isn’t too thick. The current pulls south, so most of the surfers that were initially around me end up by the sandwich shack. A small group of surfers are sitting in front of the smoke stacks and the tanks, while I do my best to maintain in front of 45^th. Even though the surf is consistent, it’s hard to get a wave. I turn, paddle, and scratch out, as the tide has the waves breaking later than expected. When the bigger waves come, which will obviously break early, they are a bit walled. It’s a frustrating start to the session.

     I finally get a left, but it’s just a small insider. I get a check turn off the lip and try to set up for a carve, but the wave is losing its juice. I walk the deck and do a catwalk 360 instead, surprisingly pulling off a full rotation before bogging out. I do this whenever I can, despite how barneyish it looks.

     My next wave is a right, which is again a small insider. It’s a down-the-line wave, but it’s more like a wall that’s held up by the offshores. I pump on the midline, tagging the lip twice before it closes. It’s nothing spectacular.

     As the tide drops, the waves get more hollow. Surprisingly, the breaks in front of the smoke stacks and the tanks are working. Rights are rolling in, closed out behind them, but with tapered right-hand shoulders for any takers. There’s a large heavy-set guy on a big board. It’s not even gunny; it has more of that fun shape to it. He paddles for one of those rights, and I watch him disappear as the curl overtakes my view, throwing out over him. He paddles back to his buddy and says, “Did you see me make it out of that one?”

     Buddy shakes his head in acknowledgement.

     “I was gonna claim that one-second section I got, and then the second part starting throwing out. I got a double barrel!”

     I’m not part of this conversation, but I’m close enough. I feel a little bit of hater coming over me. The reminder that I can’t get barreled for the life of me lingers in my mind like someone took a shit in there, like the fumes are just festering. I try not to let it stink up my session.

     Now everyone is heading for the right that’s breaking in front of the tanks. I can’t do the crowds, so I’m sitting just south of them. Lucky for me, a peaky left happens to sprout in my spot. It’s an ideal, spilling, Porto wave. It’s about four feet, peaky, and smooth from the offshore wind. I pop up and drop in with speed, which is due from the Motorboat’s meaty rail. I get a couple pumps to build speed and carve the top of the shoulder. God damn it feels smooth. It’s the feeling that I’ve been longing for. I redirect, pump, and get a finishing check turn when the ride bogs out. I paddle back with a newfound feeling of confidence for the morning. It’s my first decent wave. I’m stoked.

     However, every wave I catch comes with a price. It’s just meant to be, like the surf Gods are claiming an outstanding debt I owe. They send sets, even after my closeouts. The sets arrive to claim my surfer soul and my ass because, they own me. I duckdive the waves but get held back underwater. Even though I don’t successfully make them clean out the back, holding onto my board has me resurfacing in a better position to beat the next wave. I have a moment under water where my leash is wrapped around my legs. On one set wave in particular, I find myself in the impact zone, the perfect spot for obliteration. I penetrate the water’s surface, knowing I’m not deep enough. And then . . . instant explosion. My board is yanked from my grip. My limbs flail involuntarily from the water’s force. I touch bottom, and despite the beating, the attempted duckdive still has me resurfaced at a good position to make it back out.

     Big Man on the big board is still going, getting some barrels. I can’t believe it. He’s a big dude on a big board, but I see him pulling in. So are his friends. I maintain my position and attempt to pick off the lefts. One is standing up on the outside. I’m deep, so I head for the shoulder. Without looking back, I feel that I’m in the right place. The only problem is that I’m too far inside. The wave hits the sand bar, doubling up as I’m getting my last stroke for the pop up. The wave morphs in a split second. My pop up is off. I try to salvage my late drop by grabbing the rail and pointing my nose down the line. It’s mayhem and beauty at the same time. Beauty because this is the beginning of a perfect, hollow left. I can tell from the way the lip is overtaking me, that it’s going round, about throw out, and I can even see the shoulder. It’s not a closeout; it’s a legit barrel. And then the mayhem . . . I don’t survive the drop. I’m in such an awkward position for a wipeout. I’m going over the falls with the board under me. I’m expecting the worst, like falling directly on my board or having the fins shoot up as I’m shooting down, splitting the seam of my sack. I feel fins as I get pummeled below. I resurface, feel the tail, the rail . . . I’m all right.

     Khang paddles toward me from the south.

     “Duuuude!” he says. “I say that guy get barreled from the parking lot. It was forever dude, like five seconds.”

     “Yeah,” I say, as I motion towards the right in front of the tanks. “It’s breaking better over there. I have my earplugs in since I paddled out alone, so it’s a little hard to converse. I get another little left that’s breaking section on section with a right. I lack the ability to do a cut back on the oncoming section, but I still carve the face before it closes out.

     Khang goes on a wave. I’m not sure if he gets distance on it or not, but there’s a set coming out the back. It’s a monster. Khang is gone for a while. I get worried, scanning the inside, and that’s when I see him almost all the way by the bathrooms paddling back.

     Big Man’s buddy is going on a right. He looks deep, so I paddle for it since I’m near the shoulder. Big Man yells out, “HEY, HEY, HEY, HEY!”

     The wave closes out. his friend resurfaces in the whitewash.

     Was he yelling at me? I’m thinking that this guy’s a dick. I saw the fucking guy. He was deep. If he was in the wave I would have pulled out.

     With the tide going out, the waves are getting more walled. I’m frustrated, scratching, and not finding myself in the right position. A monster right rolls in by the tanks. Big Man is going right. He’s deep. There’s no way he’s gonna make it. I paddle. He starts yelling, screaming. I know he’s doing it to let me know he’s there. I glance over and see him. He’s far away; he’s too deep. I’m sure it’s gonna close out over him. I paddle, scratch, kick, but I see that the wave is closing out. I pull out.

     I have a feeling that I did something wrong. I paddle back to the lineup without looking back. I hear the faint voice behind me: “Bro . . . hey, bro.”

     I turn around.

     Big Man says, “Please don’t paddle in the wave like that when I’m in the barrel like that.”

     “I saw you, man,” I say, “I pulled out.”

     “I appreciate that, but you pushed down on the barrel. I could have made that. They’ll slit your throat if you do that in Indo.”

     My mind’s working slow from the moment. I’m defensive in nature, but I think this guy’s exaggerating. I continue, “Dude, what’s the big deal? I fuckin’ saw you. You were way too deep. I pulled out.”

     He paddles away, muttering something.

     “Who do you think you are? Kelly Slater?” I say.

     He paddles away and leaves me sitting there, wondering who was in the wrong and who was in the right. I’ve had this happen to me before. My friend Klaude, his mentor Roy called me out years ago when I was still working my way out of the barney stages. He said I was making the wave break by pulling out. I thought he was a dick, but I realized later he was right. 

    My meter’s up. I catch a closeout in. I was originally gonna feed the meters and join Khang a while longer, but as I turn and look at the ocean, there seem to be more closeouts now. Fuck it. I spend the rest of the post sesh thinking about the altercation. Who am I to say that he was too deep and couldn’t make it? Was I in the tube? Nope. But he was. . . . I’m pondering over this now because it’s a shot to my ego. I can say this because I’m honest with myself. I have to be to grow. My surfing is in its “carving” stage. Big Man telling me not to paddle for his wave is like calling out the guy sitting on a piece of gym equipment, the guy who just sits there and doesn’t use it, when the body builder comes up and says, “If you’re not gonna use it then get the fuck off.” There I was being defensive, but . . . Big Man was getting barrels. I’m not there yet. I need to know where and when to take the back seat. In the same respect, I’m supposed to be preparing for my summer trip to Java to surf with my bro. The first time I went to Bali, my bro had said, “You need to work on your paddling.” I did. . . . For months until that trip, practically for six months I paddled my ass off. My brother recently told me, “Okay, for this trip, you need to practice ‘pulling in.’” Fuck. 

     I’m sitting at a donut shop in El Segundo writing this, trying to mentally regroup and stay positive. I’m gonna put this session behind me, in hopes that the next one will be better. I need to train without putting so much pressure on myself, but experience is only earned one way. You know. . . .