BOLSA IS WORKING, WED10JULY2013 MOR

This is actually Golden West. Very sectiony.

Loc: Bolsa Chica

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 2-4 FT, inconsistent, peaky, light onshore, strong current.

     I can’t tell you how much the local sandbars have been working lately, but there is zero NW or W windswell, and without them, the surf here is flat. Since there’s a little south swell in the mix, I have to travel to surf. It’s a must.

     I had bought a state parking pass when I attended Pablo’s AKA Pabs’ (R.I.P) paddle out, and since then I’ve barely used this two-hundred dollar investment, an investment that has not paid for itself yet, so on this morning Bri and I head to North Huntington.

     Traffic on the 405 South is thick, so I exit Bolsa and take PCH to my favorite, HB surf break. When we arrive, we’re quite disappointed. The current is strong. Two surfers in front of us drift to the lifeguard tower to our north within minutes; they’re still trying to get past the inside. Four-foot waves break, but there is south wind, and it makes the shape sectiony and walled. The River Jetties don’t look any better. Fuckin’ A. Skunked again at this spot. It seems like ages ago that Francis and I had scored here; we used to consistently. Talking about it now is like talking about breaks that used to work in the 80s, long since abandoned.

     The South Bay has a lot of history of breaks that used to break in between El Porto and Venice, breaks that only a small handful of guys can be seen sitting at while driving on Vista Del Mar.

     So what happened to this place? I just haven’t seen it good in a long time.

     From here we go to Golden West. The wind has less of an effect on the water, but . . . the waves are still on the walled side. Size is one thing, but shape, shape gives me a chance to at least get a turn in. I didn’t come here to go straight, and even though my mind is more open to barrel attempts, the waves don’t look good for it.

Back Where We Started:

     How many times have I driven around only to return to the spot that I had checked out first? This is a surfer’s frustration. Bri and I are at Bolsa Chica, Tower Twenty. A lot of longboarders are out, all paddling south to fight the current. The surf looks a little better than earlier but not by that much. A peak breaks close to the inside. A longboarder catches it, taking a short ride to shore. “Well,” I say. “We came here to get wet. Fuck it. Let’s do it.”

     Surfline said that the water temp has recently dropped, and they’re right. Stepping into the water is reminiscent of December at Porto. I look back at Bri, and she gives me a look that agrees. At least we were smart enough to bring wetsuits.

     I have to duckdive a couple of waves on the way out. I tell Bri to keep an eye on Tower Twenty and to try and stay south of it. A longboarder catches a long right on the outside. A minute later, Bri paddles into a left, but that same longboarder back paddles her and calls her off of the wave.    

     Bri comes back and says, “That guy was gonna run me over.”

     “Well . . . unfortunately not everyone shares,” I say.

     “That’s why I like Manhattan Beach.”

Classic:

     Who knew that classic HB peaks still exist? They’re just not breaking in HB, they’re breaking at Bolsa. I used to see these peaks at my other, south HB spot, but they’re here. On the outside, a stand-alone A-frame builds. It looks like a small bump, but I know these sand bars. As it approaches, it begins to stand up. I position myself perfectly on what looks like the shoulder, but it stands up so fast that the shoulder shifts, leaving me with a fast drop. This wave is different from Trestles because it’s faster and stands up more, which makes the drop more critical, but the shape holds. I have so much momentum going into the turn that my frontside carve, carves itself. In other words, momentum is in such abundance that my efforts to turn the board are minimum; all I have to do is not fall.

     Speed, accentuation, and power are this wave’s signature. I pump my way down the line and get two, deep carves. Finally, a successful session in the OC.

     But there’s still the current to deal with. I’m raping the waves for their lefts, but they dump me off further north in the direction of the current. I fight my way back from the north side of the tower to the south; that’s where the good peaks are. Other surfers too are fighting the current, but most of them are longboarders and make the distance with ease. Some of them still go in and do what my brother calls “the carousel,” walking on the shore to paddle out again. My Lost board has enough volume to make the fight a little easier. Yup, this all around board, I tell ya. It’s good for everything.

     Bri doesn’t fail to surprise me again. There’s this A-frame, and she’s in position for the peak. She doesn’t know this wave, how it stands up so fast when it hits the sandbar. With her board angled towards the left, she paddles into it at its most critical part. She’s gonna be late. I know she is. I think she is, but . . . she defies my judgment; she’s early. She slides down the face of the wave at an angle well before the wave can lip-launch her. Taking advantage of the board’s length, she glides to safety on the face of the wave, to the shoulder, and then to the shore.

     My rights aren’t too impressive today. Maybe it’s the direction of the swell, but the rights aren’t lining up as well. The shoulders moosh out, so I do these kamikaze turns where I try to gouge the shoulder, knowing that I’ll end up falling off of my board. But the lefts, the lefts are so fun. Even on a sectiony one, I make the drop, climb the face, and do a floater towards the shore on the closeout section. It’s not a pretty floater, but it’s better than bailing like I used to.

     With the tide coming up, the surf turns more inconsistent, but the current is still strong. Bri paddles up to me and says that her arms are tired, so she goes in. I wait for my last wave, which ends up being a closeout. Oh well.

     We surfed a solid, two-hour session and scored good surf in North Orange County, closer than going all the way to San O. We ride back, silent and satisfied. I’m stoked that we scored, got to use my parking pass, and to see how Bri is progressing quickly. 

     At home, we pull out the bed and spend the rest of the day catching up to Game of Thrones. It’s a lazy day that began with surf and ends with cuddling in front of the TV. When I had told Klaude about my lazy days since returning from Java, he said, “It’s summer. Enjoy it while you can.” Klaude, I am. . .

OFF THE CLOCK (double), MON08JULY2013

Loc: North Churches / South Middles

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 3-4 FT, consistent, clean, glassy, peaky.

     I had just recently written about those who hate themselves because they wake up late for the good window of surf. Well, today that’s what happens to Briana and I. Blame it on the consistency that I’ve been surfing or the late night humping, but it’s just too easy to justify when you’re tired. Bri has the day off, and the plan is to go to San Onofre. With the whole day to ourselves, we decide not to rush.

#

     0545 . . . snooze. 0600 . . . snooze. 0630 . . . snooze. 0700 . . . “Hunnie, we need to get up. . .”

     I’m off. We’re off. Usually, loading up the wagon is like clockwork, but I’m still groggy while pulling our gear out of the garage. I slam the hatch and pull out of my apartment parking lot. “Hun,” says Bri. I look outside and see that I forgot to close the garage door.

     It’s about 0730 when we’re on the road. Not too late for a local session, but we’re heading all the way to San Onofre, North Pendleton, so we’re behind schedule. Usually I’m a stress machine in these situations, beating myself up over missing the good tide, light wind, and empty crowd. However, this morning calls for a change. Since I’ve been home, I’ve been sticking to the clock, waking up at about 0530 no matter what, even if I only had four hours of sleep. I gotta take a break from the clock, even more so since Bri has the day off. Sometimes the tide and the wind don’t follow the forecast predictions; sometimes things fall into place naturally, and good surf awaits no matter what time you get up.

     For the first time in about a week, the sun’s already been out since dawn, but once we hit San Clemente, a thick marine layer makes everything gray. I question the decision to drive this far south.

     Exiting Basilone Road, the quick flow of traffic makes it hard for me to see Lowers. “Middles has a couple of waves,” says Bri. “I just saw a set come through.”

     We check Old Mans first, but the crowd is so thick there that we don’t even wait for a set. We both know that North Churches and Middles are our best bets to beat the crowd.

     Upon parking at Churches, we see that the incoming tide hasn’t swamped out the surf yet. Even though the sky is gray, and there’s a little onshore wind, the surface conditions are still clean. Clean peaks are rolling in at about three-to-four feet. Longboarders are scattered across the break like waterbugs over a still lake. Too crowded here. It’s hard to catch Churches without the crowd; it’s like Lowers with longboarders when it’s good.

     In the distance, we can already see that North Churches (AKA Mons Pubis) has waves, and . . . there is nobody there. . .

Mons:

     Klaude had named this spot on an epic afternoon session one day. Since I’ve been home from vacation, I’ve only surfed this place small, and that includes all of Trestles and San Onofre. But today, despite our late wake up, it’s good. Thank the surf gods and the universe that’s aligned me and Bri’s path to stand amongst the shore on this very day. No one else likes to sit at Mons. Everyone wants the main peaks at Churches. Better for us. More waves for us.

     We paddle out at mid tide, and it’s going higher. Little two footers are breaking towards the inside. I get impatient to get out to the lineup, so I turn and go on a little one, barely getting any distance. When I turn around to head back out, the first set approaches. I’m out of position for it, but it’s the best I’ve seen this place in a while.

     A four-foot A-frame breaks right in front of me. I duckdive it. Out the back, a sectiony line comes in, giving a short right that breaks into the left. When I duckdive it, the wave’s power pushes me back a little. Ahhhh yes . . . this swell is a good one.

     Other surfers at Churches look our way. I fear that we’ll sell the spot, but it’s not ours to sell in the first place. All we can do is milk it before others creep up on the empty udders.

     It’s been so long since I’ve caught a good, Churches’ wave; it’s borderline Middles Trestles too. Lefts, I love lefts. A left rolls through, and there’s no one to my left or my right. I welcome the overcast because it makes the texture on the water invisible. The gray over the ocean mirrors the gray up above, so the water is as smooth as polished marble when I paddle into it.

     Me and my magic board, we do it together. I feel the drop as I slide down, and the perfect, Trestles’ wave stands up, giving me a shouldery face to work with. How else can I describe a Trestles’ wave? It’s soft and somewhat mooshy; this is true. It doesn’t stand up like a beach break wave that will throw out and go hollow. Instead, Trestles’ waves have that in-between slope, where it’s not too mooshy and it’s not too vertical. To sum it up, it’s a perfect, rippable wave. It gives enough speed for momentum on the turns while not morphing into a critical lip launcher. It’s deceivingly easy and allows surfers to paddle in a little late. With the cobblestones assisting the shape, the waves line up into long rides to the rocks. Now back to the left. . .

     I pump, knowing and feeling that my speed is good. With an unbesmirched face before me, I bottom turn, and climb the face. Shifting my weight on the tail while turning my upper torso and looking behind me, my momentum keeps my feet stuck to the board as I draw a tight, front-side carve. I pump and hit the end section for a final turn before the ride ends. Paddling back, it feels good that we’ve arrived in time to catch the tail end of this window.

     I imagine that it must have been good here the whole morning, from first light on through. If it’s this rippable at mid tide, perhaps Bri and I did miss a better window this morning, but we have to accept this current window right now, and we do it gladly.

     Bri’s a little apprehensive about some of the waves, and I can’t blame her. We’ve been surfing small Manhattan Beach as of late, so she’s passing up some of the four footers, or she’s shoulder hunting too hard. “Just go for the peak,” I say. “Go late. You can get away with it here.” After that, she just lets loose. Bri . . . she’s good for her stage of surfing. Her pop up has improved a lot, and she gets down the line consistently now.

     On the set waves, she pops up on the peak, stands, draws good lines, and takes them all the way in. The only problem is that this is becoming too easy for her now; longboarding is getting a little boring for her. I encourage her to mix it up a little. Crouch more on the drop in, extend coming out of the bottom turn, and crouch again to drop into the wave. “Play with your line,” I say. And then again, I had quit longboarding before I even learned to turn on one.

     Other guys see us catching waves, so three guys paddle to our spot, but Bri and I, we’re like dogs in our backyard; we don’t like intruders. I sit on the left and bri sits more north where the right is. The both of us seal off both peaks, catching waves, not leaving much for those who sit between us. I know this sounds greedy, but we didn’t plan on shutting down Mons Pubis like this. Plus this is crowded Cali surf. Do you think those guys sitting at the top of Churches, Old Mans, and Lowers give a shit about sharing? After all, Bri and I chose the spot that’s less consistent where no one else wanted to be in the first place.

     Since I’ve bought this board, I’ve tested it in a lot of different conditions. It works in hollow waves, tiny surf, mooshy surf, and rippable Trestles. I never thought I’d be able to turn this thing going right on my backhand, but I get a clean, glassy right and just throw a bucket out the back onto Bri’s face. Ahhhh, this board! I have a true all around board right now. I don’t even know if I’ll go back to riding my Tokoro thrusters or my Channel Islands’ Motorboat Too. I guess when you have one board that does it all, ya know, it’s just hard to ride anything else. Now I know how my buddy Rick had felt about his yellow Zamora Fish, the one that got stolen at my last group, camping trip. I love my board.

     We surf from 0900 to a little after 1100. Even though we haven’t pulled a marathon session, we’re tired. We’ve had so much surf to ourselves that our paddling arms are done. The cereal we ate for breakfast has been long burned off. My stomach is empty, and my mouth is parched. We need water and calories.

     By the time we get out, the consistency has died off. The swell’s not big enough for the tide, but with the sun’s late arrival, the ocean looks so inviting that people are still paddling out.

     After changing, we head to La Tiendita for our ritualistic machaca plates. It’s still the best deal in town for only $5.75.

#

     Back at San Onofre, we find the best parking spot available, which is underneath a tree in front of Churches. In my shaded wagon, I set up my laptop in the backseat and put on Game of Thrones season one. I got Bri into the show, and I’m trying to get her all caught up to season three. In doing this, we’ve started another ritual with this backseat theater deal. My seats recline far enough to give ample room, while my laptop rests on the center console, powered by my 110V plug in.

     With the ocean roaring in front of us, this is a nice luxury for the beach.

#

     The whole time we’re watching my laptop, I’m keeping an eye on the surf. The wind has picked up, but the peaks are still coming in. It’s 1400. We paddle back out at 1630.

Round Two:

     The wind is howling, the strongest that it’s been the whole day. It might die closer to sunset, but we can’t wait; I know I can’t. Paddle out now we must because the tide has just bottomed out at a high, three feet. Now’s the time. It will be swamped later, good wind or not. 

     We begin at Churches. Bri samples Rick’s Zippy, and she doesn’t do so bad paddling through the lineup on it. When the waves come, she can’t get into them. She’s a little too far back on it, and Zippy’s nose is a little too high.

     The wind is so bad that it’s ruining the peaks. The crowd’s the emptiest it’s been all day, and I can see why. The north wind knocks the waves down fast, but I’m still able to get good position to paddle into them. Even though other surfers flock to where I’m catching the waves at, the shape offers no turns. The waves are racy, running away too fast to get a top turn.

     We go back in so Bri can swap out the Zippy for the NSP. “I think I’ll stay on this board a little bit longer,” she says. 

     Mons Pubis . . . gawd, it worked so well this morning. There are waves. The swell is building; the size is there, but the shape is just blown to shit. Almost everything is a closeout. Goosebumps form over my arms, which are exposed from my rashguard. I’m surviving in boardshorts. The water temp’s fine, but the wind is just too much. It’s roaring in my face and ears like I’m surfing on the LAX runway. It’s fucking horrible. We’re skunked for the evening session.

Rituals:

     Strange cravings on this Monday evening after surfing. “Burgers,” I say. “I want a big, greasy burger.” Islands’ burgers comes to mind. I love Islands. Well, at least at this moment I do. There aren’t any good burgers in Java, and right now, I want a teri burger with teri sauce with a slice of pineapple on top of it. It sounds so good, but I really need to budget. The trip to Java had cost me my anus. “What are you in the mood for?” I ask Bri.

     “Soup sounds good. Something about a hot bowl of soup that makes me happy.” She smiles. Soup Plantation it is.

     All you can eat is a must for a surfer, especially after a solid day of surf. So we didn’t score in the evening. Who cares? The morning session made the whole day, and we paddled around enough. 

      My only complaint about Soup Plantation is that they don’t serve any meat, and the meat in the chicken noodle soup doesn’t count. At least Sizzler has some kind of meat, but . . . Soup Plantation is still good. Yes, Bri is right. After a surf with the cold wind in your eye, some Yankee Clam Chowder sure hits the spot, and some tortilla chicken soup. Mmmmmmmmmmm. Fuck yeah.

     To top it off, I kill two bowls of chocolate lava cake with vanilla swirl on top of them, and you know I put peanuts on top too. 

     I paid eleven bucks walking in here, but in my stomach I’ve eaten thirty-three dollars worth of food. I even took a shit halfway through dinner to make more room. Now that’s how a professional manhandles all you can eat!

#

     I should be tired, but I’m not, thanks to Bri’s Starbuck’s gift card. Listening to some Mitch Hedberg on Pandora, I chuckle while listening at his “Smokey the Frog” joke, while Bri nods off into sleep. It’s 2130, and the surf strap smacks against the car window as I accelerate on the 5 North. This is what SoCal summers are supposed to be like.

BETTER STAY LOCAL, SUN07JULY2013 MOR

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Crew: Klaude, Shan, Tom

Conditions: 2-3 FT, consistent, overcast, fun.

     I love it when the surf is supposed to be flat but ends up fun. Surfline called poor-to-fair conditions for the South Bay, but as I stand in front of the recently graffiti’d lifeguard tower, I see peaky lines rolling through, but . . . let me rewind a bit. . .

There are Those Mornings:

     There are those mornings when you can’t get out of bed to surf. Whether PS3, Jizzonline, Pornhub, masturbation, or actual sex with a real life human being is to blame, there are those mornings when you’d rather sleep in. You’ve been there. Do you justify the same way I do?

• I haven’t slept in in a while. I’m sure my body can use the rest.
• I’m sure it will suck today. Surfline said it would suck, so I’m sure I won’t be missing much.
• You can always catch an evening sesh.
• You’ve been surfing a lot. What’s missing one day of surfing anyway?
• The weather’s shit, the water’s cold, and there’s no way I’m leaving this warm fucking bed.

But what does the addicted surf fanatic in you say during those moments, when the bed is warm and your girlfriend’s plump ass is warm in your palm under the sheets? You know you’ll hate yourself if you don’t get up now. When you do wake up with the sun peering through your window, and you’re fully rested and unsalted, with the onshore wind now rustling the trees outside, and your tide watch showing that the surf is now mooshy and drowned out, lying in bed with your unsalted body you’ll stare at the ceiling, fucking hating yourself!

My body is still sleeping, and like a mummy, I pace to the

bathroom. My legs are weak, so I sit down and piss like I have a vagina. I want to reassociate the word vagina to have connotations with power. Why not break the convention? Then we could say stuff like, “Shit, I went full vagina on that fool and beat his ass,” or, “I had to vagina up on that fool and show him what time it was.” Too many thoughts through a tired man’s mind on this Sunday morning.

     I brush my teeth, still tasting remnants of last night’s French apple pie. I love those sugary crumbs. Mmmmm. Walking past the fridge, I think about eating the last couple bites that I saved last night, but it’s already 0645. Klaude had called me about thirty minutes ago. I need to go. He’ll be there. I need to get there before the crowd. Need, need, need. Need free parking. Need surf. Need waves. Need turns.

     Free parking. My surfer soul must be in tune with the universe, guiding me at the right spot at the right time. I score despite being late for the first shift of surfers.

     This morning I have my longsleeve, Rip Curl 3/2 wetsuit. I ain’t trunking it, not with this overcast.

     The surf is supposed to be small. Who cares? I just want a turn or two, a slice of stoke to start the day.

     Standing on the shore, I look back at the lifeguard tower. The word Pusher has been spray painted on it with additional gangbanger shit on top of it. Fuck . . . when I was a kid I was involved with gangs and tagging. I feel like an asshole looking at this graffiti, coming to grips with how my friends and I had shat all over our neighborhood doing similar shit. Now, here it is in front of me, a reminder.

#

     North of the tower is working, so I sit a little south. I watch guys catch some nice rights. Even with this light onshore wind, the surf is good and the peaks are well defined. Fuck Surfline. Actually, I take that back. Hopefully Surfline keeps people away. Hopefully the overcast keeps people away. Let them tell themselves that it’s not worth it. As the tide rises, the peaks shift, and now . . . my spot turns on.

     Tom’s out to my south. We throw each other a shaka. Klaude paddles out and so does Shan. Not just them, but the rest of the South Bay shows up. Surfers do not stay home and sleep in.

     Local sandbars are working. I can’t believe it still. This is summer. Summer is supposed to be shit in the South Bay, but lately all it’s taken is a little windswell to get things pumping. South Bay surfers, now’s a good time to be proud and lay your claim to be local surfers. Hear ye, hear ye, come one come all. South Bay surfers, I implore you to whip out your cocks and beat off in the name of your favorite break. Wear your spooge on your hand like a battle banner!

     Shan muscles into waves on his giant tanker, but Klaude and I, we’re still scoring on our shortboards. Despite the crowd there’s enough consistency to catch waves for ourselves. Even though it’s fun, there are still a lot of closeouts. I find myself paddling on the shoulder, only to find that the wave has stood up, shifting the shoulder much further down the line. Instead of straightening out I pull in to these closeouts, both front and backside. I’m too slow on some, wiping out before I get into my barrel stance, but there is one right that I feel solid and compact on. I’m only in the hollow part of the closeout for a fraction of a second, but I’m positioned well. I want to be ready for the winter. As the Starks would say: “Winter is coming.”

     My Lost Board gets me into waves that even surprise me. Sitting on the inside, everyone in front of me lets a bump roll through. No one’s going for it. When it reaches me it stands up a little. I paddle and kick, and then I’m on a racy, three-foot left. I get two turns and kick out on the third one. Klaude even gets a right all the way to shore. He’s been drawing his lines better, even stalling for the section to open up before he pumps past the sections. It’s nice to see the boys progressing. He paddles back and says, “I love this board!”

     I leave after surfing for just under three hours. At my wagon, an SUV with three chicks pull up behind me and wait for me to change. One of them steps out and asks, “How is it out there?”

     I don’t want to be the guy who ruins anyone’s stoke. I don’t want to say that the tide’s killing it and the surf has gotten inconsistent. “It’s still rideable out there,” I say. “Pretty fun.” They were the ones who couldn’t get up this morning. Missing the window of good surf, when they paddle out, they’ll hate themselves. And I’ll be home eating French apple pie, sitting on my toilet and taking a shit at the same time. Why? Because I’m a South Bay surfer, and this is what South Bay surfers do. We eat while taking a shit. HOOAH!