LINA, TUE02JULY2013 MOR

Lina took this pic. I bummed it off of her Facebook.

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Crew: Bri, Lina, and Shan

Conditions: 2-3 FT, inconsistent, foggy.

     Lina’s in town from New York. I haven’t seen her in about a year. She’s part of the original crew who I used to surf with back in my infantile Barney days. Last night, we planned to meet at Manhattan Beach and surf in the morning.

     Bri and I score VIP parking right by the lifeguard tower. While I’m unloading my board, Lina shows up. She’s the same, small-figured, petite chick from years back, but her hair’s short and dyed blonde now.

     I introduce her to Bri, and then we go through the normal conversation that people do when they catch up, but I notice something’s off with her. “I just found out that my mom has to go on dialysis,” she says. “She asked me to go to the doctor’s with her yesterday, and I didn’t know that we were like, meeting with a counselor.” She looks down and frowns. “Sorry, I’m just kind of out of it right now.”

     I don’t know what to say, really. I’m bad in these situations. I do my best to say the words of wisdom that old men know. She says that she’ll probably have to move back home and take care of her.

     In front of the lifeguard tower, the fog’s thick again. I can just make out the waves that are coming in. The fog keeps the crowd thin, but there’s a little potential out there. The water’s glassy, and even though high tide’s about to hit, the waves are breaking a little.

     “Watch out for the current,” I say. “I’m gonna stay in front of the tower, so try not to drift.”

     When we paddle out, Lina’s already floating north. Bri surfs by her. I keep position, catch a couple waves, and then I see them on the sand walking back.

     Lina paddles out and drifts away again. She’s on the inside paddling for the white wash, and then she walks back up onto the shore.

     I catch some white wash in right up to where she’s walking, and she says, “I’m sorry, Matt. I’m out of it today. There’s just so much on my mind.”

     I grab the Tokoro that I had lent to her and walk with her back towards the parking lot. “It’s all right,” I say. “You got way more important things to worry about. It was nice to see you though.”

     We hug at the base of the hill. I watch her walk back up and disappear in the fog.

     Looking back, I feel like an asshole. There she was, dealing with devastating news, and I was telling her not to let the current take her away. My need to catch waves surpassed the call of friendship. I wish her family well and hope to see her again.

Not-so-funny Bone:

     Bri’s on fire. There’s something about that girl. She can go down the line, and she does it consistently now. She takes off on a wave, and another guy and I watch her from behind.

     “That’s a good wave,” the guy says. “She got a good one.”

     “Yeah,” I say, while grinning. “I built her from the ground up.”

     He smiles. “Oh, did you?”

     “Yeah. She’s only been surfing for about a year.” Am I wrong for feeling proud?

     Shan shows up and shares the empty lineup with us. Bri goes for a wave again, but she mistimes it, and the wave breaks on top of her. She tries to slide off of her board and bail, but bailing on a longboard can be awkward. She resurfaces on the inside, shaking her head.

     “I hit my funny bone,” she says. “Why do they call it that? It fucking hurts.” She pulls the wetsuit away from her elbow. “I think I’m bleeding.” Ten minutes later, she paddles up to me with one arm and says she’s going in.

     Shan and I surf for about another half hour. I have to after missing the last couple of days of surf, but the tide’s just about killed it. No turns today, just some trimming. Bri waits on the sand, fully changed into her dry clothes.

     We leave Shan in the water and head home. The fog’s just as thick as it was when we had arrived.

THE ONLY IDIOTS IN BOARDSHORTS, SAT29JUN2013 MOR

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Crew: Bri and Klaude

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, glassy, consistent, foggy, fucking cold.

     Rashguard and boardshorts. Wait, let me rephrase that: LONGSLEEVE rashguard and boardshorts. Why? Because yesterday’s wetsuit is still wet, and . . . it’s summer. The water should be a little warmer today. PV was pretty warm yesterday, so today should be warm right?

     The second my feet touch the water, my toes go numb. I turn to Bri and say, “It’s not so bad.”

     She’s the smart one who put on her old, 3/2 wetsuit. When the water hits her feet, she turns to me, scrunches her eyebrows up and makes an “O-face.” Fuck me.

     The water hits my beltline and creeps up my lower back. I can’t feel my balls anymore. I piss in my shorts, and the warmth scatters and runs off like an abused dog who darts for the gate that’s been left open. Fuck. Everyone around me is in a wetsuit. I paddle. I paddle HARD. Must stay warm. The current’s strong, which is good. The shore is foggy. Even better because now I have to force-paddle to stay in place in the spot that I think I may or may not be in.

     Waves . . . the waves are fucking good. I catch a right and force two backhand turns. I don’t know if I get any spray out the back, but at the end of my ride when I step off the rail, my whole body gets submerged under the cold ocean. Ohhhhhh, sooooo collllllllld!

     “Baby, are you all right?” says Bri. “You’re teeth are chattering.”

     Teeth? I have teeth? I can’t feel them. What the fuck happened to summer? Yesterday my apartment was so hot that it gave me a case of the anal sweats, and that was while sitting on my couch watching porn on my iPhone; I wasn’t even jacking off.

     The fog lifts a little, revealing that we’re one lifeguard tower south of where we had paddled out. We see Klaude just north of us. I paddle up to him. He’s in his Rip Curl rashguard and boardshorts. “I’m freezing,” he says.

     “Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”

     Bri goes for a left. It’s critical. The waves are still standing up, just as good as two days ago, except now we have the weekend crowd. She takes the wave late. I expect to see her board fly up in the air, but then the back of her head pops up, and she goes left down the line. 

     “I’m done,” says Klaude. “I’m too cold. Everyone else was like, ‘Klaude, what are you doing?’”

     Outside, there’s such a good set. I’m out of position, watching two perfect lefts peel in front of me. Refusing to submit to the cold, I pull into a couple of waves, but I’m reckless. One of my wipeouts lands me on top of my fins. I feel my back, surprised that I’m not cut. I want barrel practice, but I’m so cold that I can’t enjoy the surf.

     I get one frontside carve. I get good rail on the face, but as I direct myself out of it I fall. A local guy Todsu says, “Nice turn.” I try to smile back without shivering.

     “One more wave,” I say to Bri. “One more. I can’t do this anymore.”

     A peak pops up. We split it. On the inside, after our rides, Bri’s looking at me, smiling and excited about something. Once we’re on the sand, she says, “Did you see that?”

     “No.”

     “Oh my God, I was right in the pocket on the highline. I’ve never caught a wave that close to the pocket before. It was the wave of my life!”

     “Good,” I say. I turn and look through the fog. Surfers are hooting. People are still paddling out. The waves thump as they crash. It’s a good day of surf out there, but I couldn’t enjoy it because I trunked it like a fuckin’ idiot.

     Twenty minutes later, we’re in Mandy’s Family Restaurant. I’m hovering over my hot coffee, thinking: dumbass. . .

TO SHARE SURFING, FRI28JUN2013 MOR

Loc: Palos Verdes

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 1-2 FT+, glassy, inconsistent, soft, foggy, kelp infested.

     How do most guys share surfing with their girlfriends? I had such a good session yesterday, but today, this morning, my girlfriend wants to surf. I know that the swell is pumping, the tide is low, it’s a little round, and . . . I worry about her safety in those conditions. She wants to surf, so . . . what’s a good boyfriend to do?

A.)    “I’m gonna surf Manhattan Beach. You should just go to PV by yourself. You’ll have fun, the waves are softer there.

B.)    “I don’t know about you, but I’m staying local. It’s fucking good right now. You should probably stay home.”

C.)    “We should surf PV. It will more manageable out there.”

#

     I’m lucky to have a girlfriend that doesn’t have a life that depends on caking on makeup on Friday nights and dressing up in short skirts that show her snatch to guys in the pubs and clubs. Fuckin’ A, man, my girl likes to surf. Thank goodness . . . no, no trips to the malls to go shopping for useless shit. My girl likes the sound of cobblestones when the waves hit the shore, campfires on the beach, the feeling of going down the line on her longboard, and coming home exhausted and salt riddened from good sessions. That being said, I must share surfing with her, and in doing so, that means sacrificing. I want to surf Manhattan Beach again after yesterday’s epic session, but the conditions are dangerous for her, and I can’t be selfish, thinking about my own surfing. We’ll share, so we drive through the fog towards PV, hoping that the swell has enough west in it to produce some decent waves.

Gloom:

     Yeah, forget about a sunny, summer morning. The fog’s so thick when we park that we can’t see the cove down below. Suit up and walk down, that’s the plan.

     A woman in a Ford Explorer parks behind us, one of the only four cars parked on the hill this morning. She steps out and says, “How does it look?”

     She’s a vet . . . maybe pushing sixty. Her skin’s light and weathered from years under the sun. She smiles under her short, blond hair and cherry-red lipstick. “I don’t know,” I say. “Can’t see anything.”

     She walks to the lookout point and comes back. “You’re right,” she says.

     Bri and I smile at her. She’s a nice woman, but for some reason I can’t help but fit her into the category of Crazy Cat Lady.

     We all change and walk down the hill at the same time. She says, “I surfed Ventura yesterday. It was fun! Oh, and by the way, my name’s Kat. What’s yours?”

     We go through the introductions and make our way down to the cove. The fog’s so thick that we can’t see the lineup. With the low tide, the rocks on the inside are exposed. One longboarder paddles towards us through the fog. “Are there waves?” asks Kat.

     The surfer smirks and says, “Yeah. . .” He frowns, and the look on his face spells disappointment.

     We walk to deeper water and paddle out. The water’s so clear that I can see everything beneath it, so it’s easy to avoid the rocks. The subtle white noise of the white wash gets louder. Clumps of kelp are scattered all around us like land mines. Two surfers sit at the south side of the cove, not far from us. On their longboards, they paddle into one-foot waves. I

     I like dense fog. It makes every wave a surprise. Who knows what’s out there when you can’t see? There might be a good wave coming our way, but on this morning . . . it’s inconsistent and small.

     “Sorry I made you come here,” says Bri.

     “No, that’s okay.” I look down at the Lost logo on my deck. “I was curious to see what this place was doing.”

     The conditions are right for this place: low tide, no wind, super glassy. But there just isn’t enough swell, and since it’s foggy, every surfer who came for a spot check has no choice but to paddle out in order to see the surf. The main peak is crowded. Stand up paddlers even make their way out.    

     The waves aren’t even three feet, but they are rideable. However, the kelp . . . the fucking kelp. Every time I try to set up for a turn, the kelp slows me down like speed bumps on a residential street. I lose momentum and can only trim.

     Bri’s doing fine. Even though her board snags on the kelp, her longboard is able to plow through it, giving her some decent distance.

     We surf for a couple hours and head home. I know Manhattan Beach was good, but that’s okay. It was a reasonable sacrifice to surf elsewhere. I can surf by myself any time I want to, but to share it with someone means to be selfless. I value Bri’s safety and stoke over my own progression. There will be other days to get barrel practice.

     Driving back to El Segundo, the fog finally clears once we reach PCH. I look over at Bri, happy that I’m not driving home alone.

IT DOES BARREL, THU27JUN2013 MOR

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, offshore, consistent, round.

Pre Blog:

     Last night, looking at the surf report, I felt it in my bones. Something about my soul’s yearning and something about the conditions for tomorrow’s surf. The tide would be bottomed out at first light, and the surf would be three-to-four plus. Something about that plus sign at the end and the way that I’ve seen the sandbars working, the best that I’ve seen the local sandbars since before my deployment to Iraq in 2009. In the past I’d look at the forecast and wait for the higher tide. Avoid it when it’s dumpy is what I would have thought, but there was something about the forecast that told me that the low tide and dump was just what “it” needed.

Be a Local Again:

     After scoring free parking a couple streets down from the surf, I begin my trek to the sand. Consistent with June, it’s a bit gloomy out. It’s not the appetizing summer, sunny morning that one in SoCal would expect. Hard to compare this surfing experience from the one I was still experiencing just ten days ago.

     When I reach the sand, I see that the surf is a bit drained out. Guys are walking their boards out to the impact zone. Surfers are paddling south to fight the current, still unsure of where to sit. The forecast is accurate with surf in the three-to-four foot range, but it’s dumpy . . . of course it is. I thought I would be. I’m not surprised, and I tell myself that I’d wait it out in my car a little longer if I had VIP parking by the lifeguard tower, but I don’t. There are a few corners, quick ones, good for a turn or two.

     Wading through the ankle-deep water with my board in hand, I see a guy hanging out with Ross the Ripper and Don K. He takes a rampy left and pumps down the line like he’s setting up for something. I’ve daydreamed and mindsurfed exactly how this guy is surfing. At the end section he boosts and does a small three-sixty air, sticking the landing. He was only inches above the wave, but he broke the fins loose. It counts. He holds both of his hands up at shoulder level and clenches them into fists. 

     Ross follows up with a left of his own. Trading off a wave with his friend, he contorts his body and unwinds to unleash a powerful, front-side hack.

     There’s something in the air about the surf. Only the dedicated, veteran crew is out this early, and they’re all surfing it, stoked as kids. I paddle out, smile, and wave. They do the same back; they recognize my face.

Magic Board:

     I never thought that I’d use this Lost board as my all around board. The dimensions were initially meant for East Java barrels, and despite failing at my barrel attempts during my vacation, this board has worked on different waves. This morning as the tide push begins, some of the waves are walling up and going round. How ironic that this board that I had bought for Indo will be tested to suit its purpose here at my home break.

     In front of the lifeguard tower, there’s a local guy paddling for a set wave. I don’t know his name, but he’s always out here. He’s an older guy with leathered skin and short hair. He looks Italian, but I could be wrong. A bunch of guys hoot him on his wave. He paddles, but then he stops. He’s caught in that moment when the wave should let him in, when you pop up and should slide down, but he’s suspended, and he stuck high on the lip. One or two more strokes would have done it. They guy looks towards the crowd with an “oops” face and goes over the falls. Seeing this reminds me of my brother’s advice when he took me to Machines: “Always put in a couple extra paddles. You’ll think the wave is gonna let you in, but it won’t. You’ll get lip launched. Always a couple extra strokes when it’s round.”

Pull In:

     I couldn’t get barreled in Java because I was defeating myself and wiping out in my mind before I even popped up. The reef, the reef and the size were the beasts that caused my cowardice. But here at my home break, where I feel most comfortable, the waves are going round, playful round just under five feet, and there’s no reef. What better conditions could I ask for? I have no excuses. On this morning, winter’s come early. The South Bay isn’t supposed to be this good in the summer. I look towards the sand in hopes to see some of my homies warming up, but none of them are here. I wish I had someone close to share this with me.

     Others drift south, oblivious to the current’s power. I fight it and keep position in front of the tower. This is good. Fighting the current is a must, for paddle improvement and to hold down a spot for myself.

     Sitting in the lineup and looking out, my excitement gives me subtle anxiety and makes my stomach light. I’m going to pull in on every wave today.

Making it Out Isn’t Everything:

     Those five words above, right there, Klaude had told me that when I was in Java. “Making it out isn’t everything.” Those words make more sense to me now. In Java, I had placed my expectations way too high even though I acted like I didn’t. I couldn’t silence the critic in me to come back “with my shield.” I should have aimed to accept that I might “come home on it” instead. Plus I’m not a barrel expert, nor have I ever been barreled before, so . . . why expect so much? Just go for it. Pull in and see what happens. It doesn’t matter if I make it out, but pulling in is the only way that I can progress to do so.

Go:

     On my first wave, I paddle and kick, and then I stop. The wave should be letting me in right now. It has to, you see because my intention is to slide down and draw a line close to the face, but why the fuck am I hung up? The wave lets me in as it’s curling, and it closes out as I draw a line straight to shore. Fuckin’ A. I forgot to follow my brother’s advice.

     Close outs, most of the waves are closeouts, but it doesn’t matter. Pre-Java Donny Duckbutter would have straightened out. “Not worth it,” he would have said. “Closeout . . . nowhere to go.” But Duckbutter 2.0 is willing to give it a try. He’s pulling in with both arms extended, trying to make himself small. He’s barely in there long enough to get a glimpse of the opening at the end, but he’s making it out the back unharmed after every attempt.

     Most vets say, “The barrel is the safest place to be in the wave.” I thought that was bullshit before, but it’s making sense to me. Frontside, I just bail out the back as the wave is closing out. I’m unscathed and in good position to get to the safety of the lineup instead of having to paddle back out from the inside.

Perspective:

     Let me be honest. . . Not all of the waves are hollow. Some are spilling, and I catch these with the intent to pump down the line and get a couple of turns. However, some of the faces reform and offer and almond slot on some of the sections. I miss these. Instead of pulling in, I pump past the section and go for some carves, and today on this Lost board, man . . . my carves are solid and full of rail. Since being home, these are the best turns that I’ve had on this board. I realize how well this board works, and the funny thing is that it’s not because of my surfing. These waves are standing up Huntington style, so they give so much speed that it’s impossible to lose momentum.

     Anyhow, I beat myself up a little for not pulling into those sections. You see, I’m only pulling in from the drop, and I’m not used to waiting for a section to open. This will take more training and more time.

     There are other waves though that are coming in walled, and they have so much water behind them. The ones with a little shoulder at the end, they look fast, but for the first time in my surfing career (we all have one, paid or not) I notice that those aren’t “throw away” waves. Those are the ones that will do it, the ones that will open up.

Breakthrough:

     One of those waves is coming. It’s the first wave of a set. I’m deepest for it. Guys on the shoulder are already making a move, and they’re not looking back. I’ve never paddled into round waves before without pre defeating myself, but this time it’s different. I’ve also never had the appreciation for round waves here because I could never tell that I was in one. With a new perspective, I feel how the wave is picking me up and how fast it is. I appreciate my hard paddles and splashing kicks, a few extra ones for good measure as Randy had taught me. My timing is good, popping up with ample time before the wave closes out.

     Fuck . . . it does barrel here. It always has. I was just too inexperienced to see it. When I had seen other guys get barreled, I would ask myself, “How? How did they know?” I’m not saying that I “know” what they do, but I do “know” more than I did before.

     A local guy is paddling into the shoulder. He doesn’t see me. I hate to call off a fellow local who I respect, but I have no choice but to yell, “WOOOOOH!” to call him off of the wave. He turns around and sees me.

     What do the vets and the gifted do in these situations? Maybe I should fade out, draw a line back in, check turn, and put a hand in the wave and stall. “Barrel technique” was what my brother had said in Java: “You have to work on your barrel technique.” My barrel technique is in its infantile stages, so I pull in off of the drop and hold a line close to the face.

     Any time that I’ve been in “the tube” in the South Bay, it was brief, and as brief as this tube ride is, it’s the longest that I’ve ever been in one at home. It’s like the flipside of that backhand barrel attempt that I had in Java. For the first time here at home, I’m watching the water swirl over my head as I’m in the barrel just behind the shoulder. I’m in there long enough to see down the line, how the face is building up so vertical right in front of me, and then . . . time inside of it is just too fast for me. I can’t keep up. Maybe I should be looking at the exit instead of the water. Am I looking at the water? Too fast. Even though I can’t see my own face, I imagine that I’m grimacing as I’m staring down the barrel of a gun. Hold the line, I’m trying, and on the highline at the very end, I’m pinched and get sucked down on top of my board.

A New Addiction:

     I feel like how I felt after that backhand barrel attempt on that right-hand slab in Java. I had almost made it out; it was possible: if I try hard enough I can get barreled.

     In this present moment, I’m paddling back to the lineup with an open grin and eyes wide. The guy who had almost dropped in on me says, “Sorry ‘bout that, brah. How was it?”

     “Oh!” I say. Fuck, here comes the giddiness (Let’s just skip my girly moment).

     Epiphany, realization, or whatever you want to call it, I can get barreled here; it does barrel here. Who cares that I didn’t make it out. I want . . . another wave.

     The crowd is thicker now as we enter midmorning. The current still drags guys north, and I’m still fighting the current to get back to my spot that’s right in front of the lifeguard tower.

     I don’t get another wave like the one above, but I’m going for broke, pulling into every closeout that comes, and then I realize that I’m being greedy. I need to chill out. No one likes a wave hog. Settle down. . .

     Halting my campaign, I let the current take me a little north where the rights are breaking, and the backhand barrel attempts are just as fun.

     Pig dogging . . . I had never pig dogged until Java, and even though I didn’t get a month’s worth of practice while I was there, I’ve done it enough to know how to do it. That being said, it doesn’t mean that I do it well.

     Grab rail and pull in. The positioning in the wave spells commitment and confidence. I understand why some people like backhand barrels more than frontside ones. Technique . . . I’m so guilty of loving the image of myself being in the slot (even for a mini second) grabbing rail with my right hand in the face of the wave.

     On some of the attempts, I’m in there long enough just to hold that line and slow down time and be in the moment before the wave closes out. Addiction. I’m addicted to these small, playful, round waves.

     On the inside, I even see one of the local guys (he rides a neon pink fish and has a burly beard) pull into a left-hand barrel. He’s going down the line as the face stands up, goes vertical, and cascades over him. I see him through the water: one, two, three pumps, and then he gets pinched on the highline.

     It’s not just me. Even the guys with status aren’t making it out.

So Now What?:

     The wind and the tide comes up, making the waves both mooshy and choppy. I head back to my car, and as I’m changing, I see Khang’s van drive by. Khang didn’t see me, but he’s heading over to the parking lot. Fuck, I wish he came out earlier. I shoot him a text and drive out.

     So now . . . Manhattan Beach and Porto, I see the South Bay differently. It’s not HB here, and it sure as hell ain’t Trestles, but . . . there are waves here, good ones. The sandbars are working, and with the right conditions and the right swell, it barrels. I’ve been to Bali and Java, looking for a surfing experience that has been right here all along. I think I’ll be spending a lot more time earning my stripes in the South Bay.