Loc: Churches
Crew: Al,
Gary C, Rick A
Conditions:
3-4 FT, cool water, crowded, consistent.
Last Night
. . .
Al. He just pulled up. Fuck. I have this
paper in front of me. I skipped school today so I could finish it. It’s due
Sunday, but really, am I gonna have time to do it during the trip? Fuck no. The
surf trip, surf camping. Beer and surf, that’s all I want. Beer, surf, and good
times. No time for homework. Tonight, dead or alive, I’m turning this paper in.
He walks through the door. I tell him to
give me like thirty more minutes. One more page to go, but I can’t. Too manyuch
endorphins, seeing my battle buddy again. I think the last time I saw him was .
. . shit. Last winter.
Good friends, not everyone is lucky enough to
have them, and this is some real shit right here. I see a lot of people who
have lame excuses for friends, most of them acquaintances. All of my friends
have good friends, some real exclusive circle type shit, like without question,
just undeniable trust in the people I know. Al. He’s one of them.
I say fuck it, and suggest we go out to
dinner and shoot the shit since we haven’t seen each other for a while. We’re
polar opposites. I’m pumped up on caffeine, while he’s just had a six hour drive
from Sunnyvale and a beer from my fridge. I’m delirious and he’s deliriously
tired. We can’t hold a topic of conversation for more than a few sentences. We
laugh.
At BJ’s Pizzeria in Culver City, I can’t
believe it’s packed at eleven at night. It’s a cold evening, and we look out of
the part: board shorts, flip flops, and T-shirts. We catch up as much as we
can. My battle buddy from Iraq. It’s good to see him.
Back at the apartment/studio, I tell him
that we can share the futon since it’s pretty big, but one look at the crunchy,
white stains, he passes. I throw on my bed sheet. There’s even more white crust
on it. He passes for the last time, opting for the floor, but not before taking
some pictures.
#
It’s 0530. I need more sleep. I finished my
paper two-and-a-half hours ago. I turned that motherfucker in. Yup. But worst
of all, Al was tossing and turning. So was I. We probably slept an hour. But,
here we are, awake, brushing our teeth in the mirror together like it’s Army Basic
Training. It’s a slow start, lethargically packing, making sure I don’t forget
anything. It’s 0600 when my phone rings. It’s Rick.
“Hey, good morning,” he says, “where you guys
at?”
“Ahhh, we’re running a little late. We’re
about to leave the house. Where are you?”
“I’m with Gary. We’re passing . . .
Huntington right now.”
“Okay, just let us know where you paddle
out, Rick. I got Al here. We’ll see you.”
It’s 0630 when Al and I leave El Segundo.
Shit, I thought Bri and I took a lot of stuff camping, but man, does Al have a
lot of surf shit. The back is filled to the rim, but at least I don’t have to
strap a board on the roof, which I hate doing.
By the time we’re passing HB, Rick calls.
He says that the tide’s high, and that they might wait it out.
“I think I might pay for breakfast at the
Marine mess hall,” he says.
I laugh at this. Good old Rick. Man, he
loved the military, back in the day when we served in the same platoon. He
misses it. Guarantee, he wishes he could still be in. He’s just a “man’s man,”
but one with a good conscience and morals. An honorable cob in the cornfield,
that’s my surf mentor right there.
When we pull up to Churches, the south wind
is on it a little. It’s choppy, overcast, and the tide is really high. There
aren’t even that many people on it, but we’re not surprised. The forecast
called for funky morning conditions. Gary and Rick are sitting on a picnic
table, watching, still dry. I intro Gary to Al, and Rick and I head towards the
camping office, seeing if we can score a better site, since mine isn’t situated
on the beach. We go there, but there’s nothing they can do.
Immediately, Rick makes the call. It’s time
to change. The tide hasn’t gone down much, the wind is still so-so. The peaks
are fat and mooshy, but they have improved a little. Al says we should check
out Middles, but it doesn’t look good. There is something happening out there,
but Churches is the call.
#
We start out like this: paddle out from the
south end, sit, catch nothing, inch closer to the main peak, get frustrated
with the crowd, paddle past the mean peak, sit damn near all the way on the
north side just south of middles, still frustrated. Anyway, that’s how it
usually goes.
I’m fucking cold in my wetsuit. It’s the
theme of the camp trip. When the hell is the weather getting warmer? Damn
winter. . . Al goes straight for the main peak. Rick follows. Gary and I sit
towards the inside. I catch a left, but it’s walled. Still fat. I catch a
right. Same thing. Gary same thing. Al. he catches a wave but I can’t see what
he does with it, but Rick . . . on his Zamora Fish, he goes right on an
insider, tossing out buckets on each turn. He and that board are like
unprotected sex, just meant to be, the way God intended. Rick eventually gets
frustrated and sits more south towards Gary, waiting for the waves to swing
wide. Me . . . I inch closer to Al.
The tide is beginning to drop, and the
crowd is spreading out more. It must be a Santa Cruz thing, but Al always goes
straight to where the action is. There’s no sitting on the side or waiting for
a wave to swing wide. He’s aggressive but not aggro, which I think is a good
characteristic. Me, on the other hand, I can’t deal with the crowds. I catch a
couple waves where he’s at, but my surfing is off. I’m slow at popping up on
one and can’t get past my knees, a waste. I paddle north, away from everyone,
and sit outside the last group of guys; I’m just south of Mons Pubis (Klaude’s
spot), and . . . I score.
Fuck, I can’t believe it. With the tide
dropping, the peaks are starting to work. I sit way wide of the crowd and score
some lefts to myself. They are still a little fat and sectiony, but they are
all good for at least one solid turn on each. Gradually, guys start making
their way towards me. Even Al heads over. Once we become overwhelmed, we paddle
a little more south to sit on their inside. The next set comes, and we’re in
position for the right. Al goes on the first one. We both scratch, but I back
out because he’s on it. I’m too deep for the second one, so I go over it, and
the last wave of the set is easy pickings. I go. It’s a nice one, a
down-the-line four footer, but the wave’s still a little messy with the tide
and all. I trim down the line, trying to set myself up for a good turn. It’s a
little fat. I cut back and try to line myself up again. I get a turn before it
closes, but I didn’t ride the wave right. I’m sure Rick would’ve killed it.
Regardless, it was a good score. Al and I are now in the center of Middles,
that’s how long our rides were. We’re stoked. He says he’s going for one more.
I head back south towards Rick and Gary.
“Hey, Matt,” says Rick, “I saw you on your
knees on that one earlier.”
They say they’ve been scoring on all the
waves swinging wide. Good for them.
I end it on a solid two turner which I can’t
remember right now for the life of me, but it leaves me with a feeling of
satisfaction to end the session on that note. The sun comes out and the wind
even calms. Al’s last wave was more like five final waves because he takes
forever to make his way back. After we’re done changing, we head to the
campsite to check in. Starving and dehydrated, we need nourishment.
