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| IT'S FUCKING FLAT! |
Loc: San
Onofre
Conditions:
1-2 FT+, south wind, inconsistent.
Before I had left to Java, I asked Bri what
she wanted to do for our anniversary. Initially, she had said that she wanted a
candlelight dinner on the beach. Shortly after this request, she said,
“Actually, as long as we surf, that’s fine.”
So . . . here we are, exactly one year
later from when I had first taken her camping, heading to the same surf
spot—San Onofre. Surfline called today’s surf to be one-to-two feet—shitty. The
news forecast predicted a chance of morning drizzle for Monday. Driving on the
405 South in the carpool lane, with my car packed with camping supplies, the
windshield wipers do their magic against the rain. I had expected this, but . .
. a small part of me had hoped that there might be a fluke in the forecast:
good weather, good surf.
Exiting Basilone Road, Bri and I turn our
heads to the right, and the surf at Middles is Tiny. A few black suits sit at
Lowers. Even in these conditions, it’s somewhat working.
We do a light recon at Old Man’s first,
walking from the north end all the way to the nuclear titties. Small. . .
Surfers are out here, all longboarders. Today is the day that I’ll put my Lost
board to the test, seeing how it handles tiny surf. But looking out at the
mooshy, two-foot peaks, I feel ill equipped.
We move our recon to Middles, and it’s
worse. So with this overcast morning, these are the options: small or smaller. We
take a chance at the office, and they are nice enough to let us check in early.
May I begin by endorsing the Coleman Instant Tent? This tent . . . such a quick
setup. For how many times I’ve used it, this damn thing has paid for itself.
Bri and I take action and start staking the
tent down, but we become frustrated by the hard ground. Unfortunately, tent
camping can be stressful when the ground is too solid for your tent stakes. We
spend a half hour repositioning the tent, bending the stakes after trying to
force-pound them in with stones. Our campsite neighbor walks up and offers us
his hammer, but now we are only bending our stakes with precision. We conclude
by accepting that our tent will only be half staked.
Old Mans:
There are no expectations today, but it’s
our anniversary, and all we want to do is get wet.
We paddle out at the most consistent peak
just north of the titties. Since the surf is small on this Monday morning, it’s
not that crowded. The tide is getting higher, and there is only a small crowd
here. However, there are lots of people parked, watching and waiting. Despite
the June gloom and cool temp, the abundance of cars in the lot is evidence of
summer.
We sit wide, hoping to catch a stray left,
but we need the tide to drop a little more before anything breaks wide. I hate
crowds, and competing with longboarders is hard enough on a shortboard, but we
have no choice but to battle it out with the main pack.
Longboards . . . they work, they really do.
Even though the waves are small, guys are milking the tiny waves. I’m able to
catch waves, but I have to strain to get distance, I’m talking crouching down
with my hips low, front foot all the way on the nose. My Lost board is working,
but it is not ideal in these conditions. I turn to Briana and say, “I really
need a fish in my quiver.”
The sun burns off the overcast and shines
through, which has an adverse effect on the crowd situation. Now all the people
who are parked on the sand and watching begin to suit up and make their way to
the lineup.
Sitting at the crowded peak, a set rolls in
and scrambles the crowd. I get my wave of the morning, paddling into a wave
that’s already broken. The white wash breaks slowly, giving me enough time to
pop up while still slinging into the face of the wave. I get two pumps, doing a
baby floater to clear a section, and I finish the ride with an accentuated tail
whip. It’s a slow maneuver but punctual, and too easy to pull off in this small
surf.
Break:
Bri and I remain in our wetsuits and only
peel them down to our waists, as we sit on our camping chairs, munching on
bananas. You see, we have plans for an early dinner at ZENKO SUSHI! Oh my
goodness . . . all you can eat sushi. I haven’t had it in over a MONTH! Sushi .
. . it tastes even better when you’re surfed out and starving.
After rehydrating and some small snacks, we
paddle back out.
Building an
appetite:
We surf at the northernmost peak, just
short of the campsite. The surf here is even smaller than the morning, but we
force it. “Yellow tail!” I yell out at Bri.
She paddles into a wave and yells back, “Salmon!”
One-to-two foot waves, no plus sign at the
end this time. These waves are consistent, rapid fire rides. As I stated
earlier: no expectations, no disappointment. I’ve never surfed waves this small
and worn myself out this much. Motivated by sushi, we surf our brains out.
Bri gets a lot of waves, even more than I.
We ride to the inside until the waves diminish in shallow water. The wind dies,
the sun is out, but the surf is small. It’s a pure sushi surf session.
After an hour, I lose my enthusiasm. I’m
surfing for the sake of purposely exhausting myself. I want to be STARVING when
I walk through Zenko’s front door.
The Payoff:
Showered and changed into dry clothes, we
pull out of our campsite. The sun is shining brightly, reflecting its blinding
brilliance over the ocean. Driving at a lethargic ten miles per hour, we drive
out of San Onofre. It’s warm, and I’m so relaxed. Reggae music plays on the
stereo. My shades save me from the sun’s rays. The universe, the energy, the
atmosphere—everything is spectacular. I’m absorbing the moment, satisfied with
both surf sessions, I’m so happy that—
“Babe!” says Bri.
“What?” I look forward. There’s a car
heading straight for me. “Oh shit!” I swerve into the right lane. “Sorry,” I
say. “I thought I was in Java.”
“They drive in the left lane over there?”
“Yes,” I say. “Don’t let me do that again.”
Expert Eater:
Buff Korean guy is working the counter. It’s
1800, perfect timing. We have well over three hours to eat, and we won’t need
that much time. I start off with an order of four muscles, and then it’s
salmon, yellow tail, unagi, tuna, scallops, salmon skin, albacore, salmon roe,
and, and, and, EVERYTHING!
In two hours time we’ve out eaten other
diners. Looking at the tables across from us, I scoff at those who only eat the
rolls. They don’t know what they’re missing. As my friend Totem Pole Tim would
say, “The rolls . . . that’s how they get you; that’s how you get full.” Not
me, not us. I’m a self-trained professional, and Bri is my padawan learner.
Only the good stuff: sushi, hand rolls, one lobster roll at the very end, and
then a miso soup for the cherry on top.
By 2000, we’re so tired sitting at the
table that we can barely keep our eyes open. Sushi is a success!
Fire:
I’m also pretty damn good at starting a
fire. It’s one of the marks of a true man: being able to start a campfire. So
many people don’t know how to do it, stacking logs without a plan and lighting
a piece of paper improperly placed under an inadequate bundle.
Our neighbors offer us lighter fluid, but I
decline. Once the starter material is in place, I have Bri do the honors in lighting
them.
Reese’s Peanut Buttercup S’mores is the
final mission of the night. After two of those bad boys, we’re officially
D-U-N, dun. I fade out, catching myself droop my head.
“Awww, baby,” says Bri. “Come on. You’re
done. It’s bed time.”
I look at my watch. “It’s only ten o’clock.
Night
Night:
Wenzel Inflatable Bed is the way to go. It’s
queen sized and superb for camping. After brushing our teeth with Army
quickness, we zip up the front flap and lie down. Absorbed in the mattress, we
curl into our sleeping bags after a full day’s activities: surfed out, sushied
out, and S’mored out. No sex tonight. We’re tired, dead tired, the indication
that today was a good day, a good anniversary.
