WELCOME TO DMJ, SAT 05OCT2013 MOR

All photos courtesy of Gary's daughter and Russ' wife

Loc: DMJ

Time: 0715 - 1230

Crew: Rick, Gary, Russ, Matty C., Nate

Conditions: 3-5 FT, sunny, strong offshore, hot

Pre Blog:

     Yup, DMJ’s, Del Mar Jetty. Rick used to tell me to keep this place a secret. In reality, there are only two surf spots that I know of, worthy of confidentiality. One is Choco Point, the sand bottom, left hand point break in East Java that I had surfed this summer. The second is a spot north of L.A. that really isn’t much of a secret either, but I know how much this place means to Rick, so I’ll keep my lips sealed. DMJ used to be on this list, but I’m officially removing it. Maybe people in the South Bay don’t have the means to frequent it so much, most people don’t have the military ID to get on base, but I know for a fact that all of Oceanside knows about this place’s potential.

Wake Up:

     It’s 0430 when my alarm goes off. Rick had texted me last night, saying that he’d pick me up at 0500. All my gear is prepacked and ready to go, even my lunch for the day is in the fridge.

     Bri’s taken a vacay with her aunt, so I’m taking this surf trip solo. By 0505, I’m loading my gear into Rick’s van. We head to North Torrance to link up with Gary, his son Russ, Russ’s wife, Gary’s daughter, and Russ’ friend Nate. The 405 South is closed at Palos Verdes, so the detour takes up some time. Palm trees sway in the darkness as clouds of dust sweep through the beams of our headlights. I hope the winds aren’t going to mess the surf up.

    

DMJ:

     We stop off at the Chevron outside Camp Pendleton to meet up with Russ’ other friend Matty C. Rick’s talked about Matty since they scored here last time. He’s a ripper, short of going pro because of bad knees. When we arrive on base, the wind is still howling. I walk out to the beach with Russ and his friends. I can’t help but feel like an odd ball out. I know that Rick and Gary, those old Venice guys, do rip. It’s a reality check whenever I surf with them (It’s good to surf with guys who are better than you, so they say). Looking out at the break, there’s a small crowd spread throughout, but it’s still a quarter of what the crowd might be back home at 26^th Street. But the tide looks high, the surf swampy, inconsistent, and barely three feet. The bigger waves that do roll through are walled up.

     I walk back to the van where Rick and Gary are already changing. I keep my thoughts to myself. It won’t be big today, just a clean, small, inconsistent morning.

     I whip out my backpack and grab the FCS trail fins that I recently bought from Khang to make my Mini Driver into a quad—an experiment.

Round One:

     The water at DMJ is usually cold, so I only bring my Hurley 3/2 full suit. Rick and I warm up on the sand watch Russ and Gary start pump down the line on some racy lefts. The surf now looks better than it had when I first looked at it. Some four footers start rolling in too, and then some bigger walls. I get that empty-stomach feeling from anxiety. Suddenly, I feel the need to time my paddle out right.

     This spot isn’t a secret. If it was, there wouldn’t be this many people here. Still though, this isn’t much for a weekend crowd by SoCal standards. I time my paddle out well, only duckdiving some whitewash. Right when I reach the lineup, a small, inside wave comes to me. It’s only three feet, but when I pop up the whole section lifts, giving me a rampy face to pump down. I’m all rail on my pumps, a different wave from 26^th altogether. I get some carves with this quad setup. For some reason, I’m reluctant to push too hard on the tail because I imagine that the fins will slide out, so I hold back a little. Three turns. Not bad for a first wave.

Russel pulling in

 

Gary slashing

Rick, backside attack

 

Me, not doing shit on this wave. . . =(

     After that, I realize I had been fooled. Larger sets start breaking off of the jetty. The swell is making the top of the waves warbley like thin sheet metal caught in a tornado. The set waves where we are start coming in in massive lines. Walls. I had been talking about getting barreled, but I’m not going on these closeouts.

     My brother had told me a while ago that he wasn’t sure if he was going to switch to quads because they don’t do well on late take offs. So this set wave comes. I’m a little deep, but I’m paddling for it. I see Rick way down the line on my shoulder. I’m kicking and scratching, and I feel the offshore wind holding the wave up. I’m popping up, the lip is curling, but I’m not sliding down the face. Now there’s weightlessness beneath me, and I kick my board away as I air drop down.

     It’s embarrassing. The girls are on the shore on photo detail, and I wonder if they got this shot. Gary paddles up to me and says, “You air dropped that one, huh?”

     “Yeah,” I say, with a fake smile.

     “Sorry I went on that one,” says Rick. “I was on the shoulder.” It’s no matter. I can’t even blame it on the quads. It was too fast; I was too deep. Minutes later, the same thing happens to Gary.

     The crowd gets thicker. Matty’s throwing up some spray high into the air, ending his rides with three-sixty air attempts. I work the inside and get a good handful of waves, back to back. While everyone sits further out, Rick and I are taking these for ourselves. For the first time, I feel the difference with the quad setup. Even though these waves are racy, as soon as I get up I am making it down the line fast, much faster than I’m used to, so fast that it feels awkward setting myself up for the carves. I dump all my speed for at least one finishing turn at the end. It feels good, so many quality waves all to myself.

     The bigger waves are hollow but fast and walled. We all try to pull in but no one makes it out clean. The water temp is hot; I’m burning up in my full suit. Some guys are out just bare backing it.

     After two hours, everyone starts rotating out for beer and snacks. At the three hour mark, I go in, eat half a pizza slice, and drink some water.

Round Two:

     It’s 1100. Gary’s the only one on the sand. Everyone’s gone out for a beer or a food run. The crowd has thinned out, and the wind is still offshore, but the sun’s onslaught is wearing out my skin. My forehead and face are so hot. There’s only so much that my sunblock can do.

     When I paddle for waves my stomach starts to cramp. I should’ve waited a little longer. I think about all those safety messages that I used to read as a kid, something about not going into the pool right after you’ve eaten. I see why.

     I still get some fun rides though. One of the set waves holds shape, good enough for a solid carve and a little snap on the closeout section. But despite my snack and water break, I’m tired. I scratch out on waves that I was able to get earlier, and my wave selection gets poorer. Now everyone is back on the sand watching. I feel the pressure to do something good, at least one solid turn. They’re all rippers, so I suspect that they’re talking, judging. By 1230 I’m beat. Either there aren’t as many good waves or it’s just me. I catch a wave in and kill the pizza in my lunch box.

Judging:

     On the sand, Matty’s critiquing the surfers. “Come on, man. Do something,” he says as a guy pumps down the line. I recall that I had some waves like that earlier, where my waves broke section on section, and I had kicked out. What was he saying then? “Check out this guy. All stylish. Like Mark Richards.” This is another reality check for me. I wonder what they were saying about me. I shouldn’t judge anyone’s surfing anymore. “Look at this guy. Awww, he lost his speed. His stance is too wide.” I’ve been guilty of this too in the not-too-distant past. I don’t want to be guilty anymore. Stay humble. Stay stoked.

#

     I return to a hot and silent apartment. I open up the windows and turn on the TV for some background noise. Football’s on, but I’m not interested. Bri’s usually home, anticipating my stories for the day. She might not even absorb anything I’m saying, but she’s there to let me dump the day’s activities on her. I want to tell her about all the fun, little inside waves that I got, how the quads worked so well, and how I got the wipeout of the day, but I can’t.

     I look at my phone. No text messages, no email, no voicemail. She’s on a cruise in the Caribbean. I know she’s having fun.

     I open my fridge and find that it’s barren, so I go to the commissary to buy groceries, but it’s closed because of the government shutdown.

     After a trip to L&L, I sit on my couch with my gaming headset on and chicken katsu for company.

GENEROSITY, FRI 04OCT2013 MOR

Loc: 26^th

Crew: Calvin, Dais, Klaude, Joyce

Conditions: 2-3 FT, sunny, offshore

     Free parking is the worst on Friday, and even though I’m at 26^th when it’s still completely dark out, I find myself circling for parking that isn’t a Friday, street cleaning spot. I circle around until the sky turns purple and more surfers arrive, also in the same predicament. I give in and park on 27^th Street at a spot that’s good until 0900.

     When I had first arrived, the lineup was empty, but now as I make my way towards the sand, all of the early, first shifters have claimed their spots.

     I sit in front of the main peak, but . . . it may not even be the main peak anymore. The 26^th Street Veterans have shifted more towards 33^rd Street, taking the high schoolers with them. In the distance, I can make out Don. He surfs there to escape the crowd, but now most of the Manhattan Groms are there too.

     Even though the crowd is spread out, I’m fucking annoyed. Just too many people still, both kids and adults. There are these little groms who surf with their dad. The little kid, the star, has dirty blonde hair. He can’t be above the eighth grade. The kid rips, so does his dad, and . . . they’re being greedy.

     I overhear the dad say to another surfer, “My son’s in the same place as Jordan,” referring to the local chick ripper who does the contests.

     Now I’m paddling around frustrated. My “ease” mentality is nowhere. All the new faces get to me. What happened to the 26^th Street Ohana? Did El Porto go through the same transformation? Is this spot going to just turn into an extension of El Porto? I might as well just surf there.

     Klaude makes it out and so does his friend Joyce. Dais also shows up a little bit later.

     Klaude’s in position for a bomb right. He goes, but Star drops in on him. From behind the wave, I can see Klaude standing on his board, watching, while Star pumps further away on the face and gets some spray out the back. Klaude comes back to the lineup and says, “Wow. That kid burned me so bad!”

     Sitting outside, I watch a left roll in. Another local guy has the peak to himself. I’m on the shoulder, paddling automatically as we surfers do, regardless if someone else already has it. I see that he’s struggling to get the drop. He looks directly at me and says, “Go!”

     Fuckin’ A. Hell yeah. I’m stoked for his generosity, and I take a peeling, left hander that holds shape all the way to the inside.

     There’s this old guy who longboards here too. He’s one of the new faces. Sometimes longboarders can be a little greedy, but on the next right, he looks at me and says, “Go for it.” I get a good wave count despite the crowd. I try to share with those around me, calling Klaude into waves, but even he passes on a left and lets me have it. Wow. Words can’t explain how good this feels. I share waves a lot and that kindness doesn’t get reciprocated that much, but today it does. The gift of sharing, to receive it fills me with so much stoke that I am content with sitting on the outside, letting the waves go to other people.

33rd to 26th Paddle, WED 02OCT2013 MOR

Loc: 33^rd - 26^th

Crew: Gary, Russ, John A., Klaude, Joyce  

Conditions: 2-3 FT

     I score parking on 33^rd Street, right by the fitness center where all the Manhattan Milfs workout at in the morning. When I walk down to the 33^rd Street tower, I see Gary, Russ, and Rick’s brother John A. I paddle out behind John and paddle next to him undetected. We’re about thigh to thigh when he looks over and sees me.

     “It’s pretty fun,” he says. I look over and wave at the rest of the guys who I know. Russ is there with his crew of people who I don’t know, it’s like unfamiliar gang territory, so I’m weary on taking waves right away.

     John goes ape shit on a right. Even though the waves aren’t that big, he’s getting these fast, backhand slashes—three in a row. If Rick is like a dad to me then John A. is like an uncle, and I’m stoked for his stoke.

     I pass up a couple good lefts to make sure that their pack keeps integrity on their spot, so I end up paddling more south for a quiet exit.

     On the way to the brick house, I run into Don Kadowaki. “The crowd’s pushing their way over here,” he says.

     Fuck. I feel kind of bad because I am part of the crowd too, so I push it a little further south.

     In front of 26^th, I see Calvin and Tom. It looks more crowded there, so I stay in my spot. I don’t catch the most significant rides, but I’m busy enough to be satisfied.

     Tom and Calvin drift further south towards Marine, and then I spot Klaude in front of 26^th. I paddle over there to say what’s up.

     “I was by the brick house,” I say.

     “Really?” says Klaude. “It looks crowded over there.”

     I look around. “Nah, man. It’s way more crowded here.” Not only that, the waves here aren’t as consistent. But solo sessions get old, it’s nice to see familiar faces in the water, and I’m happy to catch a little of Klaude before he heads out to work.

CHOOSING 26TH, TUE 01OCT2013 MOR

Loc: 26^th

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, sunny, consistent

     Looking back, it’s hard to remember this weekday session. All I remember is that I woke up early, super early. I dawn patrolled it and got to the beach early enough to score a parking spot on 26^th Street right next to the park. I can’t even remember if the crowd was even a factor this morning. I remember that some of the sets were walled but that there were also some waves that had good shape. On that morning, Mike the Santa Monica Cop, was the only person who I talked to. We talked small kine story about Hawaii. He’s from Oahu, moved to NorCal for college, used to live in The Bay, and now he’s here in L.A.

     “Where do you live?” I asked.

     “By Thousand Oaks,” he said. Fuck. It blows my mind how far people live from this surf spot, and out of all the places to go, they come here. And it’s not a bad thing. It just says something special about this spot. 26^th. As Klaude would say: Ohana.

     Once the high school kids cleared out, the lineup was pretty manageable, but for some reason, a lot of new faces surf here now. There was a group of three guys, probably in their mid twenties. One of them went right, and Mike dropped in on him.

     The guy resurfaced, paddled back to his friends, turned to Mike and said, “Really?”

     Mike didn’t hear. It was an awkward moment. Sometimes I feel bad when my friends snake people, like it’s the way the pack works: your friend snaking someone says something about yourself. Well, Mike didn’t do it on purpose. I felt bad, but what could I do?

     I only remember one that morning. It was a right. With the sun already up around nine o’clock, things go from orange to looking more bright blue, even silver. The sky almost looked white when I bottom turned and looked up to unleash my backhand snap, and for once it felt smooth and fast, that feeling when you reenter the wave with your nose down with speed. Fuck yeah. It was only one turn, but it was a while since I felt a solid snap like that.