Loc:
Manhattan Beach
Time:
0800-0930
Crew: Bri,
KK, and Tom
Conditions:
1-2 FT, overcast.
After surf porn night at Klaude’s house, I
have a hard time getting out of bed. Since I’m the surf authority in my
household, waking up late is my fault, not Bri’s. That’s why there’s no
movement from Bri. Every time I hit that snooze button and procrastinate the
start of the day, she nuzzles back into her pillow, accepting the extra sleep.
At 0800, we finally reach Manhattan Beach.
Klaude’s already out there; I know this. He’s the type of guy who doesn’t call
or text when he’s on the way. All that matters is the commitment made the night
before. “I’ll be there,” is what he said.
There’s so much overcast that there’s no
sense in doing a surf check; might as well change and head down the hill. Other
surfers are coming back early from their sessions, walking in pairs back to the
metered lots. The surf’s probably shit, but beyond the fog I hear that static
white noise, like the inside is consistent, bubbly whitewash. Something’s
breaking. I can hear it.
The surf becomes visible once we hit the
sand. Klaude’s easy to spot with his pale, kabuki face. The good news is that
there are waves, and the surf is consistent. The bad news is that the size has
tapered down a foot from yesterday. Today Surfline is accurate: one-to-two
feet.
Despite the onshore wind, the surface
conditions are clean. Some of the bigger waves wall up, but there are a lot of
shoulders to go around, more so for longboarders, for Bri.
I say hi to KK and Tom. “I’ve haven’t caught a wave in twenty
minutes,” says Tom. Right then, the energy from my late appearance brings a
wave right to me. Too bad it’s tiny, but I go right and trim my way to the
inside. My next wave is no better.
Again, like yesterday, it’s the guys with a
lot of board who are scoring. Three blokes sit in our area, all riding minimum-rocker
boards. They get most of the waves. The longboarders are doing more damage, and
it’s my longboarder who’s the star.
Bri . . . I’ve already mentioned how much
she’s improved. I back out of some waves for her because she has good position.
Again, her trademark is to take a critical, late take off, simulate that she’s
wiping out by disappearing, and then springing up at the last second for a long
ride to shore.
Other surfers turn their heads, watching
her go down the line with their frustrated frowns that say: I need a wave.
Shit, I need one too. When Bri comes back, we’re paddle battling. She backs off
and lets me have one. It’s another right, and I try to snap the lip, but I can’t
create the momentum and power I need on this two-foot wave.
Klaude paddles closer to the Brick House,
while the rest of us stay south in front of the tower. The surf stays
consistent but small. Even the three blokes around us aren’t catching much. At
about nine o’clock, KK and Tom wait for their “last ones.” It’s so small that
they both resort to catching some inside belly riders.
I have no claim to fame for the morning. I
get a left with a tiny floater section at the end, which I land. And then
again, we’re talking about a two-foot floater here, so woopty doo! Bri
continues her onslaught, making the small surf look stoke worthy. What have I done?
I’ve created a monster.
#
Earlier, when Klaude, Tom, and I were
bullshitting, we talked about the small forecast. Right now, there’s a little
south swell that’s giving the south facing beaches a green/fair rating. The
South Bay isn’t getting anything, save for some minor northwest windswell. Take
it all in while you can. Pretty soon it will be winter. Yes, “winter is coming.”
I go back to school tomorrow. Summer’s over. The fall season will be fast. We’ll
be winding our clocks backwards before we know it. Then . . . the winter NW
swells will come into play. Are you ready for that? Picture the cool November
mornings. No more boardshorts, rashguards, or spring suits. It’ll be time to
whip out the 4/3s. Porto will be firing. Anything over five feet will be
closing out with a deafening explosion. It’s flat now, but this will change.
There will be those watching from the parking lots, underneath some shelter,
protecting them from the rain. Others will be in the water, submerged from
below and pelted from above. Where will you be?
It’s small now, but there will be mornings
when only a few will be able to make it out. The shoreline will be littered
with those on their asses with their boards lying flat next to them. Will you
be able to make it out?
The beast awaits. . .
