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| Never underestimate the surf, even when it's high tide and it looks like this. |
Loc: El
Porto
Time:
0900-1030
Conditions:
3-5 FT, scattered peaks, high tide, consistent, punchy, fast.
I’m choosing to surf with my fish today,
and why not? Looking down at 45th Street, I’m stoked to see that the
wind has finally calmed down. Even though it’s onshore right now, it’s light.
The ocean is far from glassy, but it’s rideable. I don’t see anyone in the lineup
“selling it,” but the high-tide peaks are big, fat, and rideable. Why not use
the fish?
It’s a pristine day with a pristine parking
spot. I had checked the cams in the morning and waited for this window of
opportunity, right now, right here, this is where the surf lull ends and the
surf stoke begins.
I must be hot shit in my disco suit.
“Disco” meaning that my Hurley wetsuit is loud as shit with the white shoulder
pads. Okay, but I’m not. In fact, I admit, I’m a Barney, and I’ll prove it to
you . . .
The Porto parking lot is only a quarter
full at this nine o’clock hour. There are barely a dozen heads out from the
bathrooms to 45th, and I wonder if they’ve all been waiting for this
window too.
Down at the shore, as opposed to viewing
the ocean from atop the hill, the surf looks more walled and sectiony that it
had earlier. It’s a long paddle out. A shortboarder in the impact zone ditches
his board, pinches his nostrils, and dives under the wall of whitewash
stampeding over him.
But when you’re hot shit, you time your
paddle out right and make it out to the lineup unscathed like me.
Don’t ask me if this is a windswell or a
groundswell, but I’ll take a guess and say that this is windswell. The peaks
are coming in consistently, scattered, and mixed with walls and shoulders. The
high tide makes the waves appear soft, but there is size. Due to the legit
five-foot faces, soft waves still need to be respected.
As soon as I reach the lineup, I
turn-and-go on a mooshy three footer. The face turns into marble white foam
from the last wave that had swept through. The surface is choppy, so I draw my
torso back into a sloppy cutback. I’m standing too far forward. My arc is too
long, but I still rebound off of the lip and milk the rest of the wave as it
dissipates.
Retrieving my board, all the way on the
inside again, I feel great.
Great . . . there’s a set coming my way. My
fish is wide and thick, giving me plenty of speed. Duckdiving my first wall of
foam, the nose of my board shoots up and jerks back towards shore like a cat
thrown into water. What the fuck?
Again on the next wave. I had underestimated the surf. Yes, these are high tide
conditions, but there seems to be a lot of water moving around.
Back at the lineup, I catch another left,
and it’s another ugly ride. Regardless, I at least get distance, cutting back
into the wave on the end section before it fizzles out, but every wave has its
price.
The inside is a frickin’ treadmill. I
haven’t been worked like this in a while. Duckdiving my fish feels like I’m trying
to duckdive a wide table or a fucking stage. Winded with heaving breaths, I
tell myself that this is at least good for my cardio.
Some guy says something to me in the water.
I can barely hear him because I have my earplugs in.
“It’s only this left,” he says. “No
rights.”
“You gotta be picky,” I say. I usually
don’t talk much in the lineup because sometimes surfers are too into their
egos, you’d be lucky enough just to get a smile, but it’s always refreshing to
meet someone cool in the lineup, which in this case I’m down to geek out and
run my mouth.
Just as he had said, “There are no rights,”
but there is a “right” right in front of me.
Picture the perfect high-tide section
during a scattered session. I’m right on the shoulder, and the wave looks flat
where I’m sitting. I paddle and kick as the wave hits the sandbar. The flat
shoulder jacks up, sprouting an open face that lines up. Popping up, I see the
other surfers over the shoulder, looking back at me. In this case, the fish is
perfect. It’s gotten me into this wave early and with stability from the
shoulder, but now the face is standing up. Drawing a deep bottom turn, I climb
the face and get my first top turn, whipping my nose back down the face and tossing
some water out the back. The face is still open, so I get a second one.
I’m beyond stoked and beyond my one-turn
quota. I can’t wait to be in the lineup again. (Don’t act like you haven’t been
there, when others recognize you for a good ride and say, “nice wave.” It’s not
just me.) I want to paddle through the lineup, knowing that I caught the wave
of the day, but this is where the beat down begins.
Looking over the next wave, everyone is
darting for the outside. I had caught the first wave of the set, and I’m in the
perfect spot to get pounded. With the tide going down, the lips are starting to
get a little round, true Porto style. I duckdive and get obliterated by the
lip, getting sucked down so far that I hit bottom. Second wave is brutal. Third
wave the board is yanked from my grip. I look around. I’m the only jackass that’s
caught inside. Hyperventilating, my instinct is half-telling me to turn around
and call the session, but I can’t. Too much pride here. Surfers on the shore can’t
see me turn and bail like that.
And then I finally do make it back out.
Fuckin’ A. My mouth’s hanging open like an elderly guy who’s just been ass
raped. Porto’s made me pay for each wave that I’ve caught. Everyone else around
me’s on shortboards. Wrong choice on my part. I’ve been fish-blinded.
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