THE END OF OHANA, FRI 15NOV2013

Loc: Marine Avenue

Crew: Bri

Time: 0600-0745

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, overcast, glassy, consistent, high tide, soft, crowded.

     I’m spoiled because of Huntington Beach and the all-too-expensive state parking pass. Last week, I had so much room surfing, but this morning, the whole 26^th Street tower is crowded with groms and so many new faces I’ve never seen before. What happened to the 26^th Street Ohana? I don’t even see Roy or Don.

     Bri and I paddle out just north of Marine. We have a peak that’s only lightly peppered by a few other wetsuits. The tide is high, but big, mooshy peaks roll through. I have to catch them late, and the first section is steep, good for a solid, first turn. I get a couple rights and left.

     This is a perfect day for Bri on the NSP. She mispositions herself on her first few waves, but she makes adjustments to get into the soft surf. Once she’s up, she’s cruising all the way to the inside on open faces. Good for her.

     She does miss one though, a big one. Some guy next to her even hoots her on it, but the nose purls as she’s paddling into it. She was lying too far in front.

     It’s when three stand-up paddle boarders decide to sit by us that kills the session. Motherfucker. I’m hoping that the stereotypes will be wrong this morning, that they won’t be greedy and take wave after wave.

     They’re in the way. It seems that they are blocking with their huge boards just maneuvering on them. I’m in the middle of two SUP guys, so I back off. Both of them go.

     On a left, a grommie snakes me. He looks back and kicks out, but I’m pissed.

     Bri and I are paddling back out from the inside, and a Costco foamboard is bouncing towards us in the whitewash with an invisible rider. Bri gets out of its aimless path, but I have to sling my board away so it doesn’t get hit, and the foamie hits my thighs. And in the water is Endless Summer: some asshole who’s riding his board leashless, unable to hang onto it. I stare at him as I pass him. He’s oblivious to any wrong doing.

     I check my board. No dings. My thigh’s okay. Lucky it was a foamie.

     But just like last evening, even though it’s crowded, Bri and I get a lot of waves. By 0745, Bri has to leave and get ready for work. The tide is rising, and the sets are getting inconsistent. I have to get a haircut for work this evening anyway, so I leave too.

     But what’s happened to my favorite local spot? I don’t know the people here anymore, and it’s just as crowded as Porto. I can’t even tell the difference anymore. Too many people out here.

     Back at my car, Mike the Vietnam Vet comes up to me to say hi. I tell him that I’ve been surfing HB lately because it’s too crowded here. “It’s crowded everywhere,” he says.    

     Although, I can’t agree with him. Last week, I had so much room. Even Saturday with Bri, on a weekend, we pretty much had the surf to ourselves. Wouldn’t you think that HB has more surfers, that it would be more crowded there?

     I have a love/hate relationship with Porto, and I’m sad to say that I have to feel the same way with this spot now too. . .

SAME PLACE DIFFERENT WAVE (double), THU 14NOV2013

Loc: Huntington Beach

Time: 0800-1000

Conditions: 2-3 FT, sunny, glassy, inconsistent, walled

Traffic:

     Yesterday morning on Wednesday, I was listening to some Zapp and Roger on my Pandora. As I passed the 605 freeway, the music brought back teenage memories I haven’t thought of in a while. I remembered how my friends would pile in my duplex apartment while my mom was at work. My L.A. friends who were in high school would ditch at my house. I had a living room full of kids in size 42 pants and long, striped tagger T-shirts. They were all tag bangers and soon-to-be gang members. The memory brought some laughs and a chill of shame at the same time—the stupid things we do when we’re kids, and then . . . I looked up and saw that I had missed my exit. The traffic towards HB slowed down to half of the speed that I had been traveling. Fuck.

     As I passed the Bolsa Chica exit, I thought about swinging towards it really quick, but I decided to gamble to going a little further south and taking a different beach exit.

     Traffic came to a halt, and then I rode the brakes for the rest of the ride. I fucked up. Next time, I need to just take PCH. That and I need to stop day dreaming while driving (DWDD).

     I made it to my surf spot. It was already 0845, and . . . the conditions were wonderful: offshore, glassy, hot, but the waves on that new swell were coming in a little walled. Even though I had scored at this very spot last week, it was hard to believe it looking at the surf that moment. It was only two-feet plus and sectiony.

     On the way to school, PCH was closed at the bridge, entering Seal Beach. Every car had to turn around. After my morning in traffic, I figured that the universe had it in for me that morning, so I made the best of it and had breakfast at a café. 

     I did my homework at Starbucks and even checked Bolsa in the late afternoon. The wind had picked up, and the surf was drained out anyway. Even thought I didn’t surf, I felt tired just from the traffic and roadblocks.

Yesterday:

     Now I’m on 2^nd street heading towards PCH at 0730. I figure I’ll be in the water by 0800, but as soon as I make the left onto PCH, traffic is gridlocked. What the fuck. A half hour later, I reach the malfunctioning traffic light that only lets a few cars through at a time as it blinks red. Lesson learned. Freeway or PCH, I have to get here earlier if I want to beat traffic.

     When I park, I don’t even take my walk to the shore to check the surf. I change, slap on some Vertra, and head out. It’s now 0815, and I have to be out of the water by 1000.

     Looking out at the surf, I can see the tide is just too high right now. Also, the waves are coming in a little too lined, and only some of them offer a racy section at the end.

     I paddle out, and when I reach the lineup I see that the north current has already taken me south, half way towards the next tower.

     Despite the lack of shape, I get two waves immediately. They are short, walled rides, but it’s enough to sell my spot. Another surfer further south paddles towards me to sit nearby.

     I really want a left, but I notice today’s lefts are too sectiony and closing. A peak sprouts to my north, so I chase it down. I’m a little deep, but my quad setup helps me make the first section. From my backhand, looking over my right shoulder, I see the face holding shape. It’s a smooth shoulder that’s standing up, dull and moundy at the top, but a perfect canvas for snapping. I get my first turn, hearing the splash out the back, and reenter with speed. I connect a second snap, also seeing the other guys in the lineup watching. It’s my wave of the morning.

     After that, other guys paddle to my spot, but the current’s so strong that they end up fading away regardless. For the rest of the session, I struggle to connect two turns.

     At 1000 I catch a wave in. When I turn around, I see that the lowering tide isn’t necessarily helping the surf, but I’m glad that I had at least caught one good wave.

SCATTERED AND FAST

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Crew: Bri

Time: 1545-1715

26^th Evening:

     Bri tells me that when she stopped by the beach yesterday that Marine was working at low tide. So even though we had planned to go to the gym this evening, we load up the boards and head to Manhattan Beach.

     First we drive through Porto. It’s 1530. The surf looks drained out from the low tide, but the water is just so clean. It’s a hot ass day. The sun gleams over the glassy horizon, blazing a golden shine in the ocean like a road to the end of the earth. Surfers are in the lineup, and even though they’re riding the waves straight, they appear to be stoked just to be wet.

     From here, we head to 26^th Street and find free parking. The surf here doesn’t look much better, but there are only four guys out. Lines are coming in, so the potential of the building swell is undeniable, but the tide is still drained. “It might get better,” I say to Bri. “With the tide push.” I look at my watch. 1545. “It should get better within the hour.”

     So we change, and just as we’re making our way to the sand, some groms starts infiltrating down the hill. The 26^th Street tower has about ten guys on it now, so Bri and I paddle out south just a little before Marine. If I can get one turn this session, it will be worth it.

     Even though it’s drained, long peaks are rolling in consistently. They had looked walled from the shore, but I see a fast left coming my way. I turn and go. The waves are fast and scattered. I pop up quickly, pump down a racy, open section and tag the lip before it closes. It’s not a “power carve,” but it counts. I get one turn that makes the go out worth it.

     In minutes, the surf keeps getting better with the tide push. Even the rights are working. The peaks are fast, but pumpy and fun.

     Now guys are all over the sand, getting ready to paddle out. Everyone knows that the surf is decent. It must have been good yesterday too.

     What was once a peak with just Bri and I turns asses and elbows. It’s just as crowded as surfing the mornings. I’ve been spoiled, surfing HB with so much room. It’s hard not to be filled with animosity, the guys all around me, even though there are peaks everywhere why the fuck do they have to sit right fucking here?

     I go right, and a guy backs off for me. I get a rearhand carve, tossing some water where the guy’s face just was. I tag the lip once more before it closes out.

     Even Bri is getting her fair share of waves, propelling past the sections and getting a lot of distance.

     It’s crowded, but it’s so consistent that there is still enough for everyone.

     We stay until 1715. The wind picks up, making the surf choppy and unrecognizable to what it had looked like earlier. The evening gamble worked, and we caught the best window.

FOR BETTER WAVES, SAT 09NOV2013

Loc: Huntington Beach

Crew: Bri

Time: 0845-1045

Conditions: 2-3 FT, sunny, glassy, inconsistent, racy

     The local surf in the South Bay isn’t looking that great this morning, and Surfline’s report for HB is only better by a fraction. Plus, Surfline’s report of HB is for south of the pier. There’s no guarantee that the other breaks away from the pier will be working the same, but the thought of a weekend crowd here in the South Bay deters me from staying here. I’ve been scoring in HB lately. With the possibility of a thin crowd and scoring an uncrowded peak, Bri and I drive to HB for better waves.

     We check Bolsa Chica first. I’m not expecting much. All I’m really asking for is at least two feet, something I can pump on and at least set up one solid turn.

     The crowd factor here is more prevalent than it is during the week, but Bolsa is so spread out that the cars parked behind each tower are still sparse in comparison to the likes of Porto.

     We step out for a look and see some longboarders sitting in the water, all spread out with room. The surf is one-to-two feet and gutless. Bri and I wait for a set, but it doesn’t come.

     I’m actually not bummed out though. Eh, it’s doable, and I’m always in a better mood with uncrowded surf. I didn’t expect much to begin with, and the surf has potential for at least one good, three-foot roguer to break up the lulls. “Let’s check it a little further south,” I say.

     Seapoint looks a little better as we drive by. On the south side of The Cliffs I see scattered peaks over two feet in front of Goldenwest. The breaks north and south of the pier look even better. Fuckin’ A.

     Another surprise this morning is the overcast. The sun looks like a glowing bulb behind the marine layer. The sky is gray all the way out to the horizon, and when Bri and I reach our surf destination it’s a little difficult to make out the waves.

     The tide looks drained out even though it’s rising, but over the low surface there are fast, little two-foot closeouts. They start off as peaks but race away. We watch the surf a little longer and notice that some of the waves hold enough shape for at least a turn. There are only a few people out. I have a feeling that the rising tide will improve the conditions. I’m stoked. This might be a fun session.

     As Bri and I paddle out, the sun begins to burn off the marine layer like the way a windshield heater defrosts condensation. The water is cool but within minutes I’m already acclimatized.

     Surfers are spread out around us, far enough where sharing isn’t hogging. I catch two waves right away. I pop up fast but the waves close out. Too racy. Bri scratches out on her first couple waves, finally catching a small closeout to shore. And then . . . nothing. . .

     There’s a serious lull. Some one footers roll through. Bri struggles to get into them. An occasional rogue wave sprouts up way on the outside, too far for anyone to get. Bri lets the current take her north, and she sits way on the outside.

     Now the sun’s blazing. I’m hot in my wetsuit. Everyone is stagnant, and I’m wondering if driving down here was a good decision or not.

    

     Once the tide fills in a little bit more, something happens. After the first hour, the surf gets more consistent. I catch a smooth, peaky, right that’s glassy and fast. I pump on my back hand and get two snaps, feeling the satisfaction of distorting the lip.

     A guy sitting outside watches me as I kick out. He looks back out into the horizon, probably waiting for one too.

     The rogue waves turn into consistent sets. The lulls turn into short breaks in between. There are still some inside waves, but when the sets come, they sprout up these small mounds of water, but they stand up so fast and violently over these HB sandbars.

     I struggle to turn because I keep getting caught behind the sections, so finally I say fuck it and just pull in on everything.

     I haven’t had many sessions when all I do is pull in, but the conditions are ideal for it. The waves are standing up and racy over a medium tide, and some of the sections are a little hollow. Towards the Santa Ana River Jetties, I see guys pulling in, getting some tube time and getting pinched at the end. I figure today’s a good day for barrel practice.

     Instead of just popping up and feeling the wave shut down, I spring to my feet and catch glimpses of the green and silver swirls before they close out. At least I have that, some kind of perspective before the wave shuts down.

     My brother had taught me how to go backhand, so I have fun pulling into these three foot faces that stand up and go vertical. It’s a thrilling feeling to grab rail, stall with my back arm, and just slow myself down while the lip is curling over me. Even though I’m not making it out, I’m finally able to slow down time just a little bit. Instead of pure obliteration I’m focusing on obtaining “the vision.”

     Bri even works her way out of her funk and starts paddling into the bigger waves. We split a peak together, she going left and I right. I have a long section to work with. I go down the line and see the wave wall up, so I crouch down and grab rail. I get no vision on this one. My timing is off. Perhaps I should have just pulled in from the start. All I know is that I still have a lot to learn.

     Bri paddles back towards me on the outside. She’s smiling. “Good one?” I say.

     “Oh my God,” she says. “I didn’t stand up, so it doesn’t count, but I caught that wave on my stomach. My eyes were closed, but when I looked up, I saw the wave going over me, and then it just shot me out!”

     Fuckin’ A. She got belly barreled.

     After two hours I’m done. I had played Call of Duty: Ghosts pretty late last night, and all of the barrel practice forced some water into my ears.

     Turning around, we look back at the uncrowded surf. Peaks are still coming in. It could even get better with the rising tide. The water’s still glassy and the wind’s so light that I just have that feeling that it will be like this for most of the day.

     Later that evening, Bri and I are with her parents. They’re from Oregon where it’s thirty degrees and gray skies all day. I never eat anything at the sandwich shack at El Porto, but we go there and grab some drinks to watch the sun go down. Rosecrans has the best peak right now, surprisingly. Even though the wind’s onshore, it’s only putting a light texture on the water. The waves are coming in a little lined, but there are some fast, pumpable corners at the end. Most of the surfers in the water are beginners, so most of them purl or ride the waves straight.

     I mindsurf it, picturing myself popping up fast, and pumping down the line to set myself up for one mean carve. I grab my sweaty cup of Dr. Pepper and take a sip. One surfer out front sits all alone in the lineup with his face towards the horizon.

     My woman’s right next to me, and her parents are looking out at the sunset. “It’s beautiful,” her parents say. “We understand why you guys live here.”