Loc:
Huntington Beach
Time:
0700-0930
Conditions:
2-3 FT, sunny, glassy, inconsistent, empty
It’s 0530 and Bri’s car is facing mine. In
the El Segundo darkness, I wish her a good session. “Surfs up!" she says
as I drive off towards Huntington.
My class begins at 1100, so it’s kind of
nice how surfing HB is convenient with my schedule, even nicer that the surf
has been good. I’m hoping that it will be just as good as yesterday.
I’d like to call this a dawn patrol, but it
barely qualifies. In the distance above the gridlocked lights that are trying
to get to LAX on the 105, the sky is already turning orange behind the horizon.
Eastward in another state, the sun’s already shining bright.
Even though the sun’s starting to come up,
I still appreciate the darkness, the way my instrument panel illuminates in my
dark car, the city lights still on, and the groggy driving all around me. Only
surfing could make waking up so early so good.
I take a different route to HB, this time
exiting Lakewood Boulevard and heading south on PCH. My friend Pabs (RIP) had
told me a while back to exit Bolsa Chica Road and take that to HB, but I’m
seeing if this route will be any faster. After a couple stoplights, I’m barely
past Bellflower. Pabs was right.
I pass up Bolsa. I have to, especially
since further south was working so well yesterday. I pull into the right lane.
Seapoint looks small, but I see a big peak breaking at Dog Beach just before
The Cliffs obstruct my view. There’s a peak at Golden West too. Fuck. It looks
good. My surf senses tell me to pull over and park here. Who cares that I won’t
be using my state parking pass and that I’ll have a little crowd to deal with,
but I keep on going.
When I reach my favorite HB spot (which has
suddenly decided to turn on after MONTHS of not cooperating) I walk out to the
sand and wait for a set. Five guys are out. The tide is supposed to be at mid
level, but it looks a little drained. A peak comes in, but it’s a little
walled, breaking section-on-section on the left. To my south, another peak
looks better, but the verdict is already in, and I can tell . . . it’s just a
hair smaller here than yesterday.
But what else am I going to do? There’s no
way that I’m NOT going to paddle out.
I go back to the whip, unsheathe the Mini
Driver, slap on some wax, change into my 3/2 this time, and head to the water.
The crowd of five guys leaves as I’m paddling
out. The water is cool but still manageable for a 3/2.
A grommie is out in the lineup. He’s just
sitting there, still as the water, but with my presence comes a peak. I go
right. It closes out. I go left. I pump a little bit. It closes out too.
A wave comes right to the grom, but he’s
too far inside and has to pass it up. It’s so easy to be out of position at
this break since the waves stand up so fast. A minute later and the grom
leaves. I assume he had a tough time, but I just had two waves. Despite them
being closeouts, at least there is some activity out here.
I thought there was some activity here, but
it has stopped. A long lull intercedes. I work my way a little more south, just
yards away from two other guys. The waves are racy because of the low-mid tide,
so I fall behind on the sections. Some waves I get distance on but nothing
noteworthy.
The two guys next to me go in just as
another guy paddles out. He’s older, maybe fifty. He’s on a yellow funboard;
has short, blond hair with a handlebar mustache. A peak pops up as he makes it
to the lineup. I eye it and start paddling towards the peak. I’m way on the
shoulder, but I look up and see Handlebars looking at me. His arms are cocked
on the rails, ready to turn and go. I give him a nod and a smile. He turns
around and takes the wave.
I sit back in the lineup, watching the
horizon, when I hear him paddle up from behind me and say, “You wouldn’t happen
to know what time it is would you?”
“Yeah,” I say. I look down and peel the
wetsuit sleeve from my wrist. “It’s eight o’ nine.” He says something else, but
I can’t hear him, so I take out my earplugs.
“Are you gonna be here for a while?” he
says.
I’m wondering where this conversation is
leading. Does he want me to watch his board while he goes to his car? “Yeah,” I
say. “I’ll be here for a while.”
“Okay,” he says. “I just had hip replacement,
so I don’t feel comfortable being out here alone.” He smiles, showing his
round, protruding belly through his neoprene. He looks jolly but not Santa
status. And from here he goes on, and I mean ON. He talks . . . he talks about
everything. I pull out my earplugs and put them in my key slot.
He goes on about how it was so good here on
Tuesday, how he and his son had it to themselves, how he got his son on footage
on his GoPro, and how his son works for Rip Curl here in HB.
I’m thinking, Fuck . . . am I gonna have to
talk to this guy the whole session?
“Here comes a right,” he says. I look
outside. It’s the best peak this whole hour. “Go,” he says. I do. I make my way
out to it and turn around just deep of the shoulder. “Paddle hard!”
It’s a three-foot, classic, HB wave. I pump
and wind up from the bottom turn as I see the face build behind me. I’ve been
having trouble doing backhand snaps with the quads, but I climb the face, lean
forward, shift my weight, and feel my tail distort the smooth shoulder. A toss
of water splashes out the back. I go again. Bang!
Paddling back from the inside, I see
Handlebars get the next wave. Poor guy. Because of his hip surgery he has to
ride the waves on his knees, but he goes, gets a long ride. On the inside, he
looks towards me and smiles.
For the next hour we trade off on waves and
split peaks. Something about his presence killed the lull. It’s getting
consistent. Three footers start coming in, some a little bigger and breaking
way outside. “Go,” he says. “No, you go,” I say back to him. Today I’m having
more fun on the rights, getting single and double shot rides. I don’t connect
more than two turns but it’s a fun morning with the company of a stoked
stranger.
So he tells me his name is Michael J. “I do
music,” he says.
“What venue do you play at in case I want
to check you out?”
“I don’t do that,” he says. “I do private
parties.” He tells me so much about himself: he’s had a house cleaning business
for thirty years and loves it because it gives him time to surf, his doctors
told him not to surf until January but he just can’t help himself, he hates
stand-up paddle boarders with a passion, and he even points out two old
Vietnamese ladies who are changing, butt naked right there on the sand. I turn
around. “You missed it,” he says, “but . . . she’s kind of flabby. A week ago I
saw three chicks in bikinis laying out on the sand over there on Orange. I get
away with talking a lot, so I said to them, ‘Is it cold out?’ and the ladies
have an accent. It turns out they’re from Brazil and working in L.A. ‘What do
you girls do?’ I asked. ‘Victoria Secret models,’ they said.”
At 0900 he tells me that he has to go and
get ready for a house cleaning job. He tells me to stop in Rip Curl and ask for
his son. “He’ll take care of you,” he says. I thank him for the offer. I watch
him catch a wave in. He turns around from the shore and waves. I wave back.
After Michael J leaves, the rising tide
makes the surf more inconsistent. The lull returns. I leave at 0930.
On the way to class I get a group text
message from Rick and his brothers. They’re all talking about the surf today.
Manny A. apparently scored it good at Goldenwest while Porto was mediocre. I
tell them that it was two-to-three feet and a little inconsistent, but I feel
like that’s just barely describing the session. I got to share some genuine
surf stoke with a total stranger, perhaps made a new friend. Michael J. He brought
good energy that brought the waves. I’ve never traded off waves and bullshitted
with a random guy like that before, a guy who isn’t even supposed to be in the
water for a couple more months, a guy who is stoked just to kneeboard after
being forced out of the water for a whole year due to injury. Michael
motherfuckin’ J.
I’m usually standoffish about getting names
in the water, especially if I’m surfing outside of my local spot. Names are
easy to forget, knowing that you may never see that person again. I’m not sure
I’ll ever see Michael J again, but one thing’s for sure. I won’t forget his
name, his face, his handlebar mustache, his pot belly, and especially . . . his
stoke.
