SUN13OCT2013 MOR

Loc: 26^th

Time: 0800-1000

Crew: Bri, Todu

Conditions: 1-2 FT, overcast, onshore

     I’m optimistic from Highland Avenue. There looks like there’s some inside waves working. The left south of 26^th is working. The main peak in front of 26^th and Brick House is too. I’m stoked and have to make the decision of surfing my MB Too or the Mini Driver. I choose the Lost board and throw on the quad setup.

     Down on the sand, Bri chooses a gap by the 30^th Street Tower. The surf here is inconsistent and small. Two, old longboarder chicks sit on the outside. Even they have a hard time.

     We paddle to the brick house. I see Todu in the lineup where the crowd is. Shan’s there too. They wave.

     The surf had looked good from the top of the hill, but the surf is small, or it’s just gotten small. The wind even turns onshore. I still catch some waves but struggle to turn. More people come out to surf on the second shift. Todu says it was empty earlier.

     I’m sure that San Onofre is working right now, Huntington even. I bet that’s where some of the boys went.

     After we surf we head to Mandy’s for breakfast. Sitting there with my Mega Skillet Scramble and French Toast in front of me, I’m still glad to be home.

CLOSE, SAT12OCT2013 MOR

 

Russ getting barreled

Loc: DMJ

Time: 0630-1030

Crew: John A., Gary, Russ, and a bunch of Russ’ friends.

Conditions: 3-5 FT+, overcast, offshore, CROWDED

     It’s day three of Staycationing. I slept a little better last night but not by much. When we park at DMJ, I tell everyone about how I only brought one wetsuit, and how I’m not looking forward to putting on a cold, wet one.

     “Use my three two,” says Russ. I decline, but he insists, so I get to sample some of Quiksilver’s latest technology.

     The surf look small, and the grey sky looks so ominous that I have a feeling that the wind’s gonna turn onshore and repeat the end-of-days conditions from last night. The tide’s even higher this morning, and the peaks look jumbled and soft. There’s already a crowd here, and more are arriving. It must have been really good yesterday.

     We all sit, stuck in a lull, while oTHer guys start paddling out straight towards us. Russ turns around, and he has this disgruntled look on his face, like the way someone looks like after burning his toast. John comes off of camera detail and joins us. Most of the waves are only breaking on the outside, and the decent waves are only breaking in one spot, so everyone is locked in and waiting. Getting a wave is hard. I’m in position for a good left, and I get bagged by two guys; it’s a double fuck of a ride. What’s worse is that the guy who snaked me doesn’t even look up or acknowledge. It’s just another jackathon for him.

     I paddle away and sit closer to John A.

On, Part II:

     The tide’s getting lower, and the outside waves start to break. I get a couple small waves, good for some single shot carves. On the inside, I see John take a little three footer. Its shoulder is tapered down like a drooping, laundry line. He sticks his hand in the wave’s face and rides just in front of the pocket.

#

     We’re both sitting for a wave. A juicy one sprouts up. He says, “Yeah, Matt!” This morning’s a little nerve wracking, as the size and the tide are beginning to work in unison, so these waves are meant for pulling in. I’m a little nervous, but I tell myself that I have to go. It’s good practice for the winter.

     The wave stands up, steep and critical. I get the drop, reminiscent as last night’s Lowers’ session, and make it down to the base of the wave. The section builds as I’m on the shoulder. However, it’s so fast that I have to pump to keep up with it. Suddenly, the face stands up and above my head. Miraculously, my body’s developed some kind of instinct. Instead of freezing up, I put a hand in the face like John did and do some light, subtle pumps down the line. I expect the lip to plow into the side of my head but it doesn’t. I’m not getting barreled, but I’m right outside the pocket. Then the next section stands up so fast. I go from being in the pocket to being way behind it. My natural instincts abandon me. My subtle pumps can’t keep up with the wave, but they still work on auto pilot. The wave swirls over my head, and for the first time, deep as I’ve even been, for at least two seconds, I am looking through the swirling eye inside the barrel. The bright opening at the end reflects light from the outside which makes the inside, white wash surrounding me shine back in silver streaks. The opening gets smaller. I want to make it out, but all I can do is hold my line. I don’t bail but get clobbered at the end. When I resurface, I’m so eager for recognition. I find Gary in the lineup and paddle back towards him to tell him about my wave. While heading to John, some guy tells me that he saw me getting barreled. “Yeah,” I say. “But I didn’t make it out.” It’s my wave of the day, wave of the trip. I want another one so bad. I’m so close.

     John’s on the shoulder, watching me on my next attempt. I drop in late but manage to pull in. This wave isn’t as delicately set up as the last. Instantly, I’m in a fast, white-washing slot. I see and hear John rooting for me through the opening, but I get side clobbered by the lip. Tumbling on the inside, I resurface unscatched. John is yelling, “Yeah-haaa!” with two fists clenched and held up towards me.

     I go back to my car and switch to my quads. When I come back, the waves are even better. I hear someone in the lineup say, “Every wave is a barrel right now.” The waves are fast, pull-in-only rides. I try. For the rest of the session, it’s wipeout central for me. I eat it and get worked on the inside. So many guys are going for the waves, and I have to turn around and ride the white wash in on one occasion to avoid getting run over. I duck dive a set wave, and it yanks my board away. It forces my head into the sand, pushing my chin against my chest. In dark silence, I feel and a hear my neck pop and crack.

     Now the “barrel experts” go to work. All around me, guys aren’t making it out of the barrels. Gary, even John don’t make it out. Towards the Jetty, I see Russ on a backhand left. He’s not super deep, but he’s getting covered. The wave looks like it’s breaking in slow motion. Perhaps it’s the calmness in Russ’ face that’s doing this. Another guy gets a backhand slot. I see him from deep inside, pumping and then stalling just at the right spot so he’s not too deep. He stays covered up until he chooses to penetrate out the back. It’s a reminder of how much more I still need to learn.

     It’s funny how the longer you surf, you realize how much you didn’t know back then, but at the same time you realize how much you still don’t know. I know that getting barreled isn’t just about pulling in and waiting for it to happen, but this is where I lack experience. I need to learn how to think and be “active” in the barrel, mainly being able to still pump in a compact space, something I’m not used to. I’m still at that stage where the rushing sound of water inside the tube makes me clench, making me believe that I’ve lost the ride when all I need is to do one, little thing differently. But still, I’m getting closer. I’m stoked off of that wave this morning. I hope to get closer this winter. I’ll have no choice but to.

     On the inside, I try to catch a wave on my belly to shore. I purl doing this. Stupid. Noobish. The fin hits my thigh. I feel bare skin. I cut Russ’ wetsuit. FOCK!

     When everyone’s back at the parking lot, he tells me that it’s okay and that he’ll just bring it to the repair shop. And now I’m on a long drive home. I stop by the Long Beach Poetry Festival and show my face for a half an hour, and then I go do some grocery shopping. Bri calls me from New York and tells me that she’ll be flying in early. I spend the rest of the day cleaning the apartment and cooking into the evening.

     So . . . my staycation was a success. Every session wasn’t epic, and it was lonely at times. Failed by humanity, I was dropped in on and had my car scratched. Aside from some throaty barrel attempts I paid my dues in wipeouts, tenfold. But yet, it feels nice to be back in my small, studio apartment. Ghirardelli dark chocolate brownies are in the stove, Bri’s here sitting next to me, and we’re sipping on Aruban beer. I’d surf every day if I could, but sleeping in the back of your car to attain that surf can get old. I can appreciate hot pho on a cold night, but I also appreciate the creature luxuries of my TV and my feet on the coffee table. All Staycations come to an end, and this “end” is a good one.

THE MIDDLES RENAISSANCE (Double Sesh), FRI 11OCT2013

Loc: Middles

Time: 0700-1100

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, sunny, offshore

     I’m awoken from my car shaking. It’s still dark as night out. My knees are flexed from tossing and turning. Something’s hitting my car and causes it to shake again. I’m still half asleep, so I close my eyes, thinking that I’m imagining this, but it happens again. I sit up and see a truck parked next to me. I crawl to the rear passenger door and look out the window. I see some guy’s bare, white ass as he’s changing into his wetsuit. He’s holding onto his door for balance, and it’s hitting my passenger side mirror. I open the door, expecting that this guy will be caught by surprise, and say, “Hey, man. You wanna watch your door?”

     He glances back, not surprised, but as if in a trance. “What?” he says.

     “Your door, man. Watch your door.”

     He pulls his door away from my car and goes back to his business. Is he half asleep too? I can’t make out his face from under his hood. Even I’m not sure if my perspective is off from being so tired.

     About a half an hour later, and it’s 0600. I get up and brush my teeth and take down my wetsuit I had left hanging on the tree. Putting on a soaking wet wetsuit in the cold morning air is paralyzing. Once the sun is up, I inspect the passenger side mirror and check for scratches. Of course, there’s a small one. Even though the scratch is tiny, I can’t help but feel disappointed in humanity.

     I paddle out at Churches. The tide’s a little high, which makes the surf inconsistent. Impatient, I work my way north, all the way to Mons Pubis. Still. Nothing. This trip isn’t producing the results I had hoped for, and I give up on sitting where it’s less crowded and decide to gamble on Lowers. When I get to Middles, in front of a pile of rocks that I had named Battle Positions, there are some surfers sitting on it. I plan on paddling around them, but some waves start to break. I paddle more towards the main peak, right in front of the cliffs where the tower overlooking the ocean is.

On:

     I haven’t caught Middles good in a long time, maybe almost a year. Seeing Middles during my past trips here have always given me a nostalgic effect, where I’ve said, “Yup, I remember when this place used to break.” But today it’s “classic Middles.” Big, walled-up peaks form on the outside, but the rights taper down just a bit, letting anyone who is familiar with this wave know that they’ll line up for some long rides.

     In comparison to yesterday evening, when I was frustrated and had to sit on the shoulder while everyone else fought over the peak, I feel at home at Middles. For some reason, no one wants to sit on the outside where I am, everyone else is further south. When the big outsiders come that swing wide, everyone scatters for them, but I just maneuver from the peak to the shoulder and slide down the face, uncontested, and with priority.

     My wave of the day is one of these big rights that come in. I’m even taking off late with the lip already crumbling. Steep with speed, I fly down the face and see everyone else watching. They disappear as I get to a deep bottom turn. I’ve ditched the quads and went back to a thruster set up, so I climb back up and get a solid snap. There’s that sound behind me as I reenter the wave, the spackle of water-on-water violence, the spray broken off the lip and splattered onto the surface behind it. It’s that sound that I’ve missed so much, like the validation of a good turn. I connect a second turn instead of drawing a highline to go further, and another kid drops in and takes the rest of the wave. And honestly . . . I don’t even care. I get enough waves to place me in a state beyond contention. The surf isn’t epic, but I’m satisfied. I even practice some good etiquette, sharing my wealth with a kid behind me who’s about to back out on the shoulder. I yell, “Go, go, go!” I actually feel guilty claiming those waves for myself, so I sit back in front of the BP for about twenty minutes and then return to carry on with my campaign.

     Bri had taken my watch for her vacation, so I have no idea what time it is. All I know is that the sun’s gotten higher and the wind has picked up. Once I get back to my car, I see that it’s 1130. Holy shit. I’ve surfed for about four hours.

Grub:

     I explore San Clemente and find a place called Mr. Pete’s Burgers. Yelp has this offer, that if you “check in” you get a burger combo for five bucks. I order it and add some bacon. It’s delicious. I now have a go-to burger spot in San Clemente.

APOCALYPSE:

Loc: Lowers

Time: 1645-dark

Conditions: 2-4 FT+, howling onshore wind, cold, scattered, unorganized, choppy

     It’s 1500, and the surf still looks fun despite a little onshore wind. If I wait it out, the tide will be lower, and the wind will be calmer.

     At 1645 I paddle out at Churches. I had seen some waves breaking here earlier. I might not even have to go to Lowers, but end up sitting for a while at Churches, passing up some wonky, wind-blown walls. Every time I paddle further north, the choppy water splashes against my board, and the wind keeps blowing water into my face. The wind picks up even stronger. I was wrong. Magic Seaweed was wrong. It’s howling.

     Long ass peaks are rolling in. They’d be fine without the wind, but the onshore is causing them to break early, making the shoulders prematurely spill, closing out the waves. I’ve gambled on dusting off my Motorboat Too. I catch a right, but it’s so racy and choppy that all I can do is draw a line for distance. I sit at Churches for forty-five minutes before getting out and walking to Lowers.

    

End of the World:

     The sun is so low that it gives a strong glare off of the horizon, making it hard to see if anyone’s sitting at Lowers. There are two guys at Middles, but everything is walled. The typical sight of bikes and boards on the beach isn’t present. Lowers can’t be that crowded.

     The wind hasn’t let up at all. It feels like it’s late, like the sun should’ve been down a while ago, but the wind is keeping it up. The howling wind in my ear is violent, and the choppiness and water splashing against me is unwelcoming. My face is cold and wet, and the late evening light is dark orange, almost red. Lowers isn’t classic today. The crowd here is spread out, not sitting in one clump. Peaks sprout up, scattered and warbley. There’s a north current, and some guys are being pulled into Middles. I do a headcount. There are only twelve of us.

     You rarely catch Lowers like this. Usually guys don’t drift, and they jockey for good position, but there’s no sitting still this evening.

     The surf is unpredictable. Waves on the outside jack up and unexpectedly break early. The wind makes the whitewash ferocious, hard to punch through on the duckdives. Everything around me resembles an apocalyptic scene from a movie. The conditions are so shitty; who the fuck would want to surf this? It’s as if the world was about to end, and a few people said “fuck it” and chose to surf instead of run for safety, good conditions or not.

     I scramble for the lefts, and it breaks so oddly like dropping into a steep, jagged cliff, but the drops are fun. I see multiple angles etched into the wave faces. I ride the highline and set myself up for a turn, but I fall on the carve.

     I catch a similar left again, and I eat shit again on the same section. Fuck! I’m so frustrated, but I can’t blame the wave. I haven’t surfed Lowers’ lefts in a while, and maybe I was wrong for blaming the quad fins yesterday.

     When it’s dark, there are only four of us out, but I catch a right to get to shore. It’s dark when I get back to my car, and it’s time for dinner.

Grub:

     Time flies on these surf staycations. After pulling long sessions, cleaning up, and eating, it’s already time to paddle out again. Right now it’s time for dinner. When I’m done eating it’ll be time for bed. I’m tired of burgers, tired of bad Chinese food, and tired of Mexican. I go on Yelp and discover a pho place in San Clemente. I take a look in my car mirror before going in, and I look like a bum. My hair is stale as a bale of hay; my eyes are red, and face is a reddish brown with stubborn smudges of Vertra. I hope I don’t scare the customers.

     I take a seat inside and look at the menu. Holy shit. $7.95 for an extra large pho? This being the only pho spot in the community means that they commit murder like this. I’m so used to Gardena and Garden Grove, pho well under five bucks. I want to leave and just go to Carl's Jr. (I got coupons), but the thought of some hot broth in my cold tummy is too appealing. I pay for the luxury of eating pho while on a car-camp trip, and it tastes so good. I take my time slurping the broth with the noodles. I chew on each piece of meat slowly, dipping it into some hoisin sauce from a small saucer. I order extra noodles, and it’s like ordering another bowl of pho. After being in my car for over a day, eating something this good lifts my spirits, like I’ve been saved, a nice contrast after a surf session that looked like the end of the world. 

LOVE/HATE LOWERS, THU 10OCT2013 EVE

Loc: Lowers

Time: 1700-dark

Conditions: 3-4 FT, sunny, onshore, crowded

The Decision:

     With Bri still out of town, the thought of a staycation makes sense. There’s a south swell coming in, peaking on Saturday, and since I get out of class early, why not just drive straight to Trestles?

     It’s in the morning when I wake up and load up my car that I say to myself, “Do I really want to go?” A day trip is one thing, but I had only begun camping in my car when I was going through some turmoil in my life. But now that I’m beyond content, I almost back out of this trip. Here, in my little studio apartment, I can just come back home from school, make me a sandwich, force myself to read (most likely not), have a beer, and then whip out the PS3.

     But it’s the only time that Bri will be on vacay for a while, so I have to take advantage of this. Better to do a staycation now than have to feel guilty for not bringing her along later. . .

The Journey:

     Even while driving out of campus, I could easily hit the 405 North onramp, but I go south instead. I had realized a couple of things this morning when I was inconveniently too far from home. One, I forgot my changing mat. That thing is important. I helps me keep the sand off of my feet thus out of my car, but I’ll make do. Two, motherfucker, I only brought one fucking wetsuit. Do you know what that means? I’ll have to pull that wet motherfucker on in the morning. I’ll be paralyzed by the cold neoprene in the crisp, morning air.

     I make the left turn onto the military camp grounds. The tide is high, and Old Mans only has a few takers. I ease off the accelerator and crawl through the rows of campsites. There’s that San Onofre / Trestles smell that I love so much: Kelp, firewood, and cobblestones. Then other things come to mind. Just being here and seeing the fire rings between the tall, bordering hedges of trees reminds of all the good times I’ve had here. Francis, Khang and Dais always sleeping in Khang’s van, Klaude showing up late in his Prius after work, Cheryl with lame-looking boonie hats, Al, J, Seba with his lifesaving trailer. We used to camp here so often, but this summer went by too fast. I miss those days and miss my friends.

The Mission:

     By 1630 I start prepping my gear for tactical insertion into Lowers. Yup, that’s right. Not Churches, not Middles—Lowers. I’m gonna pull one of my old stunts, showing up around sun down and actually scoring some Lowers’ waves as people start to return home.

     Churches only has six people on it. The tide’s a little high, but it is breaking. There are some inside, three footers that look all right, but I push on. I have a good feeling about this.

#

     Now I’m in the Lowers’ lineup. I’m too early. It’s too crowded. Some people are still paddling out. Middles is dead empty. I thought I saw a couple of walls on the way over here. I count twenty heads, which isn’t much for Lowers, but it’s enough to be annoying. Everyone sits in a clump at the main take-off spot. I sit south, just to the side, and hope some sets will swing wide. Some do, but guys take off way deep and still make the sections. All around me, all I hear are waves being torn to shreds. The sun’s still got a little ways to travel before making its exit. I tell myself to be patient and that people will leave, but it’s been a while since I wished for the sun to hurry and bury itself beneath the horizon.

Quads:

     The sun’s down, and there are still over a dozen people here. I struggle not to mumble my thoughts as I paddle around, but I can’t help but say, “I fucking hate this place.” I’ve sat here for over an hour and only have a couple, lower-than-mediocre waves to claim. There was a right that walled up and closed out. There was a left, a legit Lowers’ left that some fucking guy snaked me on. And then there was the potential bomb of the day. Man, a right finally swung wide, and I took off deep and late. I forgot how forgiving the waves are here. The wave was about five-feet high. As I bottom turned, I wove around a woman who was in my line. My board felt fast. Some guys were paddling over the shoulder. One hooted out loud. I climbed the face and set up my top turn, but my board was going so fast that it didn’t follow the torque of my body for my snap, so my foot slipped off. I resurfaced, watching the rest of the wave peel all the way to the middle of Middles from behind.

#

     It’s getting dark. The lights are already on at the nuclear titties, and the orange on the horizon has turned into a fading peach. Darker blue encroaches on the remaining light, slowly changing to purple. There are six of us here, and six is not a crowd for Lowers.

     I sit in position for the lefts, and every time I get one, I start out fast, flying down the line, but . . . my turns. . . The quads felt good at DMJ last weekend, but every time I try to accentuate the pivot for my frontside snap, my board does not follow my body. I keep on losing the board. I switch to holding back a little on the carves, not putting too much ass into them.

     It gets so dark that the shape of the wave becomes a guessing game. There are only three of us now. I had intended on being the last one here, but that’s not gonna happen.

Grub:

     I don’t think I’d be able to live in San Clemente because the food here sucks. I’m sorry, but it just does. Especially when compared to the South Bay, but every time I pull an overnight staycation, it’s always an adventure to try something new. I go to a Chinese restaurant (I’m leaving out the name so as not to bash the business). Dayum. I don’t want to be mean here. The lady was nice and so was her daughter, but it’s the typical, non authentic Asian food that you’d expect in a non Asian community. However, she loaded up my plate. The portions were at least decent, and even though the quality wasn’t that great at least they don’t “skimp.” 

    

Night Night:

     And then there’s the loneliness. I used to come down here with Fransauce a lot. One time we crashed Rick’s campsite and both slept in our vehicles. We used to have a beer in the shower together. And then there’s Bri. She would be down to sleep in the wagon, no complaints.

     I look out on this Thursday night. There’s only one other truck parked in front of the surf. The moon light glistens over the ocean, making the waves shimmer and sparkle. I can tell that the surf is good right now. Small, right handers peel, unchallenged, into the now-exposed cobble stones. I pull out my camera and take a pic, but the moon is just one sparkle, and the ocean a dim smudge of whitewash. It just can’t capture what the naked eye can. I take another look at the ocean before turning in and give another thought to my friends. I guess you would just have to be here to really “see” this place right now.