DEATH BY EXPECTATION, FRI 26JULY2013 MOR

    

Pre Blog (Thursday evening):

     I’ve spent a lot of time looking at Surfline’s regional forecast for north and south Orange County. Tomorrow will be 3-4 feet, slightly better further south. It’s my last Friday surf before taking off for training, so . . . tomorrow is really important. Also important because if I want to surf Trestles, I’d rather do it on a weekday than a crowded Saturday or Sunday. Tomorrow will be my day to strike.

     I whip out the Tokoro Thruster that my bro gave me in Java, throw on some base, cool-water wax, and then screw on the FCS fins. I haven’t ridden this thing since Java, and I’m hoping that the conditions will be prime to take this board out for a little bit.

     My Motorboat Too is ready to go as well. I lay out all of my equipment so I can wake up early and throw everything in the wagon for tomorrow’s staycation, but . . . I may just surf Huntington.

     You see, there’s a slight problem, or . . . problems. One, Bri won’t be able to go with me because of work. This usually isn’t an issue, but I’ve gotten so used to surfing with her, that it feels odd taking a solo trip down south now. I just feel like it won’t be the same. Two, no one else can go. Rick, Klaude, Dais, and Khang are all working, and Christina is surfing overseas somewhere. Two, it’s my last Friday here for a while, and as much as I love surfing, there are other things I love too. I’ll be sleeping in the barracks for most of August, next to other naked men with buff chests and muscular thighs, so I’m going to miss having space. I wish I could balance things out, surf tomorrow, spend some time with Bri, and still pop a “cold one” while I play some PS3 in the comfort of my living room.

     “Get the fuck out of L.A.,” is what Klaude had told me when I asked for his opinion. “You’ve taken solo trips before. What’s different right now?”

     Well, Bri’s a major part of my life. That’s one thing. After meeting her family, I not only look at her as my girlfriend, but her parent’s daughter. I know her more now from that trip. But it’s not only that. With the military, there are times when you have to put your life aside and step out of your element; I’m going to miss my element. No surf, no freedom, no space, no Bri. These are the things that I will be missing, and on my last Friday (for a while), I have to make a wise choice on how to spend it.

MAKE THE CALL:

     It’s 0545 when I roll out of bed. Everything in my garage is set and ready to go if I want to go as far south as San Onofre. I munch on some toast and marionberry jam, while the dim, morning light peers through the cracks from the blinds. It rained sometime around three in the morning. It’s wet out.

     I warm up the stale coffee in the fridge, fill up my hot water jugs, kiss Bri on the cheek, and then I head out the door.

     My car’s loaded, and I’m heading towards the 105 West. Would be funny to just stay local. I have a feeling with the south swell building that we might get some decent wrap around. Well, but south facing is where it’s at; it’s either HB or Tressies. I look at the clock. 0600. Well, I’d be pulling up to Churches at about 0700. The tide will just have bottomed out and begun its push. Bolsa . . . I can check Bolsa first. If it sucks, there’s always South HB as a backup. After a good morning surf, I can be back home in the early afternoon and just veg out in my apartment the rest of the night.

Bolsa:

     The tide’s low and drained out. Crumbly, onshore, two-foot peaks roll in. Tower twenty is empty save for one surfer. I watch him pop up on a wave and purl. He’s a beginner. To the south, more longboarders are out, but the surf . . . fuck. I pull out my phone and check the Surfline App again. It’s frozen, but it doesn’t matter. I know what the forecast had said for today. Maybe with more tide it might get better. The surf syndrome kicks in, and I see the potential with the way peaks are rolling in, it’s just the choppiness and the lack of size that’s killing it. It might get better. . .

DECLASSIFIED:

     I used to love this break that I’m staring at before me. Francis and I used to surf here, scored on both the low and the high tide, but today . . . it’s walled and sectiony at best. The overcast in the South Bay is the same overcast here. Other surfers come out to the sand to watch it and drive off in defeat. Others return with their boards. I watch them, sitting out in the lineup, patiently waiting for the wave that never comes. Well, waves do come, and they go straight or pull in for a quick closer.

     Just needs more tide. Tide and time. That’s all. I warm up and stretch. Looking at my watch, I wonder if I’ve made the right call for today. Sometimes if the swell is bad here, it’s also bad down south. I know this from experience. Once Khang and I came here and saw that the swell wasn’t coming in right. We had driven all the way to Trestles to only witness the same thing. So it could be a good thing to not have gambled big.

     It’s 0745 when I decide to turn my back on Brookhurst. . . That’s right. Even though Brookhurst is far from a secret spot, I’ve avoided naming it because it’s usually not that crowded here. This was my favorite HB spot.

     Brookhurst, what happened to you? You used to have clean peaks, fast shoulders, and consistent surf. You used to be beautiful. Paying the ridiculous fee for the state parking pass was more than worth it, but now . . . now you’re just filth.

     Walking back, I realize I’ve only had two decent surf sessions here this year. I start my car and hope for the best at Bolsa.

THREE STRIKES:

     Damn . . . it’s so bad. It’s terrible. The wind is worse here, and the tide hasn’t done much to help. It’s not worth it. I’ve never driven all the way to HB and left dry before. Fuckin’ A. How sad is this? I’m thinking that I should’ve just surfed local. Fuck. . . Fuckin’ Surfline. You don’t know until you go. I went, and it fucking sucked. YOU WERE WRONG, SURFLING! YOU WERE WRONG! I’ve been skunked at HB so many times that I refuse to sit in the lineup, mad at the surf; I won’t do it, not today. I turn my back on Bolsa too, heading back to the place where I started. I should’ve just stayed local.

EL PORTO:

     It’s officially the second shift because it’s just after 0900. The dawn patrollers have been long gone, the sun is out now, and those who have the time to do so have slept in and begun to paddle out. Being Friday, street parking at my favorite spot sucks, so after twenty minutes of looking, I have no choice but to hit the Porto lot.

     El Porto, my old friend. Your lot isn’t that crowded today, and the usual clicks who inhabit your domain have gone off to work. You’ve left me one of the new, credit card meters just north of the bathrooms. Thank you. Even though the tide is high and the surf looks like it’s getting mooshy, I see that you’ve left me a couple spare shoulders. You’re so generous, and I’ll deal with your crowd. Hopefully it will save me from going home with my stoke tank on E.

     What an idiot. Thinking back to last night, preparing all of my gear. What expectations I had for today only to come back to surf down the street. Motherfucker. I whip out my Motorboat Too, pay the meter, and paddle out right in front of the bathrooms.

     The water’s warm, and I’m surprised at how tide sensitive this spot is. Note taken: Low tide HB bad, Low tide local good.

     Surfing with my earplugs is a different experience. I didn’t realize how hard I breathe, but I can barely hear my surroundings. Another guy has the same exact disco, Hurley wetsuit that I’m wearing. The wind here is slightly onshore, but the surf is still glassy. However, the inconsistent sets have all the longboarders perched on every peak. I sit in the saddles and wait for waves to swing wide. It doesn’t take long to get my first waves, but they are all close outs.

     I get this left that lines up. A guy on the shoulder tries to drop in, so I force a carve, hoping to throw some spray on him, but it’s mistimed and lacks power. I pump to the end section and kick out. 

     The waves are going mooshy because of the tide. Fuck. I’m still doing fairly well as far as wave count, but if I had my Mini Driver, I’d be having twice as much fun. I start the downward cycle of blaming Bri for my board’s damages, and as I look towards the shore I see a chick who looks like Bri on the sand. She waves. I look closer. Holy shit. It is Bri!

     Seeing her lifts my spirits, and the day doesn’t feel like a total waste. I catch a wave in. She says she ran here from the house to meet up with me. Fuck. It’s more than I can say for myself. I’ve only ran to the beach twice since living in El Segundo. I give her the keys to the car so she can grab the beach blanket, and then I head out for the last half hour of surf. Sad to say, the surf gets worse. The wind picks up and turns everything choppy. Only longboarders and paddle boarders have a chance now.

     Heading to the showers, I think about my Mini Driver again. Damn. Then I think about the whole morning. It’s now 1130. It took nearly six hours to get wet. Today’s surf was supposed to be well managed; it was supposed to perfectly fit into my scheme. But things don’t always turn out as we expect. I had expected way too much.

     At home in front of the PS3 is how I spend the rest of the day, blasting fools online. At least I have my space and my peace of mind. At least I have the ocean and the opportunity to look for surf. At least, at least, at least. Things can always be worse, and they will be on Tuesday next week. Naked in front of the TV in my hot living room with my headset on, I grip my PS3 controller as a stream of sweat trickles from my forehead down to my neck. I fart, enjoying the waft of egginess from down below. I sigh and smile. Ahhhhhhhhhhh. FREEDOM!

BACK FROM OREGON SESSION, THU 25JULY2013 MOR

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0830-1030

Crew: Bri                                                    

Conditions: 1-3 FT, scattered, light onshore, inconsistent, medium-to-high tide.

     First off, I’d like to say that my trip to Oregon was awesome. The people were cool, even though they liked to stare at my dark ass, walking through their streets. Most importantly, Bri’s family was so welcoming to me. They treated me like one of their own, and Bri’s mom spoiled us with so many home-cooked meals. Her bacon-wrapped, shrimp tacos were the best!

     Even though I had fun in Oregon, I mind surfed a lot, thinking about lefts and power carves. Being home now, I’m frothing to get back into the water. Yesterday the surf was too small and miserable to paddle out, but today, at least it was rideable.

#

     I should have woken up earlier, especially when I check Surfline’s tide forecast. Fuck. It’s 0745, and the tide’s already coming up a little bit. However, on the surf cam, the tide looks low.

     Heading to Manhattan Beach, I’m not expecting much. The lines over the smoke stacks and tanks at El Porto look small and crumbly, but it is lining up a little better than yesterday.

     Lucky for us, we arrive just as the street sweeper and the meter maid have gone through, so we have a whole street of empty parking spots to choose from.

     “We can’t park here,” says Bri. “It’s from eight to nine.”

     “I know,” I say, “but usually street cleaning won’t fuck with you as long as they’ve already cleaned the street.” A black, convertible Mercedes Benz has been ticketed in front of us.

     My Mini Driver is still at Rick’s, so I’m armed with my Motorboat Too and Rick’s Zippy Fish. Double armed, I walk down towards the beach with both boards.

     Surfing Grandma of the OC says that the water temp has dropped, according to her blog, so I opt to wear my tattered, Rip Curl 3/2.

     Even though the wind is a little onshore, for the most part it’s on the glassy side, but . . . the swell is a little weak. With the south swell building, it hasn’t wrapped around into the bay, and it probably won’t. There is a little windswell, and the lines are coming in a little long and walled, but there are some shoulders. If in the right spot, some waves might offer a turn or two.

     I’ve longed to be in the ocean again. Oregon might have good surf for all I know, but that was the only thing missing while I was there: waves. After dreaming of surfing and keeping my eyes glues to Surfline’s fair and good ratings, I come home to this. The South Bay window has officially closed. I bury the Zippy’s nose into the sand and opt to use the Motorboat. I know there’s a wave out there with my name on it.

     Most of the locals have already clocked out from their first shift. Right now the water is filled with second shifters, faces that are somewhat familiar but not familiar enough to talk about third-world whoring with.  

     Bri and I sit just south of the tower, scratching out for the first fifteen minutes. The waves are small and soft, but worst of all, I get hung up on the lip, just barely scratching out. I can’t help but think that if I had my Mini Driver, I would have gotten those waves. I don’t have to say anything for Bri to read my mind. My face says it all. “Need more volume,” I say. But then, the Zippy is right there on the shore. I could switch boards, but I’m stubborn. Zippy is my last-resort board. I just can’t ride it the same, can’t carve on it the same, can’t try to throw the tail out on it. It’s not Zippy’s fault. I’m sure there are surfers out there who can rip on that board.

     I get a lot of closeouts. Just can’t get up fast enough to race down the line. Bri gets a good left. When she comes back, I ask, “How was that?”

     She smirks and says, “There was a little girl in the way.” I look back, and there the girl is, alongside other beginners in the lineup. Hey, we were all there once, right? Shit, I get in people’s way today still.

     The surf is a little inconsistent. The waves look tiny, but they stand up just enough, in the two-foot, plus range. I get one in the perfect spot. I pump, and it lines up for some distance. There’s a section in front of me, but I do a quick, little check turn off of the lip, emitting a little splash out the back, and make it through the flats before kicking out. It’s my best wave of the morning, not much but good for today.

     Into the second hour, the tide mooshes out the surf a little. More guys leave, and the early third shifters start taking their place. I scratch and scratch and scratch to no avail. I catch some white wash to shore and change weapons.

#

     It’s Zippy time. This damn thing is a boat. I duckdive the inside wash, feeling the volume of this wide-nosed machine. The north current has pulled the noobs towards the Brick House, which has cleared a space for me and Bri.

     A three-foot line pops up out the back. I’m in position to drop in at the shoulder. The wave’s a little racy, and with all of Zippy’s volume, I pop up early as fuck. The thick ass rails sling me down the face with speed. Holy shit. I was falling behind the sections earlier on my Motorboat, but this board has me racing down the line faster than expected. I glide past two sections and try to unleash a carve on the lip. I don’t, or . . . I try, but the rails are so full that my efforts translate into a check turn. I pump past the end section and kick out clean.

     Sure, I’m not getting the usual, carvy performance that I like, but this board transforms my session. Now every wave is rideable.

     I’m battling it out at the peak with some surfers who also refuse to succumb to the current. I take off too deep on a couple of waves, resulting in me only going straight. The rising tide dwindles the shape even more. I goof off on my next couple of rides, going switch foot and backwards before falling off. By 1030, the party’s over.

     At the top of the hill, I see Macias pull up in his White Tacoma. “It’s Jon,” I say to Bri. “Fuck, I should tell him that I can’t go to his baby shower.”

     Bri looks at me with a serious face. “You’re going to his baby shower, babe. You have to! He makes an effort to surf with you.”

     “Okay, okay,” I say.

     I sneak up behind Macias and slap his ass. A random pedestrian behind me smiles at this. He was once an ass slapper of men in his younger days too. I can smell it.

     “You’re leaving?” says Macias.

     “Yeah,” I say.

     “Awww.” He looks down the hill at the surf. “I got your text. I came as soon as I could. I thought you’d still be out there.”

     I tell him that I’ll be going to his baby shower on Saturday, and then we hug and go our separate ways.

     So at least I got to paddle out, but today’s sesh was unsatisfying. The south swell is building though, and tomorrow I’m faced with the decision of where to go and surf, but I’ll be making a journey without my magic board, and that’s not good. HB? Trestles? All day staycation? Stay tuned. . .