THE HIATUS SESSION, FRI 19JULY2013 MOR

Loc: Rosecrans

Time: 0600-0900

Crew: Rick and the WHC                                       

Conditions: 2-4 FT, scattered, light onshore, choppy, consistent, high tide.

     It’s 0520, and I’m driving between 26^th Street and Rosecrans, looking for free fucking parking. Fridays are a bitch because of street cleaning. Why am I up so early? One, because I told Rick that I’d surf with him and his homeboys. They don’t like my favorite spot, so if I want to surf with Rick I have to be flexible. Two, because I’m flying with Bri to Oregon tonight to meet her family, but her family isn’t what has my anus gaped. I’ll be back on Tuesday night, which means that I’ll be without surfing for four whole days. Do you hear me? Four days without surfing.

     I can’t find an open spot that will be free of the street cleaner’s wrath, so I park on Rosecrans, where I’ll have to move my car by 0800 to avoid a parking ticket.

     Since my Mini Driver is in the shop (Rick’s garage), I have to make do with my Motorboat Too this morning. I unsheathe it from my Creatures’ surf sock. I haven’t ridden it in so long that it looks like an artifact. My wax job from a month ago is patchy, so I grab a fresh bar of cool water wax and go to town on it. As I rub it on, the old wax starts to flake off, leaving nothing but the bare deck. Motherfucker. I whip out the basecoat, trying to rewax the bare areas, but it’s not sticking.

     “Matt!” I look up. It’s Rick coming down the hill. “You shouldn’t park here,” he says. “Street cleaning. You should park up by the meters.”

     “The meters are the same thing,” I say. “I’ll have to come out at eight anyway.”

     “Yeah, but if you feed it now, it won’t charge you until eight.” He looks down the hill at the surf. “I gotta get going. Gary, Dave, and the boys are already out there. I’m late.”

     At my new parking spot up the hill, I’m still faced with the dilemma of my board. I’m furious and frustrated, trying to force this wax on, but it still resists. I should just strip the whole thing, but . . . it’s almost 0600. I’m running late too. I should be in the water. Don’t be an idiot, just put on as much wax as possible and head out.

     I haven’t surfed Porto in the morning since I’ve been home (about a month), and I’m stoked to see that the surf is uncrowded at this hour. That’s the only reason why I don’t surf Porto so much anymore—the crowd. At least my spot has familiar faces, and people who know each other don’t want to snake each other. There’s an order and unwritten rules to follow, which of course get violated from time to time, but it’s not the killing field that Porto is.

     Rick and all his boys are out. There’s Dave T, Gary and his son Russ, Manny A, and Jimmy B. We’re all spread out, and some nice, four-foot sets start rolling in. The sandbars here are a little better than my spot, perhaps. The south swell seems to be wrapping around into the South Bay a nicely, and the energy of good surf is in the air.

     The wind is light onshore, creating just a little texture on the surface, but it’s still on the glassy side. I scratch out on my first couple of waves. I do everything I can: scratch, kick, and try to go late. The waves break a little later than expected. The swell has decent size, but it’s a little mooshy because of the tide. In fact, the tide will be topping off around eight o’clock, so it’s still getting higher.

     I feel off without my Mini Driver. I already feel the loss of volume just paddling around on this board. I get my first left. Rick backs out for me, which is rare because he’s a reptile. My board feels so loose that I struggle to get my footing as I setup for my first turn. I get a small carve, not able to milk the wave for its riding potential. On my second turn, I lose balance and fall backwards. Reaching the surface, I see Rick at the lineup, smiling and giving me a thumbs up.

     Everyone else makes a killing. They position themselves in the right spots, throwing out buckets. It’s different surfing with Rick and his boys, but they’re so much better than me; I know that surfing with them will help me progress, but it’s also inspiring because these guys are older and they’re still ripping. I hope to shred when I’m shriveled and old.

     By 0700, I remember why I don’t surf here. It’s fucking CROWDED. Holy shit. . . I mean, no one was here at first, and now all of Manhattan Beach has trickled in through the parking lot and down the hill. Fuckin’ A, man. Too many people and not enough waves. The rising tide and wind make the waves less consistent and choppier. I struggle to find a wave with shape. Needing some breathing room, I paddle up to Rick and tell him that I’m paddling further south. What I don’t tell him is that I might paddle all the way to my favorite spot.

     I paddle south, catching rights to help me in my campaign to cover some distance. During my journey, I just so happen to paddle right into the perfect spot for a right. A guy, who’s been waiting here, turns and goes on the wave even though I’m in position. I still take the wave, and I’m behind him. After a couple of pumps, he looks to his rear, sees me, and kicks out.

     Now, I don’t know if what I did counts as back paddling, but I was literally paddling from point A to point B and just so happened to come up on a wave. I’m upset that that guy went, but I press on, hoping to see some of my boys.

     When I reach my favorite break, I see that none of the DRC are out. I know that Khang had told me last night that he’d be surfing here today, but I don’t see him. A lot of the usual locals are missing. A surprise. On a day like today with a good rating, there aren’t as many people as usual. A sense of emptiness overwhelms me. I feel as if I’ve betrayed this spot or missed out on something because I wasn’t here earlier.

     The tide is killing it. When I had first set eyes on the break in front of Rosecrans at 0545 in the morning, that was the closing window of good surf. Now the waves are sectiony, inconsistent, choppy, and mooshy. Even Don K, the king of this break, is riding a fun-sized board.

     I catch a left and purl. On a right, I lack the volume to get down the line and just bog out. Fuck. It’s not Surfline’s fault. They usually don’t determine a forecast depending on the tide.

     Despite the conditions, I can see that the swell has potential. The south swell is producing waves, and some of them are still breaking through the tide.

     After a while, I get in sync with my old board. I catch a racy left and pump to the open face to set up for a monster turn. On my Mini Driver, I usually end up with a slow and deep carve. I turn with the same power that I normally do, but on this board, it’s so loose that I’m unprepared for how easy its tail throws out. I almost do a layback snap from pushing so hard, but what really surprises me is how I’m able to bring the board back under my feet and recover. Even though the wave is now white wash, I ride out of it. I miss my Mini Driver, but it’s nice to practice turns on my smaller board too.

     I hunt for another good left, but I end up with rights, precision rights. I call them precision rights because I’m feeling how snappier this board is. On my Mini Driver, I have to put a lot of weight on the tail on my backhand snaps, but on my Motorboat, it’s like I just point and shoot or . . . eye the spot where I want to snap, and then bam! Really sharp and concise. This is fun.

     Too bad the tide has shut down everything. I had planned to surf until 1000, but at 0900 I have to call it. I’m done. The waves are too sectiony, and turns are hard to come by.

     Back at my wagon, I see that Rick and the boys have already left too, probably much earlier when the surf took a shit.

     Now I’m at home, packing my bag, thinking about this trip. I guess my body can use a break. My knees have been bothering me, and this morning’s paddle has made my left shoulder a little tender.

     Bri says her mom makes good, homemade biscuits and gravy. I’ve never had homemade biscuits and gravy before. I just hope that her family is ready for a Black man to sit down at the dinner table with them. I hope that I won’t be woken up in the middle of the night to barking dogs and a burning cross on the front lawn. I should wear a hat and buy some skin bleach.

     AND . . . it looks like there’s still some swell when I get home. I’ll be resting, recharging, and refueling in the meantime. I’ll be taking a small hiatus, ready come back and go straight vagina these some waves. Awwwww yeaaaaah. . .

FRATRICIDE, THU 18JULY2013 MOR

    

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0830-1015

Crew: Bri and CC                                             

Conditions: 2-3 FT, scattered, onshore, choppy, consistent.

     I had originally planned to travel down south today, but I think that it’s too much of a gamble. First off, the south swell is building. The last thing I need is to show up at Trestles, waiting for the swell. It’s been pretty blown out in the afternoons from my recent experiences. Even if Magicseaweed is right about the wind dying down by 1800, there is still the six-foot high tide to deal with, and if the swell isn’t as big as expectations have been leading to believe, then the afternoon session will be a skunker. Not me, not today. After getting skunked at HB yesterday, I think it’s best to gamble on the poor-to-fair rating and stay local.

#

     My alarm goes off at 0545, but of course I snooze for a while. I think the dawn patrols have taken their toll on me. It’s getting harder to make the first shift. My justification? The tide is too high in the morning. And then again, the wind is better early, so I’m just making excuses. I should have woken up, but Bri and I leave my apartment at 0745.

     I hate paying the city’s bills by parking at the meters, but on this morning I can’t seem to score free parking. We’re here too late. All of the first shifters ganked them, and the daily beachgoers who are here for the sun have taken the rest. At least I can get three bucks worth of Hawaiian Airlines’ miles by using my credit card for the meter.

     I bust out Rick’s spring suit that he leant me years ago. I’ve never used it, and since the water temps have cooled down a little, I go ahead and put it on. The short legs make it so much easier to get into; It’s only the second time that I’ve used one.

     Walking over the pedestrian path, I can see that there are lines rolling in. Surfline’s accurate as far as size and unfortunately the wind too. It’s blowing onshore a little, which is making the water choppy. But . . . it’s still rideable. This windswell looks fun, and it’s not even that crowded.

     I paddle south of the tower to start picking off the lefts, and it doesn’t take long before I have my first wave. In my leaky spring suit, I paddle into the mooshy shoulders. My Motorboat Too was made for these waves. It’s breaking soft and slopey but still lining up well. On my Mini Driver, I get into these waves with ease. Most of my waves are single shots, a series of pumping down the line to set up for a finishing carve. I feel much better going frontside now, keeping my foot on the tail for as much torque as possible. Two-to-three feet, poor to fair was what Surfline had predicted. . . They were right, and right now, there is more “fair” than “poor.” I spot Christina on the sand, and Briana goes out to meet her.

     You’d expect for things to get better with the tide dropping. The size is still consistent, but the wind. . . It’s hard to feel the onshore wind in the water, but the surface conditions become so choppy that they overwhelm the peaks, taking away their distinctive shoulders. The waves are still rideable, but there are more closeouts now.

     We three surf together. Bri and CC get their girl time, which is nice because Bri needs some girl company to balance her out, instead of my hairy anus all the time. Bri and CC get some rides and also make some party waves.

     “When you turn,” asks CC, “do you torque your body and throw your shoulder forward?”

     “Yeah, you do,” I say, “but if anything make sure that your rear foot is over the tail. If not, you’ll fall off of your board.” I want to give some good advice, but the truth is that I’ve only learned how to really turn in the last couple of years; I’m still working on my turns right now. “Just practice with the trims. Make sure you have momentum, and when you do, just whack one off of the lip real quick.”

     Christina laughs. “Whack it off, huh?” She paddles to beat the next set. “Okay, I can do that!”

     I’m hungry for a legit turn, and the choppiness of the water is taking the turnable sections away. I manage to get a bumpy right that has a decent section on it. On my backhand, I come out of my bottom turn and do a baby hack. It’s not a solid turn, but it’s the best I can do for today; I’m satisfied.

     As I float on the inside, trying to remount my board, I see Bri paddle into an inside wave. She’s on the shoulder, smiling, and riding it on her belly. I’m smiling too, stoked for her, except . . . she’s heading straight for me. This is bad. I hop back on my board while she’s beelining towards my right side. Which way is she going to go? I lack momentum because of the churning water. Going forward or to my right will both result in narrow misses, but it all happens so fast.

     I pull away and try to back up so she can go in front of me, but instead she plows right into me. As she runs me over, her NSP takes my board with her.   

     We both resurface close by. “Are you all right?” she asks.

     I do a quick check on my board. “Yeah, I’m fine!” I head out to the lineup, dismount my board, turn it over, and feel its underside. Right there. . . puncture. Two punctures. The rail next to the nose is cracked from a pressure ding. “It’s done,” I say. “My board is done.”

     “I’m so sorry,” says Bri. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

     Now that’s just ridiculous. She doesn’t have to buy me a new board. I meant that my board is done for the day; my session is done. I know it was an accident, but my heart breaks every time my boards get dinged. Not only that, but this was an instance of friendly fire—fratricide. My own girlfriend plowed right over me and shat on the very hand that introduced her to surfing. Now I’m just being mellow dramatic. . .

     Rick. . . As soon as I get home, I shoot him a text. I fucking hate asking for favors, but I know he’ll do it for me. I ask him if he can fix my board, and like always, he’s more than willing to do it.

     Ahhhhhhhh! My Mini Driver, I love you so much. The woman ran you down and fucked you up, my poor sweet. You’re my favorite board. I have a quiver to go to while you’re injured, but it won’t be the same. Motorboat Too rides mooshy waves well, but its wave count can’t keep up with yours. I have the Tokoro from Java, but I don’t think that there will be enough size to use it to its potential. Mini Driver, I’m sorry I let her do that to you. You are irreplaceable, and today I’ll strip off of your wax, clean you up, and make you shiny again. After Rick repairs you, we’ll be together once more.

     She fucked up my favorite board. . .

WHEN STREAKS END, WED 17JULY2013 MOR

Loc: North Huntington Beach

Time: 0900-1045

Crew: Bri                                                    

Conditions: 1-2 FT+, scattered, onshore, choppy, inconsistent, racy, low tide.

     Surfline’s forecast has been pretty accurate lately. I stopped using Magicseaweed because they’ve been off. They had failed me during me and Bri’s anniversary camp trip last month. But Surfline . . . they’ve been all right.

     Because of the higher tides in the recent mornings, Bri and I sleep in after completing Game of Thrones, season three. Holy shit . . . it’s so addicting. Anyway, we sleep in until 0730. I check my phone and see that I have a missed message from Calvin, a local surfer at my favorite local break.

     His message says: I’m on my way to HB if you’re there.

     He sent it at 0653.

     We get up, snack on some PB&J, and then we’re out the door.

     I fuck up by not choosing to exit on Bolsa Chica Road. Instead, I try to exit Beach further down. Now there’s gridlocked traffic in front of me, even in the carpool lane. Calvin’s already in the water I bet, so I don’t bother to text him.

     It’s 0845 when we enter the state parking lot. “It looks good,” I say to Bri. “The sun’s out, the wind is good, we’re about to catch the tide push.”

     “Matt. . .”

     “The surf won’t be big, but it will be fun. Kind of like the first time I took you here.”

     “Remember what you said about expectations,” Bri says.

     We change and walk to the shore. Another surfer approaches with his board in hand, coming out from the surf. “How was it?” I ask.

     He shakes his head and says, “Sometimes you just gotta paddle out.”

     Fuck me . . . can it . . . really be . . . that bad?

#

     Choppy and onshore. Where are the peaks? Where are the two-to-three feet and fair conditions that Surfline had promised me? The peaks are crumbling fast over the sandbar. The tide’s a bit low. Maybe the tide push will help. Surfers float in patches, hogging the sandbars. Come on you fuckers, sell me a wave! I’m watching them take closeout after closeout. Even the waves that have shoulders are too racy. Oh no. . .

     I’m in trunks because it’s the summer, but the water temp’s dropped again. I think I can manage. The waves look better in the water. I paddle on the shoulders since the waves are fast, but on this very morning I can’t keep up with the sections. They initially have shape, but they close out. “It’s actually better than I thought it was,” I say. “With the tide push it might slow it down a bit!”

     Bri catches some waves, easily paddling into the shoulders on her log and clearing the racy sections. My waves either closeout or turn into pump fests when all I can do is play the distance game.

     We make the best of it, but the surf doesn’t cooperate. The wind gets stronger, which makes the surf choppier and even more inconsistent. This spot was a bad gamble. Maybe Goldenwest or Bolsa was better, but we had spent so much time in traffic that it was this spot or nothing.

     At least there’s pho. There’s this spot by the freeway that has fifty-percent off on their chicken pho. Each bowl only comes out to $3.50. Now how can you beat that? We also order some coffee with condensed milk and order the buy-two-get-one-free sandwich special. Two phos, three sandwiches, and two coffees only cost seventeen bucks and some change; we even have leftovers for later.

     The freeway is open and clear on the way back to El Segundo. Calvin shoots me a message, saying that he scored at 17^th street until the wind got on it at eight o’clock. I chose a bad window to go to HB. I drive, wondering how local was. It might have been better if I had just stayed in Manhattan Beach.

     Back home, I check Magicseaweed. They gave the morning a low rating with strong onshore winds at one-to-two feet. On point their forecast was. . . In two days I fly to Oregon with Bri to meet her family. After that, I have some military training coming up. I need to surf as much as I can before I leave. I’m a fanatic right now. Must surf. Must have waves.

THAT WAS ME, TUE 16JULY2013 EVE

Loc: El Porto

Time: 1800-1945

Crew: Bri                                                    

Conditions: 1-2 FT, scattered, onshore, choppy, consistent.

     My sister shows up at 1700 and relieves me of uncle duty. Since I missed out on going to the gym earlier, I’d really like to make up for it with an evening surf session. And then again, I just want to go to the beach period. It’s hot outside, the sun’s still bright, and I hate the thought of staying inland, especially when the sandy beach is just a couple of miles away. I haven’t pulled a local evening session since I’ve been back from Java.

     I know that the wind is on it, the surf will be small, and that I probably won’t even get a turn, but . . . just the idea of standing up on a wave and going straight, not even down the line, with the sun on my back, dripping wet from head to toe . . . how can I not go? This is the summer, a Southern California summer. Today’s surf culture is not what it was ten, twenty, fifty years ago, but I love being able to call myself a surfer and am more than proud to be a part of this community. Summer time is for the beach. Take advantage of it now. Winter is coming.

     With no school until August and a part time military commitment, what good am I if I remain a dry landlover for the rest of the evening? I go straight home, load up my gear, make sure I have quarters, and head to El Porto.

#

     As Bri and I pull into the 45^th Street parking lot, I say, “There’s not gonna be any parking.” It’s still early, and I’m sure that everyone and their bastard sons are at the beach, but there aren’t any cars behind us. Also, there isn’t the signature long line of cars in front of us. An SUV pulls out by the bathrooms, so we score on parking right away.

     From the lot, the surf looks rideable. There’s windchop and tiny windswell, but a bunch of longboarders are out there, and with Rick’s Zippy Fish, I’m guaranteed to catch some waves.

     Since Bri’s tired, she brings the beach blanket and reads a book. Even though the other surfers are in wetsuits, I have to try and trunk it; I want that free feeling of paddling unrestricted on this stylish fish. I shoot Rick a text just in case he decides to drive down for the sunset.

     I watch out for the lifeguard flag just north of tower forty two. The last thing I need is for the lifeguard to come out with his bullhorn, telling me to get my ass out of here.

     The water’s cool, but I’m confident that my body will adjust. Once out in the lineup, I take a look around to see the company that I’m in. There are a lot of guys on soft top longboards. They lie on their boards too far to the rear and scratch for waves that have already broken. They stand up for a moment of glory before falling with their arms flailing. Behind me on the inside, surfers are ditching their boards, unable to turtle dive the two-foot surf. A couple of buff guys sit in the lineup on shortboards, scratching out on the tiny waves. A couple thoughts occur to me. One thought is on the buff guys. I had a “buff guy” stage once. I was a gym rat, and the beach was the perfect excuse to show myself off. It’s true. I was a douche. The only things I was missing were the tattoos, muscle shirts, and spiky hair. These guys, I’m looking at them. I was just like them. I’ve learned a couple of things since then. Once you’re addicted to surfing, everything else takes a backseat.

     Surfing opened the passenger door and said to the Gym, “I’m riding shotgun,” while the Gym frowned and climbed into the backseat, whimpering away as he buckled his seatbelt.

     Gym said, “But . . . but—”

     Surfing cocked his hand back and slapped gym across the face while his mouth was still open. Blood tricked down the corner of Gym’s mouth. Surfing then grabbed him by the back of the head and smeared Gym’s blood all over his face, laughing and saying, “Why you bleeding? Why you bleeding?”

     “Surfing!” I said. “Leave him alone. He’s had enough.”

     Gym sat back against the seat. Surfing and I sniffed the air and looked at each other. The car smelled like fresh shit. . .

     In fact, nowadays I just can’t fuckin’ stand being in a gym. I feel so confined. Being around the guys who grunt so loud that everyone hears them, the guys who slam the weights, and the motherfuckers that can’t stop flexing at themselves in the mirror, all of those people just radiate so much energy that doesn’t jive with my own. When I do workout, I’m out the door in less than an hour. Mister and Mister buff, sitting out here on boards more for image than surfing, they’re bodybuilders first and surfers second, maybe third or fourth for all I know.

     The other beginners out here, struggling on their soft tops . . . fuck, that was me too. When I first started longboarding, this very hour was prime time. Why? Because less people surf when it’s blown out and crumbly. I used to be so insecure that I didn’t want other people seeing me surf, and I was so worried about being in the way. This hour with the wind strong, the surf choppy, and the waves barely a foot, this was the hour, in my Barney days, that I used to shine! I admire these surfers, coming out here, dedicated, stoked for going straight. I commend thee.

     At least this windswell is producing some surprise peaks. I can see them in the distance, knowing which ones will stand up with at least a small shoulder. Because of the mid tide, the two-footers closeout and reform before hitting the inside. I take off deep and late on the Zippy, able to stick my landings, hold my lines, and milk the waves for all they’ve got. This session isn’t for turns, it’s for funning around.

     I walk the board a couple of times, successfully pulling off some switch foots. I also experiment with walking the nose, turning, and riding the board backwards. A foam rider paddles past me, smiling and jabbering about something. I have no idea what he’s saying, but he’s happy. I smile back.

     I keep falling off of my board when I stand completely backwards, so I ride a lot of waves, twisted around, facing behind with my legs in place. It’s still fun. Other surfers look my way. Yes, you’re a Barney now, but one day, you’ll be a complete jack off like me!

     Two guys are riding pods, and they’re able to get some single shot turns, but . . . they’re engulfed in the midst of the foam army. They get dropped in repeatedly by surfers who haven’t put in enough time to know etiquette yet. Frustrated, they kick out with grimaces and paddle back to the lineup full of aggression.

     On the shore, I see Bri watching. I wave, and she waves back. I catch my next wave and do the Ravishing Rick Rude (WWF Wrestler back in the 80s). Going left, I clasp my hands behind my head and let out some pelvic thrusts into the El Porto air. When I get back to the lineup, I see that Rick and Jane have arrived. I paddle in. I’ve had my fair share of waves. Time with friends is just as important.

     Rick watches as Jane plays on the shorepound in her little one piece. I’m stoked that Rick’s somehow found a way to escape and get out of the house. We all stand on the shore and talk for a while, and Bri has to hold me from behind to keep me from shivering in my shorts. 

     When the meter maid arrives, we hop in our vehicles before we fall victim to her wrath. My phone beeps. I pick it up. It’s a text from Rick, who’s parked just a couple of cars away.

     His text reads: Did you want ice cream from Rite Aid? My treat.

     I show his text to Bri, and we both smile at each other. I’m so blessed to have someone like Rick in my life. Also, some pistachio nut ice cream in a sugar cone sounds good right about now. It took me ten minutes to drive here from home, cost me three dollars to park for two hours, but the sunset over the 45^th Street Tower is free. Leaving the El Porto parking lot, a woman in short shorts walks her tiny dog on a leash. Her ass cheeks are hanging out, but of course, I'm not looking at that. I’m just wondering what kind of shampoo she uses to get her hair so bouncy.