THE GOOD, THE BAD, THE AGGRO, MON 07APR2014

Loc: EL PORTO, 45^th Street

Time: 0745-0930

Conditions: 2-4FT occasional 5, sunny, offshore, walled with tide drop.

     It’s 0700, and I’m looking down at the surf, not at Porto but at my other spot. There are only a few heads in the lineup, and even though the tide is still at mid level, and on its way down, the surf is small and weak. To make matters worse, I have to take a shit, but it doesn’t feel like it’s quite brewed through yet, so I hop in the wagon with the intention of going to Porto, and it’s that little “hop” that jars something loose in my anus, so I park down by the bathrooms, where there’s a yellow sign outside of the door that says Closed for Cleaning.

     I’m clenching. A big Mexican guy with a goatee comes out of the bathroom, looks at me, and says, “You can go in.”

#

     I’m in the lineup at El Porto, 45^th Street. From on top of the hill it didn’t look too crowded, but I’ve surfed here when it’s elbow-to-elbow, and there’s at least some space this morning.

     I’m on my Motorboat Too again, and I patrol the inside for little two-foot runners that offer me some pumps, small wrap arounds, and distance all the way to shore. Small but fun.

     Duckdiving the next set, I see this guy go right on a racy wave. He takes the highline, which makes sense—he can maybe get a speed drop and catch up with the section. After resurfacing from my next duckdive, I hear someone yelling from the outside. I didn’t hear what he said, but he’s facing the inside, yelling at the surfer who had taken the highline on a right, and this is where the El Porto daytime drama begins:

     The guy on the outside is heavy set and wide. If Barney Rubble was Fred Flintstone’s height, had brown hair, and surfed, this is how he would look.

     The surfer on the inside bobs in the whitewash, reaching for his leash. His skin is pale, hair golden. I’ve never seen him before. Now there’s an energy in the air, but a bad one, like its gone stale.

     Goldie paddles back to the lineup and mutters something softly.

     Rubble furiously faces him, splashing his arms with hard thrusting paddle strokes and says, “YOU’RE THAT FUCKING STUPID AREN’T YOU! YOU’RE A FUCKING KOOK! YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU’RE DOING! ALL YOU HAD TO DO WAS DROP DOWN A LITTLE, BUT NOOOO, YOU HAD TO ALMOST FUCKING RUN ME OVER!”

     It’s a beautiful, sunny, offshore day, and there’s a lull that makes the ocean so glassy as if it were a green lake. In this stillness you can hear a pin drop, but instead, as far as the faces I can see all around me, everyone is honing in on this tirade.

     “I SHOULD FUCKING BEAT YOUR ASS,” Rubble says before paddling away.

     “Yeah,” says Goldie. “Fine!”

     Rubble returns, shouting, just inches from Goldie’s face. He scoffs and says, “NAH-AHH. YOU DON’T WANT NONE OF THIS. YOU KNOW WHAT? I’M JUST GONNA SIT ON YOU THE WHOLE TIME.”

     In the distance, Wagner paddles for them. He goes in between them, holds up his open palm to give a pause for his words, motions towards Goldie and says, “You’re wrong.”

     After the next wave, Goldie disappears.

#

     Everyone in the lineup is quiet. I was closest to Goldie during the confrontation. I’m still unclear as to what he had done.

     Now I’m next to Rubble. I wonder if I ever doing anything in the lineup that bad to incite a reaction like such. I know there are times when I feel like pulling a “Rubble,” but what just took place was too much.

     I watch Rubble catch more waves. He’s on some kind of fun board or a high performance longboard with orange and yellow on it. Sitting on the outside, he turns to me, and starts pointing to where the wave is going to break. I had a feeling that I was in the right spot. I turn and go, and next thing you know, I’m flying down the line on my Motorboat Too, kissing the lip with check turns all the way to the inside. It’s one of the longest and funnest lefts that I’ve had in a while.

     Again, Rubble calls me into another wave. How odd . . . here’s the guy who just went ape shit, and now he’s sharing the surf cordially.

#

     At 0845 the surf picks up. On the way back out, a set appears, and the weak waves have turned round and dumpy. I duckdive and get scooped up and over while underwater, even hitting the bottom. The Sandwich Shack and the bathrooms are even going off, five-foot round sections, maybe not good enough for a clean barrel but good enough to drive inside of them with room. I pull into a left, but it closes out so fast.

     I go from being on the right board to the wrong one an hour after paddling out. I wouldn’t even use my Tokoro in these conditions; I need my Lost Mini Driver.

#

     Back up the hill, I’m still stoked for the session that I had, but I learned the cons of free parking that’s further from the surf. I wasn’t able to run in real quick and just switch. Wrong equipment today. And I still don’t know what to make about Mr. Rubble or Goldie. There are times when beginners make mistakes that not only endanger themselves but endanger others. Rubble could’ve said what he had to, but he didn’t have to do it the way he did. Yet, sometimes those aggro guys have great etiquette, so long as you don’t burn them?

     Eh. I put my board down, getting ready for a hot rinse from my water jug, and that’s when I feel something stuck to the bottom of my foot. Motherfucker. It’s a huge glob of tar.