Loc:
Churches
Crew: Bri,
CC, Klaude
Time: first
light to evening
Conditions:
3-4 FT+, sunny, offshore, glassy, crowded.
From my fart sack, I can hear the white
noise of consistent white wash. I zip open the tent. It’s 0545, but I can see
that there are waves this morning. The energy’s already different about this
place. Vans and trucks start parking out front. It’s gonna be crowded today.
Bri’s knocked out, but I still make her a
breakfast drink and some hardboiled eggs.
Some hardcore dawn patrollers paddle out
first while it’s still dark out. I see their shapes riding the rights all the
way to shore. The surf is more like 2-3 FT and consistent, much better than
yesterday.
My wetsuit’s a little damp, but I trudge
through the torture of putting it on. The nights have been cool here, so my
wetsuit is friggin’ cold. I cake on the Vertra, expecting this session to be
long.
I make contact with my DRC die hards.
Christina’s on the way. Klaude sounds terrible like the cranking of unlubed
gears out of the back of his throat; he’s croaking not speaking. He’s done, I’m
thinking. “Don’t get mad if I don’t make it,” he says.
Bri’s still in the tent, and I tell her I’m
going out for a little play sesh before Christina gets here.
False Start
I:
Now it’s time to break out my Lost Mini Driver.
I change the configuration from quad to tri-fin setup since the waves are
softer here. I paddle out right in front of the campsite. Immediately, I get a three-foot,
down-the-line right, but my board is so fucking loose. I feel like I’m skating
on loose wheels on every turn. I do get four turns. Seriously . . . FOUR! But my
turns are terrible. It almost feels like I’m single finning it, like my turns
lack commitment and emotional content; I’m turning with caution to prevent from
falling. I get another wave and again I don’t feel right. I guess I’m so used
to riding quads that it doesn’t feel right without that extra grip.
When I get out of the water, I’m fucking
freezing. The air temp is much cooler than the water, and the sun still hasn’t
made it above the horizon yet.
With numb fingers, I put my quad fins back
on.
False Start
II:
Yes, the surf is getting much better. More guys
are sitting at the top of the wave, but Churches is still pretty spread out.
I get a four-foot right. Four. No bullshit.
It’s been so long since I’ve seen waves line up like this, just perfect shape,
little triangles of texture on the wave’s face, a drooping line for what looks
like an eternity but leads all the way to shore. Churches, I love you and your
waves, but I hate your crowds.
I feel like a gawd damn pro with the quads.
Losing all hesitation, I put as much torque as I can into my backhand snap, so
much that I just stop right there when I smash the lip, and even though I stall
I still reenter the wave with speed, arms out, knees bent. After the second
turn, my front foot slips off the deck. Bri’s paddling out right in front of
me.
Motherfucker. Damn it. That was such a good
start to an epic ride, but I lost it. I get another wave again. I slip again. I
head back to camp to throw on more wax.
Christina arrives, so I take a moment to
give her this morning’s surf report. “I’ll probably work my way towards
Middles,” I say. I can’t talk long. Gotta get back out there.
CLASSIC
MIDDLES:
I surf with Bri at Churches for a little
while. Christina paddles out to join us. With the girls together, they start
yapping their mouths about girlie stuff, so I leave them be. It’s good for Bri
to get her girl time in, and I’m not opposed to it. It beats surfing with just
me, as I can be a dick sometimes. Being a good boyfriend and a makeshift surf
coach can be a conflict of interest.
Churches gets so crowded that I work my way
towards Middles, and there are already a bunch of guys there. I haven’t caught
Middles when it’s working in a while, but the sight of the crowd is a sign that
it might be good today.
Even with the tide going high, there are
waves breaking through it. My favorite spot to sit, just south of Lowers, is
working too, but there are already motherfuckers on it. The waves are lining up
so well that guys all the way at the top of the break cancel out any chance for
guys on the inside to paddle into them.
Even though it’s crowded here, it’s not as
crowded as Churches. I work the inside, managing to steal some rides from the
longboarders.
I’m not catching the bombs, but the three
footers that I get are so long that I get three-to-five turns. But I’m so eager
that I lack the grace that I surf with when it’s less crowded. I’m forcing the
turns hard, like someone who’s been surf starved, surfing each wave like his
last. I can’t be a pretty thing to watch right now, but I’m going for it.
Bri and Christina show up. They’ve made the
paddle all the way from Churches, but they sit way on the inside, at the edge
of the crowd. I’m positioned in the middle, and proceed to catch more waves.
By 0945 I’m hungry. I have an empty stomach
feeling where I’m just drained of all energy. The sun’s bright on my face, and
I could use some water and nourishment. With Bri and CC still in the water,
make the walk back to camp.
First
Break:
I scramble some eggs and warm up the last
of the tortillas for the girls before they get back. The air temp is still
cool, especially in the shaded camp ground, so I throw on my jacket while still
wearing my half-draped wetsuit.
I eat some breakfast and rehydrate, still
watching the surf. When the girls come back, they eat.
Bri and CC get their girl time in, setting
up a blanket on the sand, reading, and tanning together. The whole time I’m
sipping on my water just watching the surf. All I can think about is Middles.
It was good during high tide. It’s still good now. I know it is.
I call Klaude and start speaking surf-stoke
gibberish: “Duuuuuude! Classic, man. Middles is classic right now.
Three-to-five turns.”
I hear the sound of people and the hum of a
restaurant environment behind him. “Ummm, okay. I’m eating breakfast right now.
I’ll be there at about one thirty, two.”
I hang up, still frothing about the surf
before me. Long rides at Churches in front of the campsite. How can I not think
of anything but surf?
Round Two:
At 1130, I apply another application of
Vertra on my face. I must look like a fucking geisha. I walk up to Bri and CC
who are on the sand sun bathing. “I’m going out again,” I say. “I’ll be back by
the time Klaude gets here.” And I walk, hoping to score Middles again.
When I get there, Middles is twice as
fucking crowded. The surf is a little better with the tide drop, but fuck . . .
there are so many fucking people.
I sit in the same spot for a while. Some guy,
who just paddles out, turns and goes right in front of me. No etiquette. It
dawns on me that surfing is the same as dating: Nice guys finish last. And
right now, I can’t be nice. I have to be greedy. “When fighting devils, you
have to be a devil yourself” (Ninja
Scroll 1993).
I’m no Jubei Kibagami, but I insert myself
in the middle of the lineup. I hate doing that, but I must. Because I’m
competing with half of San Clemente, my only chance is to sit deeper than
everyone else and hope that I can make it down the line.
A set wave comes; I’m deep and behind the
peak, but I have a chance at making it. This wave is almost five feet.
“You going?” says the guy on my outside.
“Yup,” I say.
“Woooh!” someone yells from the lineup.
I drop in, pumping on the highline. The lip’s
starting to chandelier down. I guy about to paddle in backs out, but I’m too
deep. The shoulder spills, and I’m caught behind the whitewash. Before bailing,
I catch a glimpse of a guy dropping in on the perfect spot, way on the
shoulder.
On the next set wave, I’m all alone and in
perfect position. I still paddle in a little deep just in case. I have a clean,
unmolested drop in, but I’m surfing with anger and frustration, losing all
style and fluidity. I hit the lip on my first turn, and it doesn’t feel as good
as my first turn this morning at Churches. On the next turn, a guy drops in on
me. “Hey!” I yell, and I mean YELL. I watch him pumping in front of me. He
ruins the face, forcing me to pump through his wake. I almost lose balance. I
yell, “FUCK!” and he pulls out. I get another turn, but my stoke isn’t there. I
fall behind the section, lose balance, and fall.
Back at the lineup, an Asian dude, with
short spiky hair, on a shortboard shakes his head and says, “I saw that guy
snake you.” He shakes his head again. “That’s fucked up.”
“Well,” I say, “as long as there’s some
wave left to ride. He kicked out at least.”
Then on the next wave, Spike goes, but he
doesn’t look. At the most critical, speedline of the wave, he cuts a guy off.
The wave closes out, and they are tangled on the inside. They both flip their boards
around, checking for damage, and after a while they are both smiling. Spike
paddles back towards me. I throw him a smirk, and he keeps his head down for
the rest of my time out here.
I still have to jockey for position, trying
to work my way around groms, men, old ass men, chicks, and they all have the
same looks on their faces. For the first time this morning, I feel bad about
having to be greedy. After all, who deserves the waves the most? I can be a
dick and say that the old guys have had a life time of waves, so I should have
priority. But looking at the faces in the lineup, I see their desperation for
at least one wave. Some of them haven’t caught shit the whole morning. How is
my plight any worse? Surfing is a selfish sport, but there has to be balance.
In a perfect world, we’d be sharing these waves, keeping track on how many we’ve
had, who’s been sitting where the longest, and calling people onto waves when
we know we’ve had our share. Unfortunately, the world isn’t perfect. This is
Trestles.
So I head back to camp and see Klaude
unloading his car. He’s armed with his ukulele and pulls out some wetsuits. Bri
and CC are nowhere to be found, and then I find them in the tent both lying on
the mattress. CC is bundled in Bri’s sleeping bag, and Bri is lying next to her
reading a book. They are talking about poop. Literally, poop. I watch them for
about fifteen seconds before saying, “You guys are on some serious, female-bonding-type
shit.”
Klaude walks up with some chips and salsa
and sits down on the bench. I tell him about my frustrating second go out while
pacing back and forth.
Klaude’s relaxed, strumming his uke, his
eyes hidden behind his circle-rimmed shades. “Dude,” he says. “Sit down.”
I sit, munching on some chips and salsa. I
stand up and start pacing again, talking about the surf. Our energy is at polar
opposites, and I know that I’m being a buzz kill, so I munch on more chips and
drink water.
Round
Three:
But I must go out again. We must go out
again. The tide is dropping, and the surf is getting better and better. At
1400, I slap on an extra thick coat of Vertra once more. I can only imagine the
neck tan that I must have now. In my reflection, I can already see that my face
has darkened multiple shades.
The rest of the crew is still getting ready
to surf, so I tell them that I’ll meet them at North Churches AKA Mons Pubis.
Mons Pubis is usually empty, but there are
a lot of people here. Looking out at Middles, the crowd has not thinned out
either. No spot is empty. Everyone knows. The world knows that Trestles is
working.
I sit wide off of the North Churches’
point, and I try to have a better attitude about it all. I want to smile. I
want to share. I want waves without being aggro.
A guy in a blue wetsuit scratches out on a
perfect left. He groans loudly as he misses the wave. He looks like he could be
a local boy from the islands.
“Looks fun,” I say.
“Yeah, bro! Much better than the waves we’ve
been having lately.” He’s definitely a San Clemente local, not Hawaii local.
But he’s cool.
I paddle south of him and say, “I’m not
back paddling you, just gonna sit over here.”
He smiles and says not to worry about it.
Just then, the best lefts that I’ve seen all day start to roll in. I pass up on
the first, letting a grom who’s deeper go for it. The next one is just as good.
I pop up, and the section builds. I’m pumping and building speed the whole
time, making it to the shoulder. I come out of the section fast and get a
front-side turn off the midline. I don’t have to bottom turn that much for it because
of my momentum, but the power generated from coming out of the section sticks
my feet to the board, going full rail into the carve and coming out of it fast.
I pump down the line to where the shoulder tapers off, put my rear foot over
the traction pad, and draw a tight-arching line into a wrap around cutback. I rebound
off the lip and get a little more distance before the wave closes out. Best
wave of the year, easy. It’s my best frontside, wrap around cutback since Java—my
first legitimate one ever.
I’m beyond stoked. My surf session is made.
I look around for my crew, but they aren’t here. Back at the lineup, I keep an
eye out for them, and then I see that I’ve drifted south, further into
Churches. CC, Bri, and KK are at Mons Pubis.
I paddle over towards them. “The lefts are
so nice!” says Klaude. I watch him paddle late into a spilling wave. He
disappears behind the right, and then his head emerges over the wave as he does
a slashing cutback, throwing some water out the back.
When he paddles back I say, “Aww yeah! I
saw you get a little cutty!” I draw an arch with my hand in the water,
splashing some of it up in the air.
“You know what the best part about that
wave was?” he says.
“What?”
“You saw it!” He laughs, but I know what he’s
talking about. It’s not often that our best waves are witnessed, and it feels
good to have validation from a close friend. I feel the same way.
And Mons Pubis keeps on working. With the
low tide, the waves are standing up more. It’s glassy and offshore. The water’s
so smooth that the sun reflecting off of the water pierces our eyes and faces.
It hurts just to look out, but it’s a pain worth going through for perfect
conditions.
The peak shifts further north towards Middles,
and we have it all to ourselves. I pick off the rights early, cancelling anyone
else who’s at North Churches. CC gets a wave, I lose track of KK who’s on the
inside coming back from his rides, and Bri dominates the peak, holding off
people from infiltrating our post.
Finally, some guys paddle over to hit on
Bri and sit in the lineup with us, but we’ve had so many waves that it doesn’t
even matter.
I watch Bri go on a critical drop on a
set-wave right. I think that she wipes out, but then she stands up, fighting
the choppy face all the way to shore.
Klaude and I split a peak, he going left
and I right. I get two turns, and then that’s when I feel completely depleted.
I’m done. I’ve been surfing all day, and there’s nothing left in the tank. That
empty-stomach feeling comes back, and there’s no way that I’m going back out to
duckdive the sets.
It’s 1615, and KK and I trail behind Bri
and CC on the way back to camp. When we get there, we take our time drying off,
marveling at the beautiful sunset, long rights still going off at Churches, and
the glaze that we all have from an epic session. The waves weren’t necessarily “epic”
since that’s a misused term, but it was epic because Bri and I got to share it
with our friends. It wouldn’t have been the same to have called them on the
phone afterwards, telling them how good it was. They were here. They made the commitment
to come out and make the drive, just for the day, and it was more than worth
it.
We head to the showers, where in honor of
Fransaucian tradition, KK busts out the beers. We drink in the showers, talking
shit from over the cinder-block separator. From there it’s AYCE sushi in
Mission Viejo, all of us.
In the middle of dinner, I have to take a
shit twice. Looking in the mirror, I see that my face is sunburned despite how
much Vertra I had put on. My eyes are bloodshot red, my nose is wrinkly like it’s
about to peel, and my face and neck are so contrasted in shades that I look
like a freak.
I finish washing my hands, smiling at the
reflection in the mirror.
It was worth it.
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