Loc: El
Porto
Crew: Bri,
Dave T., Gary C., John A.
Time:
0700-0915
Conditions:
2-3 FT, inconsistent, offshore, sunny, crowded.
For the first time this winter I’m finally
in a consistent surfing groove. Bri and I have been dawn patrolling for the
last four days in a row. I actually go to bed early now, which for me means
before one in the morning. It’s always hard getting up when it’s cold, but my
body is adjusting to the surf routine again, shaking off any discombobulation
by the time the toothbrush hits my teeth.
Bri and I check Manhattan Beach first at a
break a bit south of Porto. We get here at about 0630. This spot is usually
crowded when the swell is pumping, but on this cool clear morning, there is
only one guy out. Small, one-foot closeouts break over the low tide. From the
parking lot, only four guys congregate, watching the surf. Usually this lot is
packed with its small crowd of dedicated vets, but the lot is empty.
Klaude can’t surf today because he’s sick.
I get texts from Christina and Shan, asking where Bri and I are paddling out. I
shoot out the bat signal for Porto.
I hate paying for meters, and luckily for
me there’s one free parking spot on Highland and 41st Street. I bust
a bitch and score on the free parking.
Now the rest of the morning is easy. I don’t
have to race against the Gestapo-like meter maids or the street cleaners, so
Bri and I take our time changing.
Down in the lot, I look for Rick’s van but
can’t find him. The surf is clean, and the tide is much better too since it’s lower
now. I’d say that the break between 45th and the bathrooms has the
best peak right now because there’s already a thick crowd sitting on it. I walk
south from the 42nd Street Tower and watch a three-foot peak peel on
the outside. To think that Surfline rated today one-to-three feet with poor-to-fair
conditions, but I don’t see the “poor” at all. Sure, it would be nice if we had
a little more size, but Porto isn’t looking all that bad with a faded swell and
a very small northwest. Right now Porto’s working like the famed magnet that
old timers have pumped it up to be, attracting swell energy from the west and
northwest. Just driving five minutes north from the first spot I had checked
has made a major difference.
There’s a short stocky guy going left. He
looks like a gorilla on a surfboard, pumping hard with his arms dangling low to
his knees. Upon closer examination I see it’s the homie Gary. Next to him I see
John A. and Dave T. but still no Rick.
John gets a left as well, dropping in well
behind the section, but he pumps and climbs over the whitewash to the open
face. The surf isn’t big, but it’s so clean and glassy. I have the feeling it’s
going to be a good day.
Bri and I paddle up to Gary and then wave
at John and Dave. It turns out that Rick is on the beach watching his youngest
daughter, according to John.
The moshpit of surfers remains at 45th,
but I can see why they’re there. The peaks are a hair bigger there, and clean
right handers line up all the way to shore. But at the same time, there are at
least three guys on every wave with lots of people on the inside, so I’m glad I’m
by the swing set south of the restaurant.
And the peaks roll in, but a lot of them
are walled. We could use a little more water on the tide push. Regardless, I
manage to get down the line on a left, pumping and sticking the landing from a
check off the closing lip. Feels good.
It doesn’t take long before the crowd gets
thicker, but I Understand. With the unmolested sun peeking out over the houses
on the strand, the air temp goes up a couple of degrees. It’s a classic SoCal
beach day. The wind is a light offshore, and it’s supposed to be like this all
day, so who wouldn’t paddle out?
But the incoming crowd gets to me. I
hesitate on a left because there are so many guys on the shoulder. I pop up
anyway, but I’m late, riding the wave poorly and missing the rippable sections.
More and more surfers enter the water, and the huge empty gap between the main
crowd and us is now filled. Even John and Gary can’t get any waves to
themselves, so they stay busy by moving around until I realize that they’re
gone.
Bri is handling the crowd well on her NSP
as usual. I’m frustrated, and Bri’s presence is more like a flicker or a strobe
because she’s either on a wave, all the way on the inside paddling back, or
smiling before she disappears again.
However, by 0830 a lot of people call it a
morning and leave. The first shift of surfers is done. Sunday obligations?
Maybe the tide got too high? I can see why people are frustrated. Even though
there are waves, they are soft. Still rippable if a good wave comes your way,
but ideally it’s the longboarders and guys with the fishes who are killing it.
Suddenly, I wish I had one of Cheryl’s or Christina’s fishes. A fish would be
perfect for today.
Before the changing of the guard, Bri and I
have the spot to ourselves, and I’m able to catch an unchallenged left. It’s
racy, but I’m able to pump and keep up with it, connecting two turns before it
closes out. And that’s the session. Wave of the day right there and at the
right time too. The whole morning was worth it—everything from waking up to
this morning. Worth it.
By 0900 the second shift arrives. From as
far as the smoke stacks to 33rd Street and Parks, all I see are
surfers.
Bri and I have drifted south to Rosecrans
near another pack, and that’s when I make the call to leave. We’ve surfed for
over two hours and caught the best window of surf before the tide gets too high.
On the sand, we turn around and look at the
ocean. Is this really winter? I’m roasting in my 4/3. I could have 3/2’d it
today, and I mean leaky 3/2.
At Rosecrans, Don Kadowaki’s on one of his
fatter boards going left. I mean, the man is doing work—carve after carve, top
to bottom, spray out the back. He’s only on a three footer, but he’s surfing it
so well. He does a wrap around cutback, but the wave dissolves on the inside, so
he kicks out and paddles back to the lineup. Don usually surfs more south, but
he’s here. Everyone’s here. Porto is the place to be today, and I’m glad I made
it.
#
A truck pulls up to wait for Bri and me to
finish changing. Another truck pulls up, the guy inside asks if we’re leaving. “There’s
already somebody waiting,” I say. And as Bri and I drive away, cars and trucks
with surfboards, inside or on the roof, patrol the streets outside of the
parking lot like sharks smelling blood in the water. It isn’t until I make the
right on 45th to get back to El Segundo that I see the lot closed
off by the Manhattan Beach meter maids. A tow truck sluggishly makes its way through
the narrow streets, a black Toyota Prius its first victim, perhaps the first of
many today.
“Don’t you love that feeling?” says Bri. “Everyone
else is here so late, and we’re already done!”
It’s only 0930. We’ll be home for breakfast
in five minutes. We’ll be at the gym after that. And by noon, we’ll have the
rest of the day to scratch our asses.
Driving north on Vista Del Mar, I see a stand-up
paddle boarder at Hammerlands wearing shorts with no shirt. It’s a good winter
day in the South Bay.
No comments:
Post a Comment