Loc:
Manhattan Beach
Time:
0730-1000
Crew: Bri
and KK
Conditions:
1-2 FT+, overcast, walled, fast corners, consistent.
I came home last week. I was gone for nineteen
days, no surf, no gym, nothing. The military gave me my three, square meals a
day, and you can bet your ass that I splurged hard. There’s nothing like free
food, especially when you’re a surf bum on a budget, and that’s why I gained
ten pounds; I’m back up to 170.
Upon my return home, the surf forecast read
like a tragic love story. I had so much built up stoke with minimal surf to
spooge it on. So I worked out, enjoyed my last week before school starts again,
and I waited, waited for a little bump in the swell. Perhaps there will be . .
. a pulse!
Old Habits:
“You forgot the water jugs,” says Bri. She’s
right. How could I have forgotten them? As we’re loading up the rest of our
gear, I notice that my fin/wax bag is light, but I still throw it in the wagon.
When we reach the beach, I pull out my wax bag and find that it only has base
coat. What the hell is happening to me? We’re even a little late for the dawn
patrol that we had planned on last night.
Klaude drives by and throws up some gang
signs as he passes. When we get to the parking lot to meet him, I bum some wax
off of him.
The local vets are in the parking lot: Orlando
and Jose prep their gear, Jimbo looks like he’s had too much caffeine, and
Mitch and Robert are overlooking the railing, debating when to make their move.
Bri, Klaude, and I head towards the water
and begin our warm ups. Even though Surfline called the local surf to be 1-2 FT
and poor, there are actually lines coming in. Not big lines but much larger
than just one-to-two feet, and they’re coming in consistently. Don, Randy, and
Ross are selling the small waves as usual.
Most surfers are in spring suits, some are
rashing it, and few bareback it, like Jimbo. He goes for a right, which closes
out. His back is brown, but his white ass crack looms over his shorts’
waistline.
Brick House has the consistent sandbar
here, and that’s where most of the rippers sit. We three are further south
where it’s less consistent, but it’s consistent enough to stay busy.
Not all of the lines produce rides. Since
it’s a little walled, you really have to be in the right spot, right on the
shoulder, but most of us are deep.
Guys are out with fishes. Their flat,
rockerless boards have them milking waves all the way to the inside. My first
couple of waves are fast and short, but half way through the session, with the
tide rising, the surf gets better. Who would’ve thought? The waves should be
getting swamped out, but the surf cranks up a notch and becomes two-to-three
feet.
Orlando takes the first wave of a set, but
it closes out. Klaude catches the second, and I take the third. Finally, I have
good positioning on the shoulder. I pump the racy section, and even though I
haven’t reached the end of the wave, I force a frontside carve. Klaude’s still
hooting when I resurface. Paddling back to Bri, I wear my dorky, good-wave
smile.
Bri’s another story. Klaude and I watch her
on a late take off. She drops from our view. “Awwww,” we say, and then she
stands up. “Ohhhh!” She continues to ride the wave to shore. Her pop up is fast
now, and I can’t believe that she’s able to get up early enough on her
longboard in this fast, punchy surf.
#
Klaude and I plan to meet up later for a
surf porn night. Traditionally, these have been held at my place, but since I live
in a studio the size of a match box, we haven’t had one since I moved.
While changing at the top of the hill, a
chick pulls up next to us in her SUV. “You guys leaving?” she asks. I can’t
tell you how much I hate being rushed by people waiting for parking. I hold up
my hand and spread my fingers apart. “Oh no, take your time!” she says. Fuckin’
A. So Bri and I change at our own speed. I look back and see that she doesn’t
plan on moving her car, so she just double parks on Highland Avenue, on this
busy ass, two-lane street. Unbelievable, I’m thinking. A long ass line of cars
stack up behind her, even a bus, while she’s just sitting there, waiting, and
messing with her phone. Cars begin to honk, and every time they pass, you can
hear that extra push of the accelerator.
Throwing on my T-shirt, I see Shan walking
towards me. When we draw eye contact, he eyes widen with surprise.
“That’s my friend,” says Shan, pointing at
the white SUV in the street. “She’s waiting for your spot.”
“Fuckin’ A.” No shit . . . wow. So they’re
friends. Sad to say this, but now this situation makes more sense to me. Shan trots
over to the SUV, despite the long ass line behind it, chats with her, and then
comes back and waits.
Bri and I head to Blue Butterfly for
breakfast. Main Street is shut down because of a classic car show. We get our
order in fast, but once we sit down, the line grows until it’s out the door.
Walking through Main Street, we stop and
look at some cars. “Look at that Camaro,” says Bri. It’s red with white
stripes. We move along with the herd of enthusiasts until we cut between some
buildings, making our own path back to the quiet parking garage where our wagon
full of surfboards waits.
