Loc:
Manhattan Beach
Time:
0700-0900
Conditions:
2-3 FT+, sunny, warm, glassy
I expect a small day of surf, so Bri and I
drive separately to the beach (since she has work). She has the NSP and I bring
the 6’10 Becker board, the next biggest board in my quiver.
When we get down to the beach, we see that
the surf is standing up pretty well, peaky despite the incoming tide.
Vietnam-Vet Mike says hi to us as we pass a
bench on the strand, his morning hangout spot. “Where you been?” he says. I
explain that I’ve been at Porto in the evenings. He points to Bri. “She’s been
tearing it up!” he says, confirming Bri’s local celebrity status, overtaking my
own.
The tide forecast must have scared people
away. Even the high school grommies are thin right now.
While the pack of locals sits further
north, we have the lifeguard tower all to ourselves.
The rights are working this morning, and I
paddle into them. They mush out a little towards the inside, so I try to
cutback to stick with the spilling lip to keep momentum, but I bog out anyway.
Bri, of course, has enough board to go all
the way to shore.
Wave after wave, the same thing happens.
Turns out that the Becker is bigger than my other shortboards, more volume
easily, but its shortboard shape isn’t good for mushy surf. At least for me.
I’m sure that there are pros out there who can get an air out of one-foot
closeouts, but I’m just a Barney.
Once Bri leaves, we swap boards, and my
whole session changes. Mike paddles out, and we trade off on waves. Two bald
brothers sit on the inside, scratching out or just unable to get any distance.
I get a left, walking the board, doing everything technical that my skill level
is allowing me to do to get down the line. One of the bald brothers is right in
my line, and what does he do? Absolutely nothing. He could at least paddle a
couple of feet forward to get out of my way, but he sits there stubbornly
wearing a scowl, his eyebrows pointed down. Earlier, I had even paddled away
from him so as not to hog the spot. Even though he’s being a dick, I feel sorry
for him, and then I feel like an asshole myself. . .
How many times have I sat there, upset that
I wasn’t getting my waves while
watching some other guy (usually a longboarder) get all the rides. Today I
could be that longboarder, but I did my best to share. I know enough etiquette
from experience to not take every fucking wave. Just because I can doesn’t mean
that I should. I have to share to promote a positive surf-friendly environment,
the so called “Aloha” of the art.
The guy’s mad. Part of me wants to say
something like, “At least get out of the way.” I do whenever I’m in the way.
The tide’s just too high for a potato chip thruster right now. He’s on the
wrong equipment, but he doesn’t know, and he blames me.
And what’s the point? It’s so mushy and
hard to get down the line without volume right now.
I watch his brother catch an inside wave,
and he’s pumping so hard to stay in it that he looks like an angry gorilla
stomping his feet and banging his fists on an invisible surface.
Dude
. . . wrong board, man. Wrong board. You need to be on something else.
Maybe one day he’ll figure it out.
I paddle away from Angry Man. Back in the
lineup, I let the next wave go. He scratches out, left behind and defeated,
finally giving up his stroke with a frustrating splash. I can’t see his face,
but his shakes from side to side in fits of frustration.
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