Loc:
Manhattan Beach
Crew: Bri
Time:
0700-0900
Conditions:
2-3 FT, low tide, cold, inconsistent, crowded
Two weeks since I last surfed. Two weeks
nursing this stubborn slice under my toe. Two weeks listening to Rick and his
homeboys talk about how good the surf has been. Two weeks later, and my cut has
still not healed. Two weeks too long.
Klaude told me today that he feels like the
guy who doesn’t surf. Well, I’ve been that guy lately, not by choice either.
But it’s so easy to fall out of a surf groove and surf identity.
Sleeping in, watching Bri shut my apartment
door with a hot water jug in her hand; picking up a book and reading down its
face instead of sliding down the face of a wave. Might as well be productive.
How about my paddling arms? Will they
remember? My condition. Has it deteriorated?
#
Dawns:
Don’t take dawn patrols for granted.
They’re not so easy of a habit to delve back into.
Grabbing my gear, I shut and lock my garage
door, realizing that I’ve forgotten my wetsuit and a bunch of other
necessities. “Fuck!” I say. I open it back up again, triple check my equipment.
I drive off, passing by Bri who’s stepping
out of her car. “Meet you there!” she says.
That’s my chick. More of a damn surfer than
I am nowadays.
Driving down Grand Avenue, the El Segundo
waves look small and weak. The Jetty looks weak too, but upon passing 45th
and looking down, I see that I am deceived. My view is quick as a flash, but it’s
a flash of peaks.
#
Where I’d
Rather Surf:
I send out the courtesy text. KK, Khang,
Dais. They all work. No surf today. Looking down from Highland Avenue, I only
see two guys in the water. It’s 0640. There are peaks here too, scattered and
sectiony, but I have a feeling it might improve with the tide. Nonetheless,
there are waves.
Porto looked better, but I’d rather not
deal with the Porto crowd on my first day back.
I walk down the hill in my flip flops,
trying to baby my wound. Bri walks out of the parking lot just in time to
intercept me. The top deck of her NSP has a thick coat of green wax, wax that
Cheryl gave her at our Christmas Party.
#
Welcome To
Grom Town:
Did I say that there were only two guys
out? Well, multiply that by thirty. I swear, it’s like high school out there in
the lineup. The break in front of the lifeguard tower even has groms in
different colored rashguards, not sure if it’s a contest or a test from their
coach.
But
the groms . . . the same ones that I’ve seen here in years past, when they were
little shits to being the bigger shits they are now. Their surfing already far
surpasses mine. A Kolohe Andino lookalike with purple hair busts a frontside,
three-sixty air. Other kids are doing massive carves, connecting them into
cutbacks.
Fuckin’ A. What do I have on these kids? I’m
not sure. I’d like to think that I’ve had way worse wipeouts. I’m talkin’
lifetime achievement award wipeouts. But that’s it.
#
Look At
Her:
Bri . . . she’s not the noob that she was
when I had first taken her out to Palos Verdes on our first date over a year
and a half ago. She sure as shit ain’t the noob that I took to Old Mans,
struggling to pop up.
She paddles right past me, heading towards
a spot that she’s eyed out for herself. Her body is positioned on her board
with the knowledge of knowing where the “sweet spot” is. The gaze she fixes over
the water before her is confident in her route. And each stroke of her arm that
breaks the water’s surface in perfect cadence is done so with a purpose. She’s
earned her title as a surfer girl.
We trade off on a couple of waves, but she
gets much better rides. Three good ones to be exact, despite the crowd, despite
the forty-five minutes that she has before work. After her last wave, she turns
around and waves.
#
Square One:
Here a grom, there a grom, everywhere a
grom grom.
“You catch any fun ones?” asks an older
Japanese guy next to me.
“I got one,” I say. “Earlier. Got only like
. . . one turn. Hopefully we can get this place to ourselves when the kids
leave!”
That ride I got earlier. It wasn’t much,
but it was my best wave of the day. I was in position for a perfect left-hand
shoulder. Three feet. I went. A chick was on the inside, paddling towards the
lineup watching me. I bottom turned and forced one gouge, weight of my whole
body into the tail, arms flailing, mean torque. But that’s it.
A whistle sounds from the shore. Minutes
later, all the kids are paddling in. The waves do too.
Something happens with the tide. Either it’s
bottomed out too much or maybe the swell has officially backed off into a
twenty-four hour lull, but the spot that I have all to myself has become
inconsistent.
Regardless, when the waves do appear, I’m
in the wrong place. Old Japanese guy gets two slashing turns on a right. Next
set, he gets two cutbacks on a left, his old ass throwing buckets out the back.
A little after 0800, I see the local vets
paddle out just south of me in front of the brick house. There’s Roy, Ross,
Toru, Vietnam Vet Mike, and some other familiar faces. It’s more consistent
there. More crowded too, but by 0830 half of them are gone.
I struggle to get more than one turn, and I’m
lucky if I’m not on a closeout.
The saltwater exfoliates the pruned, surf-starved
skin under my feet. I rub my toes, pulling away skin like layers on an onion.
My cut stings.
#
At 0900, I’m done. Back at my car, I look
at my cut, and the wound is now saturated from the ocean, winking at me every
time I tug my toe. Or maybe the slice is a smile. The jokes on me. I get it. Perhaps
a mouth saying, “Feed me more waves, muthafucka!”
And then there’s tomorrow, for which I have
school, where I’ll be dawn patrolling the school library and not the beach.
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