Loc:
Manhattan Beach
Time:
0800-0945
Crew: Bri,
Klaude, Cheryl
Conditions:
3-4 FT, sunny, onshore, scattered, fast.
After dinging the Kainalu Fish yesterday, I
went straight home and stripped all of its wax off. Whenever I take a broken
board to Rick, it’s the one only thing that he requests of me . . . that and at
least two hours of man time, which involves a couple of beers, looking at swell
pics on Surfline, or going through his photo album that has pics from his Baja
surf trips back in the eighties.
Once that was done, I had to go through my
quiver and choose the best substitute for the next day of surf. I was expecting
for the high tide to make things swampy again, so I stripped the wax off of my
Motorboat Too and put a fresh coat on. It’s only 5’9, and I had bought it at a
time when I couldn’t appreciate what that board was really made for. Pulling it
out of its Creatures’ board sock, the board looked tiny. Would I really be able
to catch waves on this little leaf?
#
Even though it’s dark outside and not even
0600, I get a text from Rick saying that the surf is 3-4 feet but with light
onshore wind. I stagger out of bed and take a peek out the curtains. Sure
enough, the trees are swaying. I tell myself that there’s supposed to be a bump
in swell, that the onshore wind might ruin the shape a little but not
completely blow it out.
As my car climbs Imperial Avenue onto
Airport Hill, I see the American flag flapping hard in the wind towards the
east. Son of a bitch. It’s howling.
The scene at Manhattan Beach is morose.
There is free parking everywhere. A guy who has the V.I.P spot, right in front
of the water, reverses out and goes home. The sky is clear, but the ocean is a
mess. The wind is blowing consistent three-foot crumbling lines onto shore. Not
one soul is out.
Bri and I try Porto next and spot Rick’s
van. We figure that he’s out there surfing somewhere.
Wagner is on the inside, killing the rampy
waves, busting airs. There are a few heads at the main peaks, but the shape is
so junky.
If I hadn’t had a crappy session yesterday,
I would paddle out, but Bri and I already pulled an onshore session on Friday
evening, and I’m not in the mood for another one.
Some of the DRC, my dying surf club, had
said that they’d paddle out at our local break, so I shoot them all a text to
let them know about the wind.
So it’s back the apartment. Bri and I are
driving east on Grand Avenue, when we notice that the flags have stopped
flapping. “I think the wind just died,” I say.
“Flip a bitch,” says Bri.
Again, we’re back where we had started. The
surface conditions have cleaned up a little.
“At least the sun makes it look better,”
says Bri.
Klaude and I Vox back and forth. He’s at
Venice, looking at two-foot crap. “I’ll go if you go,” he says, and that’s where
he hooks me. Two surf bros having each other’s backs. Looking out at the choppy
conditions, I predict a shitty and frustrating session, but having a battle
buddy with you makes a huge difference. Bri and I watch it for another ten
minutes before I reply to Klaude. Suddenly, there’s a tap on my back. Klaude’s
already here. And not just Klaude, but Cheryl and Shan also show up.
#
It’s Motorboat Too time, and paddling out
on this thing feels so weird. It teeters side to side on each stroke. The
inside is consistent, and it pierces down into the water easily when I duckdive
it. It’s gonna be a shitty session, but who cares? I have the homies with me.
I’m not expecting to catch shit.
But . . . the conditions clean up just a
little bit more. The tide hits this window where it makes the peaks hold shape
better. The onshore wind creates these scattered wind peaks that actually have
push. My first wave scoops me up so fast. I’m surprised that my timing’s not as
off as I had expected, and I do my first shortboard cutback in a while. The
wave mooshes out immediately, so I don’t get to rebound off the lip, but I’m so
stoked that I can actually ride this board.
Refamiliarizing myself with my Motorboat
Too, I can feel how the flat rocker gives me speed. I haven’t ridden with a
thruster setup in a while, but I’m managing the looseness of the board as well.
Klaude catches wave’s on his C.I. Neck
Beard, and Bri is selling the surf on her NSP. She backs out on some waves,
which is understandable because of how fast they are breaking, but she manages
to position herself for some down-the-line bombs. Out of everyone, she gets the
most waves.
A five-foot right pops up, and local vet,
Uncle Miles, pulls off a critical drop at the peak. I hoot him on, yelling,
“Mi-ii-ii-les!”
Compared to yesterday, there is only a
fraction of surfers out today, and we have most of the break to ourselves.
Cheryl doesn’t surf much nowadays, and I
don’t blame her. Not everyone has the time to surf, nor can everyone instill
the passion and love for the art inside of himself. Back in the day, at the
height of her surfing, she was charging. Maybe not “ripping,” but she would go
for the bombs. Today, she’s apprehensive, paddling for waves that obviously won’t
break.
Only a half hour after paddling out, she
looks at me and says, “I think I’m going in early,” and leaves.
Another DRC member, Christina, was supposed
to come out, but she’s a no show.
Despite the casualties, I have the funnest
session I’ve had in a while, even with the estranged Shan. The rest of us left
in the water exchange the most genuine surf-stoked smiles. We go for waves
late, wiping out. We get caught inside, taking sets on the head, but it’s all
fun. The rides are short but rippable, and we almost didn’t paddle out. Bri and
I could be at home right now, sitting on our couch, watching the weather on the
news, but we’re here. Thanks to a friend who pulled the trigger and said, “I’ll
go if you go.”
#
My wave of the day is a right. Uncle
Miles scratches out on the first wave of a two-wave set. The second one behind
it is much bigger. I’m furthest out the back, in prime position to paddle out
to meet it. I don’t know who, but someone yells, “Go!” It feels like a late
take off. It’s a juicy wave, just like the one Uncle Miles had earlier. The
timing on my paddle and pop up is perfection. The lip wants to roll me forward,
but I’m up, sliding down the fast face while it’s still open. Perhaps my Mini
Driver would have worked better in these conditions, for the waves aren’t as
mooshy as expected. The board’s low rocker send my flying down the face fast—I almost
lose it. Somehow, I muscle through the speed and climb the face, pivoting hard
on the tail. I whip my nose back down to six o’clock. It’s the first shortboard
backhand snap that I’ve had in a while, and to pull it off with so much speed
feels so critical and clutch. I regain composure down the line and crank out a
second turn.
To say that I’m beyond stoked is an understatement.
At 170 lbs., the most out of shape that I’ve been since my last trip to Indo, I
can’t believe that I’m surfing so well on this board.
It sucks that I had dinged my Kainalu Fish
yesterday, but if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be on my Motorboat Too. My fish won’t be
forsaken, but I think I’ll leave it up in the rafters before bringing it to
Rick. I’ll let it hang there for a while, so, you know, it will be all dried up
in the inside and stuff. . .
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