TRESTLES SURGICAL STRIKE IV, SAT02MAR2013 A-NOON

 

Loc: North Churches to Middles

Time: 1300-1530

Crew: Hideki, Klaude, Khang & Dais

Conditions: 3-4 FT, sunny, cold water, uber consistent.

     We abandon the campsite and relocate in front of Churches. Khang had initially planned on leaving early, saying that the conditions were deteriorating, but right now, just a little after twelve thirty, we’re standing in front of rights going unridden. The top, of the wave is breaking, and even there, there aren’t so many people. Nope, Khang . . . you ain’t going nowhere. . . . At the suggestion of waiting it out a little, Khang says, “Let’s paddle out now, it’s good right now!”

     How rare is this? Yes, exactly. Out of all the Dump Rider Crew camping trips that we’ve organized, only half of them were total scores, with good surf the whole time. This is a rarity. I have surfed Trestles better but this is the best that I’ve seen this place with the homies.

     Vertra, wax, wetsuits, leashes. Bri says her knee hurts, so she’s gonna take a nap on the sand. Even though there is surf right in front of us, the group decides to head back to our spot from this morning. Will lightning strike twice?

     Again, we paddle out, the same spot. Again, there is one dude on it, and we crowd his space. Then . . . fuck, I paddle deep towards his inside. He had just missed the wave before, but now the second wave of the set is approaching. We both paddle for it. He watches, waiting to see if I’ll fall, but I

Pop up

Shit

Fuck

I’m going down the line

So nice

The face is long

I climb and do a relaxed arc

Redirecting my board at mid face

Pumping again

Turning again

Smooth, without a worry, like this wave is meant for me

I end the ride on the inside with a baby turn and kick out

     clean.

Not bad for a first ride.

     We all get a couple, until . . . we sell it, and this time, there are repercussions. Literally, our spot is blown up. Mons Pubis never gets this crowded. At the top of the wave at Churches, there are only a couple people. Is it really breaking that much better over here? I could paddle further south, but fuck this; we were here first.

     I’m going for a left, and there’s this guy on my outside. We are pretty much calf to calf, both going for this wave. My testosterone kicks in.

I hate this guy

Fuck this guy

He’s not going to get

My wave

I’m scratching and kicking with J.O.B. intentions, and I pop up, he backs off, and the wave closes out. Yup . . . all of that for a fucking closeout.

     Instead of catching waves, most of us have to back out of them. I see Klaude, straight up in front of the whole lineup, just paddle and drop in on this guy going right. FUCK it was bad. Of course I don’t tell Klaude this. Klaude pretty much does a cannon ball in front of this guy. You see, his wave is really racy. Klaude can’t kick out over it, even I wouldn’t have been able to. So really, Klaude only does have one choice. If he straightens out, he cuts the guy off. He chooses to bail into the face.

     Some guy paddles by me and gives me that look that says, “Fuck, did you see that?”

     The guy Klaude dropped in on ended up going around him and still making it down the line. Klaude slipped away unscathed, and no harsh words were exchanged. Cool.

     Khang decides to sit at the new peak that is consistently breaking towards the center of Middles. I watch him, and he’s competing with a bunch of surfers, a lot on longboards, and some guy on a fish. He has to constantly pull out. I don’t bother; I know I won’t catch shit there.

     Hideki, Dais, and KK sit a little more towards Churches, just south of Mons Pubis. I sit in between them.

     The crowd gradually drifts more north towards Khang, while I’m in a gap with just a couple heads. It’s inconsistent. I paddle closer to Churches. Just then, an outside set approaches. There’s an SUP guy there. He catches the first one. I paddle my ass off to the outside, just swinging around the shoulder before it breaks. As I’m dropping in, I see the SUP down the line, sliding into the same wave. I pump, catch up to him, give out a loud, “Wooooh!” and he kicks out. It’s a solid four feet. I pump . . .

     And then these details get blurry. I just remember that the surf was the biggest it was the whole trip on this afternoon. I got some big rights, just paddling in perfect on the shoulder and then bottom turning and winding up on the snap (If anything, I have to be honest that on my CI Motorboat Too, it works great, but the turns aren’t as snappy as when I’m on my thruster.). I’m getting at least two turns on every wave. Towards the inside, I’m going down another right. Klaude is in my line, so I do a cutback to get some space. When I pass him, we exchange a glance, both sharing the moment. Then Klaude paddles into the wave right after mine, a perfect right. I’m cheering him on as I have him in full view, mouth open, eyes wide, paddling, and dropping in smoothly. There’s stoked energy all around.

     The crowd is so thin and spread out where we are that there is an abundance of untouched waves.

    

     I surf until I’m shivering cold. Still, the rest of the boys are going for it. I’m the first one to call it quits after my last wave. When I get back, I find Bri reading a surf magazine and Rick suiting up.

     I say hi to Bri then walk up to Rick. “You made it!” I say.

     “Yeah!” He walks over to a surfboard by the tree. “Jimmy got me this board for a birthday present, it just got done today!” Jimmy had told me about this earlier.

     I tell Rick where the boys are surfing at, and then he makes his way out to the lineup. Bri and I chill out, watching the surf. I can’t believe that so many waves are still coming in, still unridden, breaking too far towards the outside. Even wide south on the inside, only three guys are there.

     The rest of the guys trickle in one by one. Khang loads up his Bang Bus van and rolls, Hideki stays behind to join Bri and me for dinner, and we just catch Rick as he comes out of the water. He says he had a tough time with the crowd because he doesn’t have his new board dialed in yet. “It’s not like the fish,” he says. 

     At Zenko sushi, Bri, Hideki, and I power eat for about two hours. Afterwards, Bri and I still get home at a reasonable time, but are exhausted. Lying in bed, I think about the last couple days, how we scored, and how successful this surgical strike was. I mean, literally in and out. This rarely happens for a last minute trip to go this well. And then I think to myself, how am I gonna write all of this?

     Then I get a blowjob.

     “Slurp, slurp, slurp.”

TRESTLES SURGICAL STRIKE III, SAT02MAR2013 MOR

Loc: North Churches to Middles

Time: 0700-0945

Crew: Bri, Hideki, Klaude, Khang & Dais

Conditions: 3 FT+, sunny, cold water, offshore, consistent.

     I heard Khang’s van pull up in the middle of the night, but I was already getting some good REM and fell back asleep.

#

     I wake up, hearing soft footsteps outside. I unzip the tent and stand up straight with the speed of a sloth, outstretching my arms and pointing my finger into a Saturday Night Fever stretch. I see the fire going on the propane stove. Rick walks by and says, “Come grab some hard-boiled eggs, Matt.” I scratch my head and walk towards the bathroom for a piss. I look inside Khang’s van as I pass it. They’re still knocked out. When I get back, Rick tells me that he and Jimmy are gonna hit Oceanside. Even though part of me is disappointed that they are leaving to surf somewhere else, I can’t blame them. Churches is going to be crowded. We know it. It’s Saturday, and already the first black dots are making their way out into the dawn surf.

     I figure that we don’t have to be out of the campsite by 1100, we’re here, the surf isn’t going anywhere, so why rush?

     The rest of the boys are waking up as Rick and Jimmy are finalizing their load plan in Rick’s van. We each take our time, sitting by the smoldering fire, fingering snacks and eggs that are left on the picnic table. More and more surfers start pouring in from the state parking lot. It’s time to change.

#

     This morning looks smaller than yesterday, but I keep it to myself. The tide is low, maybe it’s just the tide push, but . . . I already feel the oncoming signs of THE SKUNK!

     “That looks fun,” says Khang, but . . . I know Khang. I know what’s really underneath that optimistic comment. You see, Khang has never “scored” Trestles or Huntington, or anywhere that I’ve taken him to. For some reason Khang is cursed. Every time we have a camp trip or a staycation day somewhere, the surf has always been weak when he’s joined us, and I already know that his comment: “That looks fun,” really means: Yeah, dude. No surf again. This sucks.

     Churches is barely three feet with a growing crowd, but at the north end just before Middles, there’s a little left breaking off of the point. It’s the spot that Klaude had named Mons Pubis, for the triangular patch on the hill that resembles a vagina.

     The waves here are looking a little small and walled, but there are some with shape. Plus there’s no one here. Just then, a set comes, swinging wide a little to the north. Even though the set’s a little walled, it’s a sign of potential.

     Klaude turns to me and says, “Matt, is today going to be one of ‘those’ days?”

     I feel bad for the guy who had this spot to himself. We sit paddle up all around him, which causes him to paddle further north. On my way out, I’m impatient and catch an inside left. I’m so late that by the time I’m to my feet, the ride is over. Now it’s more work back to the outside. It takes a while to get going, but the waves start coming, and the quality also improves with the tide push as I had hoped.

     So . . . I’m writing this about a week later. What do I remember? On a set wave, Khang goes left on his backside, catching a wave all the way to shore, throwing some spray out the back. It’s confirmation. I’m so stoked. Finally, he’s gonna have a good day.

     Dais is a gambler, sitting mostly towards the inside, sneaking rides for himself.

     Replay of the day before. Briana is the only one outside in position for a set wave. I hear Khang calling her onto it. I shut my mouth and let her make the decision herself. She half paddles again, missing it.

     “Damn,” says Khang. “That could’ve been the ride of your life.” Even though it’s an ironic lesson for Bri, I am glad I surf with guys who push each other.

     Bri redeems herself. On a smaller but solid three footer, she pops up at perfect position on the shoulder, and takes a beautiful, smooth, glassy right, down the line and into the shallows. It’s her ride of the trip. Shortly after, she paddles in because her knee is sore.

     From there, more waves come. The consistency picks up. The best I can do is remember some of the rides. Hideki and I party wave it together. He’s in front of me, but he kicks out early. He later tells me that he was practicing turning. Khang finally puts his Neckbeard to the test in ideal conditions. Klaude too on his Kadowaki. For me . . . fuck. I get this left. I mean, I was kind of deep on it, but I pumped and stayed with it. The section stood up nice and long. I pumped to cover some distance, check turning on the highline to set myself up for the closeout section. Before the lip stood up, I bottom turned, climbed the face, drew an arcing line, and stomped as much weight on the tail as I could. On the way back, Klaude had acknowledged that he saw me get some spray.

     We’re selling the spot but not to the point that it’s overwhelming. The surf does turn a little inconsistent at Mons Pubis, so we head towards Middles. I paddle further to Little Lowers and don’t catch shit again.

     We all get out of the water at about the same time and walk back together. Churches is now bigger, even with the high tide. Waves are breaking even further south at the end of Churches than yesterday. We can’t believe that we scored.

     We head to the showers and grab our beers for the Fransaucian “beer and shower” tradition. Back at the campsite, I find out that we don’t have to check out until noon, so Klaude whips out the uke while we put away some beers and snacks. Rick and Jimmy return, and Rick’s not exaggerating how good the surf was, so I take it that they had a fairly average session.

     “It was actually good,” I tell them. “We had a little spot to ourselves. It was fun.” I chew away at an apple, not realizing how rare of a session the boys and I just had together.

TRESTLES SURGICAL STRIKE II, FRI01MAR2013 EVE

 

Loc: Churches

Time: 1545-1830

Crew: Bri, Cassady & Rick

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, sunny, cold water, offshore, consistent, crowded.

     My friend Cassady had shown up with a big ass watermelon. He cut it for us before he headed out to surf Old Mans. Our initial plan was to meet up in the morning and paddle out together, but he said he ended up drinking at some bar in Long Beach late last night. There’s something about Long Beach and their bar culture. Anyway, Cassady takes off with his longboard and Rick shows up a little while after. He’s rambling on and on about work, the wife, the kids, and surf. He’s talking just as fast as he’s pulling out equipment.

     I must say . . . Rick is like a dad to me, so I am always happy and glad to have him here on these trips, especially after all the times that he’s invited me to his. Literally, he could take a shit in my tent or watch Briana and I do the nasty; I wouldn’t care.

     Old Mans is looking better than it did this morning. The left is breaking all the way north into the first couple of campsites. I want to get out there myself, but with Rick here now, it would be better to wait until the evening sesh.

     When Cas gets out of the water, I introduce him and Rick to each other. Cas has been to Costa Rica too, so I know they’ll have a lot to talk about.

     Bri’s taking a nap in the tent, but at about 1530 I wake her ass up to let her know that we’re paddling out.

#

     So we’re walking on the sand past a few Marines, when I hear some of them talking towards us. I pay no attention and keep walking, and then I hear the undeniable words: “Do you have a boyfriend?”

     Bri says, “What the fuck? Are they talking to me?” She turns her head and says to them, “My boyfriend is right here, fuck off!”

     I turn. Bri has this look on her face that tells me she’s quite comfortable in these sorts of confrontations. I look over at the Marines, raise my thumb and say, “Yep, right here.”

     “Oh!” says the shirtless, pale-chested soldier. He raises his open hand in a peace offering and says, “Sorry.”

     I put my arm around Bri’s waist. We kiss.

#

     We paddle out at the south end of Churches. I’m stoked to see Cas and Rick surf together as well as seeing Bri surf with Cas, since we three go to school together.

     The lineup is doing the same thing as this morning but with three times the crowd. Initially, we sit wide south, but as usual, it’s a bit inconsistent. On my way to paddle north through the lineup, I see Cas on his longboard, noseriding. He has his arms in front of him, straight out at the elbows but raised at the wrists, leaning back and balancing himself as his log cuts into the face of the wave. It’s my first time surfing with him, and he’s . . . pretty damn good.

     Rick draws second blood. Cas and I watch Rick paddle battle it out with a couple other guys, finally getting the right and tossing water over the back with his yellow Zamora Fish.

     I’m fucking frustrated. There are waves but too many people. Bri still sits south. I’m glad that she doesn’t mind doing her own thing in the water. Either way, I had gotten too anal at “instructing” her at one point, so she probably prefers that I paddle off and go somewhere else.

     Whenever I have a wave I have to back off. I try shooting to the outside at the hunch of a set but constantly mispredict them.

     Cas paddles up to me and talks about Bri. “Hey,” he says, “I seen Bri, rolling around on the inside behind her board, but . . . she’s going for it, dude!” He stops, squints at the horizon, and then looks at me again. “Not too many chicks would do that.”

     Finally, as the sun sets and the crowd thins, there are more unridden waves, while the swell builds at the same time. Rick is the first to go, followed by Cas and Bri. I know it will be dark soon, but I also know that this is a prime window. I can possibly catch as much waves in the next half hour as I have all session.

     There are a couple memorable rides here. There are now about five guys left in the water with a fading metallic sky coming to a wane. The outside sets become more consistent, breaking about four feet. I get one of the set waves all to myself, finally going down the line. I’ve missed Trestles. There’s something about riding a perfect, cobble-stone right hander, especially when the sun is behind it when it’s dark. It’s like riding black, fluid marble. The face itself is so dark that your eyes lack depth perception, so it looks like a vertical wall. With less visibility there is the heightening of the senses, feeling the tail and rail cut into the wave’s face, hearing the splash, and the white wake disrupting the marble in streaming gashes. After this wave I catch another three-turn right. I know I should go in now, take a shower, help out with the camp fire, but how can I? It’s impossible after catching a good wave. I paddle back out, and it’s my demise. A lull hits, and I inch my way closer to shore to see if I can catch an insider, and that’s when the outside set comes, and I have to rush back out. By the time I’m done duckdiving, I can barely see the horizon. Crazy enough, there are two longboarders still out here. Lights are shining in the hills and at the power plant. It’s time to go.

     Back at the campsite, Hideki, Cas, and Bri are trying to start the campfire. Rick is walking around, trying to get some hot water going.

     I walk up to Bri, whose staring down at the flameless bundle of wood. She looks at me and says, “I think you should do it.” I smile and say what’s up to Hideki.

     Of course she thinks I should do it and that’s because I know how to make a fuckin’ fire. I think that’s some real man shit right there. I mean, God forbid I have to change my own oil, but building a campfire? That’s some cave man type shit. If you can’t do this then you need your man badge revoked.

     However, I can’t because they already fucked up the wood formation, didn’t put it into a teepee, and they didn’t even get any starter wood or twigs, or anything that’s highly combustible to help with this shit.

     I take a quick shower, say by to Cassady who has to leave, apologize to the rest of the boys, tell them that Bri and I are starving, and then I take Bri to Sonics. I had asked them if they needed anything, and Rick only needed some eggs.

     After dinner, Jimmy B. makes it out and joins our campfire. I bust out the S’mores and show off my professional S’mores making skills. But I do have to give Cassady some credit because he turned me on to using Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups instead of regular Hershey bars.

     Bri turns in early, and we plan our wake up time for tomorrow. Meanwhile, Klaude, Dais, and Khang are just leaving L.A.

TRESTLES SURGICAL STRIKE I, FRI01MAR2013 MOR

 

Loc: Middles

Time: 0730-1000

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, sunny, cold water, offshore, inconsistent.

Pre Blog:

     I had no idea when my first camp trip to Trestles would be this year, but I knew that it would be soon, as the winter swells start to fade, bringing on the first wave of south swells. Over the last couple of years, I’ve scored Trestles in the early spring, sometimes as early as February, but March and April, those are usually solid months.

     Bri and I haven’t had our Staycation Friday in quite a while, and since I’ve been feeling better, I knew that this Friday we’d be going down south. When I looked at the forecast, I found that not only was Friday good, but the swell would be peaking the following day. For shits and giggles I called the campgrounds to see if there was a spot open for Friday.

     “Yes,” the receptionist said. “One night, fire pit, on the beach. Would you like to reserve?”

     I hadn’t planned on this, but . . . why not? Bri and I wouldn’t have to drive home, dead tired after an all day surf stravaganza. We could have a little bonfire, cook some S’mores, wake up early the next day, put in a morning session, and then be back home before it’s dark.

     “Ma’am. . . . Yes, I, Would . . .”

     After reserving the site, I got a bit excited and couldn’t help sending an invite out to all my best mates. Usually I’d keep the invites exclusive, but if I’ve learned anything from these camping trips, it’s that seventy-five percent of the people I invite don’t show up anyway.

     Rick, Khang, Klaude, Dais, and Hideki responded right away. I didn’t want to jinx the trip by over inflating my expectations, by pouring my heart into it, unable to sleep in the midst of a possible, epic sesh.

     Epic sessions are few and far between, but . . . sometimes with the right wind,

swell direction

tide

conditions

SOMETIMES

things work out

just right.

The Drive:

     Bri and I wake up at 0530, and it’s still not early. It’s still not early because we aren’t surfing local. Sure, if we were going to PV or Porto, fuckin’ A, we’d be super troopers. But no, 0530 is not early enough because we still got a fucking drive down south.

     We packed the night before, so we change and do one last scan for any “oh shit” items we might leave behind. We’re clear.

     I’m surprised that the freeway isn’t raging traffic yet at six in the morning. We still take the carpool lane. “Gold dust” plays on the stereo, which amps me up for the thing that should not be said. I can’t remember for the life of me, anything during this drive, except:

     Once we reach the Cristianitos exit, I tell Bri the same story that she’s had to hear every time we pass it: “I thought it was an accident, but there were cars backed up all the way here in the right lane, waiting to exit Basilone.” That was in January 2012, a big WNW that wrapped around and swung south came in, the biggest and most consistent that I’ve ever surfed Trestles.

     When we reach Basilone Road, we can see the surfers sitting at Lowers, but nothing is breaking. It’s a lull. On the drive to Churches, I’m thinking that I just want it to at least be two-to-three feet and rideable without too much wind. That’s all I want, just rideable surf, and I’ll be happy.

     We drive under the trestle and get a first look at Churches. It’s firing! Occasional four footers break on the outside towards the top of the wave, while some waves are still swinging wide all the way south by the first beach campsite.

 

     I’m speechless. I was so worried that we’d get skunked, but here we are, and there’s surf!

     Bri sees that I’m stoked, because I’m pointing out each rideable wave, unable to stay in one place. “Where do you wanna surf?” she asks.

     I look at Old Mans. I know she wants to surf there because it’s more mellow, but it looks smaller over there, plus I know it will be more crowded.

     We hop in the car and check out Old Mans. It’s not as good. Back at Churches we change and decide to just paddle out at Middles, gamble against Churches and see if we can score some surf. Usually I make Bri paddle all the way from Churches, which did feel like a long paddle at one point, but I think those long paddles definitely help your surfing; it’s better to do them. But of course, I don’t tell Bri this, and I need to make this her day too, so I don’t mind taking the sissy route by walking to Middles.

     Surprisingly, the center of Middles actually has some waves. They are not as consistent but they are empty. We paddle out here, duckdiving some waves towards the outside. There are mostly walls at this spot. As soon as we make it out, a lull hits. It feels like forever, but of course it’s just that feeling when you can see waves breaking but you haven’t had one yet. Lowers is breaking, even Little Lowers just a little south of it. I want to go there, but I know I’m being impatient.

     I paddle into the next wave, a right. It’s barely three feet, but I still work my way down the line and get a turn before it ends. I think a one turn wave in the South Bay is something to be stoked about, but expectations here at Trestles are higher, where at least two-to-three turns are common.

     Bri gets a wave going straight. It’s fun here, we have it to ourselves, but it’s too inconsistent.

     We work our way towards my old spot, Battle Position, but the rocks that formed the BP have been altered and reconstructed so that it now looks more like a half of a large barbecue grill. Here I get more waves, even taking a couple short lefts that are mostly closeouts. No, the surf isn’t epic, and it doesn’t look as good as Churches, but we are scoring waves with only a few heads. I get some rights that are down the line, getting turns, nothing critical in the sub three-foot range. On the way back out to the lineup, I see the biggest set of the day, forming up just outside from where Bri is paddling. She sees the set but is maneuvering very hesitantly.

     “Goooo!” I yell.

     She turns without a purpose, paying more attention to the oncoming wave than getting into position. She bullshit paddles on the shoulder as she lets the wave pass her, a solid four footer with a tapered shoulder, a guarantee down-the-line wave for at least four turns, possibly the wave of Briana’s life if she didn’t bitch out on that fucking wave.

     “What are you doing?” I say, but then I notice the second wave of the set. “Goooo, go, go!”

     Bri turns towards the outside and lets the wave go past her.

     I’m in the impact zone on the last wave of the set, so I duckdive it and make my way to the lineup. I’m an anal asshole, so I’m biting my lip, trying hard not to be that dick boyfriend. She’s not looking at me either because I can tell she feels my assholish energy. Anyway . . . I basically tell her that she could have had the wave of her life right there, and then I explain how Trestles is such a mooshy, forgivable, not-critical wave that she should just go for the big ones because wiping out here is not so bad.

     “Yeah, I know,” she says. “I’m just kind of scared of the big ones.”

     To calm myself, I paddle to Little Lowers, where I’m graced with front row seats to the Lowers show. Of course, the waves coming here are taken by the longboarders first, so I paddle back to by Bri since I can’t get shit.

     Time flies by pretty fast. It’s been about two-and-a-half hours, and I’m shivering my ass off. On the way back to the wagon, we see that Middles is still breaking.

#

     We head to Café Del Sol. Starving, we order to machaca plates. Afterwards, we get to the campsite and meet my friend Cassady from school who’s brought some beers. He surfs Old Mans while Bri and I play cards. Rick pulls up shortly after. It would be the beginning of a good trip.