DINGED THE FISH, SAT 29MAR2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach, 26^th Street

Time: 0645-0900

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 2-3 FT, sunny, glassy, swampy.

     Bri and I score free parking on Rosecrans. Looking towards the surf break, consistent three-foot waves are lining up and peeling. Fuckin’ A. Excellent gamble on first light. Looks like the tide’s not killing it after all, at least not for another hour.

     We hump towards 26^th Street because that’s where Lost is doing a demo day with their boards, and some of our friends will be there.

     And the surf looks fun, much better than Surfline’s forecast. From Rosecrans all the way to 32^nd Street are empty peaks. We stop just north of 26^th, where there’s already a thick crowd gathered. Once we paddle out, the surf ceases.

     There were initially three of us here, now other surfers stage on the sand and infiltrate our lineup. On top of that, the surf noticeably slows down. Already? Fuckin’ tide. DAMN YOU! 

     The waves get fat right away, taking away the functionality of several peaks. Now 26^th is the only consistent peak, and it’s crowded with surfers on neon-green Lost boards.

     The scene makes me sick. I had just surfed in a thick crowd yesterday morning, and I came here today, partly, to escape it. The Lost demo brings in more heads than usual. Of course, the local vets are ripping the shit out of 26^th—Roy, Randy, and a bunch of other sniveling jackals. All these guys are cool, but the surf isn’t consistent enough for everybody.

     Gary waves at me from the pack. I wave back, but I don’t even want to approach the crowd.

     Bri and I paddle past them and sit on the south side of 26^th, where we’re able to score some waves to ourselves. Some waves are pushing through the high tide, starting off mooshy and reforming on the inside. I can’t really turn, so all I can do is try and draw a good line.

     On my last wave, I kick my board away from me on the shorepound. I walk up to Bri to give her a post-surf kiss, when I notice the nose of my board is flexed up, and there’s a jagged line where the lamination is ripped.

     “I think that must have just happened right now,” says Bri. “Looks like you fell pretty hard.”

     But I didn’t fall hard. I recovered quite well, but my board . . . I had flung it forward, and with all its volume, and the weight of the crashing wave behind it, it impacted into the sand too hard.

     Fuck . . . I had gotten away with doing this in the past, and here’s the hard Barney lesson that I’m going to have to learn: don’t ride your board all the way into the shore pound.

     My fish’s life flashes before my eyes. Baby, I had just barely bought you. And now I’ll have to crawl back to the other boards in my quiver, asking for forgiveness. There is only one way you can kill love, and it’s through neglect.

     What the “fuck” does that have to do with surfing?