AT THE FOOTSTEPS OF STAGE II, FRI 25JAN2013 MOR

 

Loc: 45^th Street

Time: 0915-1115

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 4-6+ FT, clean, glassy, offshore, dumpy with occasional barrels, gnarly.

     I wake up to the sound of pouring rain. I had initially planned to surf today, but of course I can’t surf now. Who the hell would be out there in these conditions?

     My classmate Cassady calls. He’s from Santa Barbara and a fellow surf enthusiast. “Have you seen the cams?” he says.

     “Nah, man.”

     “Dude, check your e-mail. Porto looks good right now, and there are barely and heads out.”

     “Yeah? Are you surfing today?”

     “Yeah, I think I’m gonna check out HB. . . . Check your e-mail.”

     I don’t check my e-mail because . . . in the back of my mind, I know there’s surf. I know it’s one of “those” days. I just know it. Of course there’s surf. I look at the surfcam, but it’s hard to tell. It’s still raining outside. I prep my gear, question myself whether this is a good idea or not, and I head out.

     Lines are coming into Porto as I drive down 45^th and enter the lot. The inside looks consistent. I park. Hmmmm. It’s walled but there’s a little shape there. The tide’s too high for Hammers to work. I know because I only saw one SUP guy there. I doubt that my other MB spot is working because it’s usually more walled there, and if it’s this walled over here? It looks tempting because the tide is high, because there looks like there’s a little bit of shape, but that paddle out . . . fuck it looks brutal.

     I change. I wax up my board. I tell myself that this is dangerous.

     As soon as I make my way to the bike path, four guys doing a surf-check turn around from the shore and walk back to the lot. One of them says, “Hey!” and waves towards me. I have no idea who this dude is. I turn around. Nobody’s there. When we get closer I realize it’s Whiffleboy. He’s with some other local Porto rippers that I see out here on a regular basis.

     “I didn’t recognize you with your hat,” I say. We shake hands. “You paddle out already?”

     “No.”

     He tells me where he intends on going, but I don’t want to blow up his spot, so I’m not gonna write it here. We talk about how another option is PV.

     “You off all day?” I ask.

     “Yeah.”

     “Fuck,” I say. “If I didn’t have to do my taxes today I’d totally be down for a mission.”

     “Well, you’ll be doing a lot of dodging right here.” He motions towards the lineup. A massive wall crashes down.

#

     When I had paddled out at the jetty on Wednesday, I managed to avoid getting worked. Something about having the jetty there makes it easier to paddle out, but here . . . the channels are deceiving, and the work to get out here is unavoidable. I begin my paddle, trying not to hurry too much and burn oxygen. I resolve to the fact that I will get a little worked, will have to face a set wave, and will probably get pounded once or twice; it’s just a given. But then . . . I only have to duckdive whitewash; I make it out unscathed. Bless me!

     I’m a fresh face, amped. I have another chance, a fresh start, and an opportunity to redeem myself. My eyes are open now. I know that in these conditions that there ain’t no turning. It’s barrel or nothing. The other guys in the lineup have a tired look on their faces. They’re frustrated. They probably felt the way I did an hour ago, and now their stoke has worn off.

     The crowd is thin. I see my bro’s friend from Indo. He’s hard to miss because he’s so dark he makes me look white. His name is Nyoman. I wave. He waves back.

     My first wave is a right, but it’s not round because of the tide. It’s walled but the shape is holding. I try to get a top turn, but I just can’t set myself up right, and my ride ends in a non consequential wipeout, no biggie.

     Nyoman and I shoot the shit a little. I tell him that my bro went back to Java and that it’s been raining over there. He says that it’s wet season, there’s been a lot of flooding, and that he’ll e-mail my brother when he goes back in the summer.

     My next wave is a left, a closeout, but I pull in and penetrate out the back pretty clean. Rides like this I’ve gotten used to. My next wave is just pure closeout. I lose my balance and accidentally step off of my tail backwards at the base of the wave. I still have my ass; I’m okay.

     What happens next is fuzzy and I can barely remember. Fuck . . . just . . . set waves. Bombs just start coming in, and the fucked up part is that . . . they are makeable. What I mean is, there is no shape for carving. It’s either go straight or get barreled; that’s it, nothing else, and a lot of them are rights. I feel so uncomfortable at back-hand barrel attempts, it just seems like all wipeouts from that position are awkward.

     I catch a left and straighten out. I look down the line. I could’ve made that if I had pulled in. FUCK. I catch a right, I mean, a perfect, peaky right, but I don’t pull in. I look behind me. I could have made that one too. FUCK ME, I’M A FUCKING PUSSY. ARRRRRRRRRRRGH! I’m internally berating myself again. Fuck . . . this isn’t stoke. God damn, I mean . . . barrel riding. Will I look back on this one day and say, “Yes, I remember those days.” Right now I just feel I’m in a perpetual state, like my surfing has plateaud.

     I tell myself from now on I have to go, HAVE to go. The next left that comes in is so lined up. The peak is about to go round because of the lowering tide; I can fucking tell. I position myself just deep off of the shoulder. I guy to my north watches. The shoulder instantly stands up. I’m popping up, the shape is so perfect, I know this is going to be a good barrel, it has to be. I have no intentions of straightening out; I’m committed. And then . . . my front foot slips and slides towards my nose. Awkward wipeout on a clean, barreling wave. I’m past humiliation because . . . I’m under water. I know I’m deep, and I’m there for a while. I should be at the surface by now, but I’m not. It’s dark . . . dark, and then. GASP! Finally! Fuck me. I remount my board, and here comes the next wave. Duckdive, lose board, upside down, resurface. A guy paddles next to me, passes me, and makes it over the next wave. What the fuck?! I’m on the inside getting worked. I look back and see the lifeguard truck behind me.

     The guys in there are probably saying, “Yup, watch this guy. He shouldn’t be out there.” The next wave comes, obliterates me. “Oooooooh! Is he coming up?”

     I make it back out. I’m caught up in a mix of emotions, talking to myself. An inside right comes my way, still about five feet. “All right, Donny. Here we go here we go!” I pop up and draw a long bottom turn to run the length of the section. The wave isn’t round. I try to gouge out the face on my backhand, but I get stuck on the downturn and fall. I may have been too eager on that turn. Again, pounded on the inside.

     For every wave I catch thereafter there is a price to pay. Charlie paddles out. He waves.

     “I see you waited until the tide got lower,” I say.

     “Yeah, well . . . might be more dangerous now.”

     “I’m surprised you’re not at the jetty.”

     He shakes his head. “It’s too damn crowded over there.”

     We’re both on the inside. We paddle next to each other, trying to make it out, and then he stops and rests on the inside. I keep paddling, getting worked on the way. I’m surprised that for a vet like him that he’s not just going for it. I look around. Some other guys are doing the same. Is this a surf secret that I’ve been missing? Wait until the sets over even though you’re sitting on the inside? I continue to trudge forth, and in front of me I see a guy paddling into a barrel, and he eats shit as he slides down. I look towards 42^nd and another guy eats shit on a wave. Right there I realize . . . it’s not just me having a tough time.

     Some guy who’s been tearing it up on a single fin all morning is flailing around on the inside. I watch and then realize he just looks awkward because he’s paddling on half of his board.

     I watch Charlie paddle into a bomb by the bathrooms. He disappears going right then kicks out smoothly over the shoulder towards the inside. Fuck me.

     I sit with my demons, but they’re not as loud. I’ve been in the water for about two hours, and I need a final wave of the morning. A left pops up, just like the beautiful barrel that I blew earlier. It’s funny how these things happen, like they could be in a movie, so cliché but true. It’s my redemption wave, but it’s up to me to make it so. Just like the one I blew, I place myself in a similar position, paddle, kick, and go. I’ve popped up. I’ve survived. I’ve lined myself up with the wave, and I’m waiting for it to throw over. I’m drawing a high line. I crouch down . . . I’m crouched . . . still crouching, and . . . the fucking wave isn’t throwing out. It’s not a barrel. I’m forcing it. I should be down the line just throwing in some turns. I see that the wave is about to wall up. I pump, bottom turn, and throw a nice meaty carve off of the top. I mean it feels so good, just full rail. I rebound off the lip as it turns to white wash and catch the wave on my belly to shore.

     It’s like Porto threw me a bone and said, “No, you’re not ready yet, but here’s a little something for your troubles.” (Mobster flips a coin to the kid on his ass in the middle of the street. It hits the ground, rolls, and spins before it falls flat).

     A guy is on the shore watching the surf as I pull myself up and out of the water.

     “I saw you on that right,” I say. “It was a good one.”

     “Fuck,” he says, “It’s fuckin’ gnarly out there. I’m done.” We look at another guy leaving the water with his board in two pieces.

#

     All day since that morning session, I’ve been thinking about the wave I blew, the barrels I dodged . . . and right now I officially demote myself back to Barney status. I’m stuck in stage one, trying to get to stage two. I’ve gotten experience points, but I haven’t leveled up yet. It’s like I’m 19 and still a senior in high school, held back, smart with potential but just can’t pass the test. I’ll be restless until I do.

HEIRARCHY, WED 23JAN2013 MOR

Loc: Hammerland

Time: 1015-1145

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 4-6 FT, clean, glassy, offshore, dumpy and barrels, gnarly, crowded.

     On the way to Manhattan Beach, I get a glimpse of Hammerland. There’s a lone left with nobody on it. Wow, I’m thinking. It looks a little hollow, empty, but at the same time I think: It’s gonna be one of “those” days.

     I pull into 45^th. It looks walled, not worth the paddle out. I go further south, score on parking, step out, and check the surf. It’s bigger here, just as walled. I see a corner or two. Some pro in a white and neon orange wetsuit is being filmed. He’s catching the inside waves. I see him crank two turns, stall, pump on the inside section and do a 360 air attempt. Impressive, but he’s the only one catching waves.

     There’s a gym bag in the back of my wagon. In it is a set of Skull Candy headphones, tennis shoes, a gym towel, and a lock. I’ve brought this with me in case the surf sucks or is too walled. Yup . . . there’s the gym bag. And then . . . there’s my conscience. . . . “Practice pulling in.” Direct words from my bro. It’s because in Java this summer it’s gonna be the real deal. No turns, just barrels, and anyone that knows me knows that I still have yet to be barreled. I suck at getting barreled. I just do. If I didn’t, it would’ve happened by now.

     So, that being said . . . I can get in my wagon, head to the gym, and work on my flabby glutes. . . . Or . . . I can get some barrel practice.

          DO I TAKE THE RED PILL OR THE BLUE PILL?!

KING OF THE MOUNTAIN:

     I’m watching Hammers from the Grand Avenue parking lot. A set wave comes in, breaking just a little wide off of the jetty. It’s round but fast, FUCK-ING FAST! I’m cursing myself while I’m suiting up, filled with anxiety. I’m a masochist; I must be. My surf demons are coming out. I imagine that I’m gonna be getting worked, pounded, humiliated, and yet I’m on this self deprecating tirade while I’m waxing my board, shoving quarters in the meter, and getting ready to paddle out. I’m a buffoon on different levels, but I think I’m so God damn hard on myself because I REALLY WANT TO GET BARRELED. I mean, I really want to get better, to just reach this fucking milestone so bad, you have no idea. I’m like the soldier that hasn’t been to combat, the teenager that hasn’t gotten vagina yet. No bragging rights, not part of the cool crowd. Of course, I’m not a bragger and fuck the cool crowd, but I think you know what I’m saying. I am hard on myself, I want to be the surfer that I visualize myself being, and I want to at least reach a level closer to my brother too, and every time I get close and don’t reach it, it fucking kills me, so that’s where this anxiety comes from.

     I begin my trot to the jetty, and now I see that there are now guys sitting on the left. As I get closer, I see a guy catch a wave next to the rocks, pull in, and drive before being swallowed up. It was a fast wave, but he pulled in and made it some distance. I respect that.

     The lifeguard station is being manned. I imagine what the lifeguard must be thinking, that he’s watching guys one awkward wipeout away from needing assistance. At the same time, he gets the real life show; front row seats to the best surf report of the South Bay. What a job.

     I wait for the right window, thinking that this lifeguard is probably betting himself whether I’m gonna get worked or not. The water’s cold, but not as cold as Sunday’s chill fest. I try to calm my adrenaline by breathing slowly, and miraculously I pick a good window, avoiding oblivion.

     Three guys own the top of the wave at Hammers, while at least a dozen other guys are sitting on the right on the other side. Another guy paddles past me, and he exchanges greetings with the guys at the top of the wave. I faintly recognize two of the guys, but other than them, I’ve never seen the other guys in my life. That’s when it occurs to me, this hierarchy that takes place when the South Bay gets walled. When the conditions get gnarly out here, in contrast to the everyday crowd, only a certain breed comes out to play. When the conditions are walled and dumpy with an occasional barrel, there are only a few takers. And right here before me, is an exclusive group. . . . I have a feeling I don’t belong.

     I can’t insert myself into the lineup. For one, I have to be honest. I’m not gonna sit at the top with the wolves if I can’t even handle these fucking waves. I sit wide as usual and watch . . . and watch . . . and watch. Guys are getting waves at the top. A lot of them are closeouts, but some of them get distance. Some guys take off right in front of the rocks but further out and barely make it. I watch until I get frustrated. I’m mad at myself again. What the fuck am I doing out here? Those guys look back and see me sitting in the same fucking place holding onto this board like it’s a dick I can’t get off of. Finally, I go. I just go for the fuck of it. Go just to go instead of sitting here. I’ll take the fucking waves nobody wants. FUCK IT.

     I catch a bomb, a less walled bomb, and wouldn’t you know? It’s actually fun! I pop up early and pull in, just enough to get a glimpse before I’m pulverized. I resurface. I’m okay. Guys on the outside watch me paddle back. I catch another one. Same thing. Fuck it. Closeout, pull in, little shot of the barrel, just enough to get a whiff, not even a TASTE, but it’s better than nothing. I get more confident, sit closer to the rocks. I feel I’ve earned a spot closer to the jetty.

     The set waves are no joke. They are so big that you’d think that they have to be walled, but there is a shoulder all the way at the end. The waves break different at the jetty. Guys are catching them really far out, making it past the rocks, and pumping all the way until it gets hollow towards the inside.

     I try to paddle for these, but since I’m not at the top of the wave, I don’t have a chance; someone’s always on it. Out of frustration, I sit a little on the inside to catch the insiders, but I’m a bit deep on one. I paddle and get catapulted. Still, when I resurface I’m all right. Charlie the Porto vet paddles past me and says hi. He’s a cool guy. He makes it to the lineup where he’s greeted like a gladiator making his way to the arena.

MISSED BOMBS:

     Fuck, my bro told me that his friend Daz had said, “Talking about your surfing is like talking about sleeping with your wife . . . you just don’t do it.” At first it didn’t make sense to me, but now I understand why. It’s because it’s an honest account that really, most people wouldn’t want to share with anyone else. In my case, it’s really humbling. I don’t have the stories to brag about triumphant breakthroughs about being spat out of big barrels. No, I have to tell stories about eating SHIT! In fact, I don’t even think rippers would even be interested in this blog because their levels are beyond this; they’re past this phase.

     There’s a bomb, easy six feet. It’s big, I’m at a deep take off spot, it looks tapered, but it’s so intimidating. I mean, I know it’s gonna go round, it has to with the way everything is breaking. My balls shove up to my stomach, and I let it pass. Now the demons come back. I hate myself. IDIOT.

     On the next one, a guy is deeper than me, but as he’s paddling he lets up. I’m paddling too. His eyebrows rise. I can’t hear him, but his lips are moving, saying, “Go.”

     I paddle. It’s a steep drop. As I’m sliding down the face my foot slips to the nose of my board. I eat shit. Fuck, I tried.

     Now the sets are really coming in. I see everyone facing the jetty, and I hear people yelling. I look over, and there’s a guy, high and dry on top of the rocks. He’s not like, at the rocks where it meets the water. He is almost on top of the high rocks were people can walk on TOP of the jetty. He’s shaken, struggling to crawl off.   

     A half dozen “Are you all rights” can be heard until the kid makes it. I’ve seen his face before.

     On every bomb, someone is on it. I’m not at the top of the wave. I can’t get a ride. I almost do, but this guy goes. I see the lip curl over him as he leans backwards and puts his hands at the small of his back, stylish. When he resurfaces on the inside, he says to his buddy, “I hit my nose.”

     I don’t know exactly how he got hurt, but he paddles in. No mas.

     I really want to end my session right, but my meter’s almost up, and it’s a long jog back to the lot. I catch a closeout in.

     It’s an odd feeling coming home. I love surfing, I do, but at the same time it’s disturbing how this new level of surfing that I’m trying to achieve . . . fuck, man. It’s not easy.

KK GETS SOME COBBLESTONES, MON 21JAN2013 EVE

 

Loc: Palos Verdes

Time: 1530-1730

Crew: Bri & Klaude

Conditions: 2-3+ FT, inconsistent, clean, glassy, cool, walled on the set waves.

     I want to surf this morning, but Bri wants to paddle out after work, and there’s no way that I’m gonna do a double session today, so I wait until the evening. Klaude gives me a call later, says he missed the morning window too. I extend the invite for him to join me and Bri at PV if he wants to hop in the surfmobile with us. He doesn’t commit, but I tell him I’ll shoot him a text before I go just in case.

     When I’m packing up later that day, I shoot him the text, and then he just decides to show up to my apartment.

     For some reason, the weather in SoCal is extremely warm, like pre October, fall weather. Isn’t this still supposed to be winter? I entice Klaude, saying that Bri and I have scored the last some-odd times that we’ve been there, and then I of course extend an apology in advance in case we get bamboozled.
     “Maaaan,” he says. “You’re not Poseidon, you don’t have to apologize.”

     This is true, but I can’t help it. For some reason, people get skunked most of the time when I’m leading the charge on a surf mission.

     On the way to PV, the Porto Jetty looks like there’s size. I can’t really tell, but it almost looks like there are fun waves. The conditions look equally satisfying in the water too. I wonder if Klaude regrets making this trip.

     Parks, the Pier, it looks like there’s still size. Torrance Beach has a lot of surf activity. Girls are in short jean shorts, roller blading; people are showing skin like it’s the summer again. The activity is good. It means there are waves.

     As soon as we round the bend to park by the cove, we see a long line of cars already parked, something Bri and I haven’t encountered on our recent sessions here. We end up parking all the way at the top, but . . . despite the crowd, I have a feeling that there’s surf down there. I’m stoked.

     We change and make our way down. It’s my first time surfing PV with KK, so I’m excited. The trek down the trail is typical. The waves look small, mostly longboarders are out there, and they are sitting on the inside. It looks small . . . it usually does, but I know that sitting in the lineup is a whole different story.    

     KK and I try to pull a Seal Team Six and scale down this steep as short cut, while Bri ops to take the long way. I damn near slip and break my ass, and by the time we reach the trail, Bri is already ahead of us. Some shortcut.

     Surfers are both heading back up and going down. I’m antsy. KK and Bri warm up while I head out. The paddle is long, long as always. I let the water wash over me instead of duckdiving. I don’t want to ding my board, so I wait until I’m at the lineup. Once I’m there, there’s a long ass lull. The day before was lully too. I’m sitting wide north of the longboarders who are dominating the main peak. Everyone is sitting and waiting . . . not good. I watch the waves break there with more consistency, but they are small, two feet. At least four waves break over there before any activity starts at my spot. Klaude makes his way out and sits with the crowd. He’s on his Don Kadowaki Rocket, and even though there’s volume on that board, there’s no way he can compete against those logs.

     I keep an eye on him to see if he gets anything, but . . . someone’s always on the wave first. I feel bad.

     Bri sits out there with him, and then she comes over towards me.

     My first wave is a closeout. Most of the waves swinging wide are too racy, or the shoulder is just so far wide, so wide that I always find myself deep. The best I can do is get a couple pumps in.

     Klaude paddles over and joins. “I kind of snaked a guy,” he says.

     Oh well. Shit happens. I catch another closeout, but on the way back to the lineup, Bri gets a set wave. It has a shoulder. She takes a while to pop up, but when she does, she’s still drawing a line high up on the face. For the first time at PV, she’s standing up in perfect position with a full vantage point; she’s going down the line. I can’t tell you how stoked I am for her. She’s on that flamer NSP, and now she’s put that fucker to good use, exactly what it was made for. I’m a proud boyfriend.

     Even though the conditions aren’t epic, there is such good energy between the three of us, and we can’t even blame the waves too much. I’m in perfect position for a left. KK goes on it too, but he’s too deep, behind the section, and I pull out just in case.

     “You should have went,” says Klaude.

     I’m silent.

     “Shiiit, I would have snaked you,” he says.

     I smile. I don’t know. I’d rather be safe than sorry. I’m not sure if he could have made the section.

     I blow a perfectly good right. Sometimes when I’m not on point, I can’t turn as I’m climbing from my backhand, and I end up going over the wave. I got issues. On another right, Bri accidentally snakes me.

     Then Klaude gets this fucking left. It’s barely, and I mean BARELY three fucking feet. He paddles and disappears. “Oh,” I’m thinking. And then . . . fuckin’ guy pops up. There’s a shoulder in front of him. And he’s pumping; he just keeps going and going and going. He catches that motherfucker ALL THE WAY to shore. He had to be in the shallows when he finally got off his board.

     Now . . . I can sleep tonight. Klaude got a fuckin’ good wave, so did Bri.

     Once the sun sets, the crowd thins out. There are a couple new faces that have rushed it, shortboarders. We all sit more compact at the main peak, easier now since there are less of us. KK passes on a wave, leaving me on the inside. It’s a small wave, but surprisingly it has some fun, pumpy shape. I get one carve to end it.

     “How much longer are you guys surfing?” says Klaude.

     The guy’s blind, and it’s getting dark. I tell him to meet me on the inside.

     I’ve never seen the water so clear at PV. It’s a combination of the protection from the cliff keeping the wind out, and there’s something about cold water that keeps all the little, floaty barnacles in their place underwater. I can see the kelp and rocks, even when I’m duckdiving. I’d be able to see a shark coming (I’d like to think). I want to stay out until it’s dark, to be the last one out of the water, but maybe cutting out right now’s not such a bad idea. We can walk the trail, still see the orange over the horizon, and change before it’s pitch black.

     It’s a fun drive home. The good energy continues. No, not epic, but a legitimate good session we had. We all have that stoked, surf buzz, that “glaze.” It’s like medication or a pill that’s kicked in, a surfer’s high. The sense of accomplishment from doing nothing but being a part of nature and riding a wave. Three surfers head back home, having ended their day in a perfect way.