LABOR DAY SESH, MON 2SEPT2013 MOR

Loc: Manhattan Beach   

Time: 0715-0915

Crew: Bri                                                    

Conditions: 1-2 FT, mooshy, slow, inconsistent.

     Right after I park my wagon, I shoot a text out to Klaude, letting him know that I just arrived and will catch him in the water. From there, Bri and I suit up and get our gear ready. I check my phone before I lock up and see that Klaude had texted back: Not going to make it.

     From the top of the hill, the surf looks even smaller than yesterday. With the tide also higher, I don’t expect much, and that’s why I got the water logged Zippi under arm.

     I watch the Ross show while warming up. He might be in his late forties, but he surfs like a pro in his prime. On his green board, he’s going backside, snapping it off of the lip for two turns. He sits in the best spot, and when he takes off a lot of people back out for him. A true MB vet he is. At this break he’s considered royalty. Not sure if I’ll ever reach that status here or if I want it. East Java, Choco Point, man . . . I hope to find other spots in the world to surf where the cost of living is cheap and the waves are within walking distance.

     Bri and I paddle to the same spot that we started off at yesterday (just south of the tower). Brian and his homegirl Jun say hi to us (cool high school kids), so does Vietnam Vet Mike and Costco Oscar. Brian paddles over to us while shaking his head and says, “Damn, it’s so crowded.” He looks back. “It’s like, really? Even when it’s crappy?”

     “Yeah, it’s small,” I say.

     “Whatever,” he says as he smiles. “As long as I’m here before Klaude. That’s all that matters.”

     “He’s not coming today. I texted him.”

     “Awwww, no way,” he says. “If you talk to him, tell him he’s a flake.”

     “What about Klaude?” says Jun. Brian relays the info.

     One stray SUP guy is hanging around the edge of our lineup, but it doesn’t make much of a difference since it’s inconsistent. With the lineup a hair thinner than yesterday and having more board, I’m able to catch a lot more waves.

     On the little two footers I’m able to scratch my way in, walking up to the nose to gain momentum. On one wave, a longboarder is in my way. I bottom turn around him, climb the face again, and do my catwalk spin on the deck of my board before falling. “Sorry,” says the longboarder.

     Meanwhile, Vietnam Mike is hooting at me from further inside, saying, “Yeahhh!”

     I look at the longboarder and say, “Don’t worry about it,” and then I look at Mike and say, “You liked that?”

     Now that was a fun, little wave, just nice and shouldery.

     Bri does her usual thing. What else can I say about her surfing? She’s doing what a longboarder’s supposed to: riding waves well while still sharing and practicing good etiquette.

     Since I can’t get any sharp turns on the Zippi and since the surf is small, I just focus on distance, walking the deck, and trimming. Brian even applauses my goofy, board-walking antics after one of my rides. Back at the lineup Bri says, “After your ride, he held up his hands and said, ‘I give him a ten!’”

     During one of the lulls, someone from behind says, “Hey, you really have to look behind you and see if someone’s there or not.” I turn around. It’s Ross, and he’s directing his comment towards a longboarder who is new to this spot.

     “I know. I tried to get out,” says the longboarder, “but I couldn’t—”

     “I know you didn’t do it on purpose,” says Ross.

     “Oh yeah, I know,” says the longboarder. “It’s nothing.”

     Bri and I look at each other. That’s just about the worst that this place gets as far as drama. Ross is a nice guy, and he was trying to be polite when checking the dude. “Must have happened more than once,” says Bri.

     Ross leaves and so do a lot of the first shifters. At the same time, more guys trickle in from the strand: Bruce, Miles, and Don K.

     Bri and I catch our last waves in, and then I notice Shan and his girlfriend Veronica setting up shop on the sand. Shan’s got his blue, Body Glove, short sleeve rashguard on. He stretches next to his longboard while Veronica just sets her board down. We shoot the shit for a little bit. “Yesterday was really fun,” he says. “Did you surf yesterday?”

     “Yeah,” I say. We both pause, computing what times we were both there and how we could have missed each other. Bri and I say bye and head back to the Gundo. In my matchbox apartment, I whip up some Spam loco mocos and work on some assignments that are due this week.

     We turn on the news and see that they’re officially calling Labor Day the last day of summer. “Summer just started two weeks ago,” says Bri. I plow back into my brunch, and I reflect on this whole Labor Day weekend for the first time. We surfed San Onofre on Friday, had sushi, surfed Porto in the evening; we surfed local the last two days and started every morning the best way possible. Sure, the surf was small and mooshy, but we spent our time the best that we could have. What else would have substituted? Going to the gym, running, hiking, or just being a Netflix bum for the whole weekend? I don’t think so. With the thought of class tomorrow, I’m sad that this weekend’s ending. If I could do it over again, I would have a better attitude about it instead of being a whiny bitch.

THE ANTI STOKE, SUN 1SEPT2013 MOR

    

Loc: Manhattan Beach   

Time: 0700-0900

Crew: Bri, Klaude, Mel                                       

Conditions: 1-2 FT+, mooshy, slow, inconsistent.

     To make sure I get some weekend bromance time with Klaude, Bri and I head to Manhattan Beach this morning. We wake up a little earlier than usual at 0600 in order to get good parking. While changing, Klaude and Mel drive by and honk. On the sand we see that the surf has gotten smaller. The tidal swings are getting higher in the mornings, which is not good. The surf is not only tiny but mooshier than yesterday. But here we are.

     Right when we paddle out, a left pops up. Bri is on my inside, and we’re both going for it. I tell myself that I can pump fast enough to get down the line and out of her way. When I get up, I pump, but I almost lose my balance and any chance for a solid carve. When I look behind me, Bri’s not too far away. “Sorry,” I say. “I thought I could get down ahead of you.” Bri frowns but quickly changes to a smile. I get the boyfriend pass.

     Further south is a pack of SUP guys, and no surfers want to venture there to try to compete with them and their small-wave robbing equipment. The best peak is in front of the lifeguard tower, and it’s the thickest spot in the lineup, crowded with groms, vets, and unknowns. Bri and I are trying to take the waves that are swinging wide, but waves with quality are sparse. I get a steep left. I working, pumping, trying to clear the section. Some stranger even hoots me on as he goes over the shoulder, but the wave closes out before I can get to the open canvas. In the distance, I see Klaude and Mel paddle out on the other side of the main peak.

     I’m trying to be patient, telling myself that I should be grateful just for being in the water, but I can’t help but be bummed. It’s just so crowded. Crowds get me down, but add small and inconsistent surf to it, and my problem widens tenfold.

     After not catching shit, we paddle through the overcrowded lineup and make it to Klaude. He dismounts his board and gives us both a hug and a kiss. “Maaaan, you should have came yesterday,” he says. “This morning I was like, ‘Matt, don’t disappoint me!’”

     Orlando and Jose are here too. The lulls get longer, and every time a wave comes, someone’s already on it. Some guys are being aggressive and greedy, but I don’t even care anymore nor fight for any of the waves. Whenever it’s small and inconsistent, what else can you expect? Melanie asks how I’m doing, and I express some of my frustration. “Why’d you bring that tiny thing out?” she says, motioning towards my Lost Mini Driver (not my penis). Gripping the rails of my board, I wonder if I’ve made the right decision myself. She says she’s riding a six foot six. The board is thick and wide all the way to the nose. I tell her that Bri wants to taper down to something around that size. “Cool,” she says. “She can sample my six ten that I have at home. Klaude can bring it tomorrow!” Klaude acknowledges that he will be paddling out tomorrow and can bring the board. Bri thanks her and is stoked to see how she’ll perform on a board with tapered down dimensions.

     My last wave is kind of walled. I pump and try to set myself up for a turn, but I only have time to do a half ass floater. Klaude waits for me on the sand and says, “Nice way to finish!” I smile back half heartedly, still kind of bummed with the recent surf.

     “I’ll meet you at your car,” I say.  

     At the lot, I see Shan leaving in his black, 4Runner. Boards are stacked in the back. He glances over at Klaude and all the people he’s chatting with before he leaves. To think they were once brovers. When I reach him, Klaude says, “Here,” and hands me a custom made shirt that has a design, naming our local break. This catches me off guard. This is special. I can’t thank him enough. Before leaving, I tell him that Bri and I will see him out here again tomorrow.

     I’m on boyfriend duty for the rest of the day. Bri’s friends from Oregon are in town to drop off a friend at LAX. Since some of them haven’t been to L.A., they have us meet them at the Santa Monica Promenade.

     Holy shit . . . this place is CHAOS. At first it didn’t seem that crowded, but half way through, there are food tents set up. It’s assholes and elbows of locals, tourists, bums, and street performers. I’m profusely sweating from being exposed to the sun’s rays and the chicken shawarma grills. Bri’s friends can’t decide on where to eat and insist on tracking down a place with a fucking happy hour. AIN’T NO FUCKING HAPPY HOUR AT 2:45 PM!!!

     I hate crowded lineups, so you can imagine how I feel in this place. I’m still a little beached from surfing over the last three days, and this Santa Monica crowd is not my scene.

     Once we’re home I exhale hard and take a shower to wash the grease off. I’d rather stay close to the beach, catching one-foot waves on a waterlogged Zippifish than be surrounded by Santa Monica shoppers any day. 

Santa Monica Place parking garage stairwell. Nice. . .

ROOTS, SAT 31AUG2013 MOR

 

Loc: El Porto

Time: 0730-0930

Crew: Bri                                                    

Conditions: 1-3 FT, walled, fast.

     Rick, my surf mentor, texts me at 0415 this morning, saying that I should roll with him and his brother to a secluded, south-facing break north of L.A. Once again, this is at 0415. My alarm is set to go off in about an hour. I text him back, saying that since I traveled down south yesterday, I don’t feel like being on the road again. I’m staying local, I tell him. He continues to text me back, trying to convince me to go.

     At 0530 I hit the snooze button. My intentions were to wake up early because of the fucking high tide. I snooze. I snooze hard. I get out of bed at about 0630. I’m supposed to meet Klaude at MB. I brush my teeth, wake up Bri, and then we head out the door.

     At 0715 we drive by our favorite local break in Manhattan Beach, and it’s . . . small. Small again. After riding the Zippifish yesterday evening, I’m really not in the mood for small surf. Bruce and some other local vets are watching from the parking lot. At the intersection, I wait a little longer and for a set. I know Klaude’s out there, but . . . I can’t surf this. I need at least a little more size. The lull’s a long one, so I drive to Porto for a look. What happens next is a flurry of indecisions. We check Porto. It’s only a hair bigger with a crowd factor, quadruple that of where we just came from. I ask Bri if she’s down to go to Bolsa. She says yes, so I head back towards the 105 to get to the 405, but then I come to my senses and realize that I can’t be driving all over the place for surf, especially after going all the way to Trestles yesterday. What if I get skunked or it’s too crowded again? We turn the whip back around towards Porto.

     “The jetty looks like there’s waves,” says Bri.

     I pass an empty parking space on Highland Avenue, stop, throw the car in reverse, and score a spot that’s immune to the Manhattan meter patrol. Before changing, I shoot a text to Klaude, letting him know that I’m paddling out at Porto instead.

     As we walk towards the jetty, 42nd and 45th street are breaking well, but they’re too crowded. In the distance, we see a crowd at the jetty too. In front of the tanks, just past the rocks, we find some dead space in the lineup.

     Paddling out here reminds me of the days of old. “This is where it all started,” I say. “Rick taught me how to surf here.” I look at the jetty. “Well, not ‘here,’ more like over there.” I look towards the shore and see the large cylinders behind the fence line. This used to be my favorite spot, less quality in shape but less crowded too. “Jonathan and I used to surf here a lot!” I think back to those days. We used to show up to the Porto lot around eight in the morning, thinking we were cool with our longboards in the back. In the lineup, we’d throw up a couple of fingers to indicate how many waves we had caught. Cheryl used to come out. I had met Shan, Klaude, and Nicky out here too. Now here I am, more gray hair, less muscle mass, and a little gut that I grew from eating that Army chow in Wisconsin. So much has happened since those days: Iraq, Yaris to the Outback, failed relationships, surfing friends lost to marriages, Bali, four different moves, Java, the masters program, and a garage filled with a whole new quiver. But yet here I am, back in this same spot.

     It’s only supposed to be one-to-two feet today, but the sets are coming in clean and walled, closer to three feet plus. I paddle out on my Lost board with only a few heads for traffic. Getting into these waves is easy, typical dump rider waves, but another foot would make these conditions a little more difficult. I catch a couple closeouts, trying my best to hit the lip before the rides are over. Bri amazes me every time. Even in these dumpy conditions, she’s making the critical drops with all of that extra board in front of her. Down the line she goes. It’s hard to imagine that she only used to be able to go straight back then. In a year she’s progressed dramatically.

Wave of the week:

     Some of these walls have shoulders at the end of them, manageable ones, and the waves this morning have been so random that one must be in the right spot to get a decent ride. One of those long three-foot walls comes my way. As I’m popping up, I see the section beginning to peel away. I pump, bottom turn, and do a gouging, frontside carve. Ahhhhh, I’ve waited so long for this feeling, with my left shoulder thrown forward and all my weight transferred on the tail; it’s almost better than taking a shit! Keeping up with the section, the wave seems to slow down. I get a second turn and a little floater to end it. Paddling back to the lineup, Bri notices my grin. “I want another one,” I say. Of course, who wouldn’t? Well . . . I don’t get another wave like it. I don’t know if it’s the tide, but the surf becomes inconsistent with even crappier shape.

#

     Back at the car, I have a series of texts waiting for me from Rick. You should have came, is what he wrote. Attached is a pic of a hollow, left hand barrel. At the house, Klaude calls me to ask how Porto was. He says that MB was really fun. Well . . . I didn’t surf with Klaude or Rick today. They had fun. Even though I didn’t have a wave buffet or a barrel, that one wave I got in uncrowded surf was fun for me too.

TRESTLES VERSUS PORTO (double sesh), FRI 30AUG2013 MOR

Pre blog:

     I’m not at liberty to discuss where Bri works at, but she’s been looking for another job since I’ve known her. The commute from El Segundo to Orange County during the afternoon, rush hour traffic has been brutal on her, but now . . . she’s found another job. To celebrate, I made the O.G. call for a staycation Friday. Plus, Surfline’s upgraded the forecast down south to fair conditions. I haven’t been down south in so long. I look forward to surfing my favorite cobblestone breaks.

Staycations:

     Last night I prepacked the wagon, save for the NSP longboard that gets strapped to the roof. Usually we pack snacks for the whole day, but fuck the snacks. My fridge is barren, so we have no choice but to surf and find some food afterwards.

     0545 is a little late to start a staycation Friday, but we do anyway because we went to bed late last night, and sometimes sleeping in just feels soo good.

     The sun’s already coming up once we hit the road, which makes me a little anxious. It’s been a while since I’ve done a true dawn patrol, when the freeway’s still desolate and dark, just a fraction away from night and dawn.

     As we exit Basilone road, we see some peaks coming in at Lowers, which is no surprise. Over at Middles, the set is bringing in some lines. However, the lines are long and shoulderless. . . I know what this means: Middles isn’t working, and if Middles isn’t working, then San Onofre and Churches might be affected too. But . . . I could be wrong; I hope I’m wrong.

     The morning tide’s been high in the morning, and as we pass Old Mans we see that our favorite spot is swampy. Further south, more surfers sit and wait. At Churches, the high tide is more appealing. The set waves are long and walled (as expected), but they have shoulders that break wide south. Almost every parking spot is taken. Some guys pull up next to us. When they step out, they mention the same thing. “What do you think?” I ask Bri.

     “I saw it working at Middles when we drove by,” she says.

     So this is the day I’ve been waiting for. Finally, I’m surfing down south again at my beloved break. Everything is perfect. The air is warm, the sun is out, and I’m sure the water temp is good too. The only problem is that the tide’s a little high. As we walk towards our favorite break (Mons Pubis) at North Churches, we see that the crowd is extremely thick. I guess this counts as another problem. A crowd of surfers, mostly longboarders, have congregated to sit at the same peak. Where Churches and Middles meet, there’s a peak that works . . . some of the time, but this is not one of those times. Everything between Churches and Lowers is either flat or walled. Still, keeping a positive attitude, we paddle out just north of the pack.

Churches:

     The swell is a little bigger than forecasted, some sets around the four-foot range, but . . . it’s walled. Fuck. . . Some of the faces hold. I get a couple of waves that hold shape long enough for some single-shot carves, but most of the waves are closeouts. The peak where the crowd is, it’s working really well, but it’s too fucking crowded. Every time a wave swings wide, someone from the main peak is already on it. The guys we saw in the parking lot paddle out next to us. On the sand, more dicks are warming up to enter the water. We sit here for an hour, and I do not score.

     Bri on the other hand, well . . . she’s really good on her longboard nowadays. She gets all the small waves that have better shape. Even on the bigger ones, she’s able to pop up early and make the sections to milk the rides for distance.

     I watch Middles and see that some guys are getting some decent rides.

Middles:

     So we’ve paddled all the way to fucking Middles. Immediately, I catch a right. It’s lining up like a traditional, Trestles wave, but the tide’s so high that it makes the wave too soft. I try to set up for a backhand snap, but I lack the momentum for spray. When I do my top turn, I bog out and lose the ride. Unfortunately, it’s the same song over here. The big sets are walled, and guys sitting north of us are taking all the waves.

     I’ve set my expectations too high. I expected that the swell would at least send some scattered peaks, but this swell is very selective. Long lulls in between keep everyone locked, loaded, and waiting. Since most of the surfers are longboarders, I can’t compete once a decent wave comes.

     Some shortboarders are ripping, able to deal with the crowd and take some off of their plates, but this is not how I want to surf; I HATE crowds.

Three Strikes:

     So we’ve paddled back to North Churches, and nothing’s changed. Even with the tide a little lower, it’s still too high. Fuck. . . But the wind is so good. It’s almost 1100, and the onshore wind is so faint that the water’s not even affected. This swell, these lulls, this crowd. . .

     Surfing supposed to bring stoke, but instead I’m out here frustrated and not enjoying myself. After Wisconsin and sticking to the South Bay breaks, I’m just really in need for a rippable sesh.

FUEL:

     Today’s low tide is high. In other words, the surf isn’t changing much. With the holiday crowds already here early, I make the call to leave. Yup. I had packed for this staycation in vain. Goodbye, San Onofre.

     I take Bri to a new sushi spot that my homie Tim introduced me to. Zenko Sushi is no longer number one. We have a new spot now.

El Porto:

     So Bri really wanted to work on her tan today. Also, I really wanted to “surf” today. Even though the south swell is completely missing the South Bay, we decide to hit up Porto to chill for the rest of the afternoon into the evening.

     Porto, my first surf love. We deal with your long line of parking to find an empty spot all the way at the end. We feed your meter to avoid the wrath of the meter Nazis for three hours. We walk past your good sandbars in front of your bathrooms to the only open surf zone that’s in front of the tanks. We see your small waves with the humongous crowd that’s surfing them. We love you because you are just down the street.

#

     I forgot to include something. When I had parked my wagon, I let out a fart, and . . . I had shit my pants just a little. Motherfucker, I thought. Shit. I turned to Bri and said, “I’m definitely trunking it now!”

     “What happened?”

     “I sharted.” We unpacked our gear and headed towards the rocks. I felt the peanut butter-like substance between my cheeks. “Can you see it?” I said, as I pulled apart my reggae-patterned shorts from my ass.

     “No,” she said. “Wait. . . Yeah, I can see it.”

#

     Bri’s lying on her beach blanket. The surf is so goddam small. It’s two feet tops, and every first-time surfer in the South Bay is out in full force. It’s a Costco foamie invasion. But even though the waves are small, they look rideable, and there’s something about surfing your home break that makes you feel more comfortable. I got Rick’s Zippifish, and the random, sporadic peaks will give me a chance to get some waves to myself. “Hun,” I say. “I’m gonna take a shit as soon as I hit the water.”

     “Awww. I feel like I’m missing out.”

     I look down and frown. “Well, I’ll wave to you as soon as I start shitting, that way you know when it’s coming out.”

     “Okay,” she says. I lean over and kiss her on the cheek.

     Standing in the waist deep water, I push against the white wash that’s plowing into me and my board, and then I push the shit out of my anus. How do I describe this feeling of shitting in my pants? My anus feels like an ice cream machine, and someone’s pulled the lever down all the way without putting a cup or a cone underneath it. Now thick chili just falls from my ass. I feel the weight in my shorts—heavy. The roar of the white wash rinses the mud from my thigh. Surprisingly, I can smell my shit through the water. I turn around and see a brown cloud churning and disappearing towards the shore. I still have some left. Standing frozen on the inside, I flex my intestines while I wave at Bri. She smiles and waves back.

#

     Crowd . . . fuck the crowd. In shit-stained shorts and my white rashguard, I’m comfortable in the warm water. So many people, so many waves, and so many uncoordinated strokes from mispositioned surfers. They allow me to take any wave I want for my choosing. I know the walls, know the ones that won’t give any shape. Let those guys have them. When the good ones are on the way, I position myself and get down the line. Even in two-foot surf, this Zippi makes surfing fun. I try so hard to crank a front-side snap, but my turns on this thing aren’t sharp enough. Instead of forcing turns, I just go for distance and finish off a lot of waves with mini floaters. It’s crowded and small Porto, but I have much more fun than I did at Trestles. When I call it and head to shore, I feel the water-logged weight of the Zippifish. Its days are numbered.

#

     Back home, Bri’s still full from sushi, so I make myself a turkey-bacon loco moco for dinner. Times are kind of tight with resources right now, and it breaks my heart to travel down south just to come home early. If I go to Trestles again, I need to make sure it’s worth it but how? Surfline said it was fair, and . . . it was, but the crowd was just too much. Maybe I need to restrict those trips to the weekdays. With the ASP event around the corner, I may have to steer clear of that spot for a while. Manhattan Beach, I hope that you exceed what the forecasters have laid out as your destiny. Hold me down for a while until that event is over, at least some punchy, three-foot surf from time to time. Either that, or bring on the winter early.