Loc:
Manhattan Beach
Time:
0800-1000
Crew: Bri,
Klaude, Tom, Toru, every other usual local.
Conditions:
2-3 FT+, sunny, crowded, scattered peaks.
Since the surf was tiny in the South Bay
yesterday, I had already been contemplating on surfing HB on Saturday morning.
A phone call from Tom had pushed me over the edge, asking if anyone was going
down south. “I’ll go,” I had said. And that was the plan. Meet at Goldenwest at
first light.
At 0530 I wake up with a raging piss-boner.
After I pee, I lie back down. I don’t even remember hitting the snooze button
on my alarm that is set for 0600, but all I know is that the next moment I open
my eyes, my whole apartment is lit up by the sun. It’s 0700.
I hate flaking. I pride myself in being a
man of my word. I open up my Surfline App just to see what the surf is doing,
and wouldn’t you know . . . Huntington Beach looks like ass. Of course, I
already have numerous texts from Rick that El Porto is good this morning.
Tom calls on cue, telling me that he’s
about to park and that he’ll meet me in the water near Goldenwest. I check Surfline’s
local report, and it confirms that the local conditions are good. None the
less, I’m ready to make the drive south, to commit to meeting with a friend,
and that’s when the phone ring. The surf is shit, says Tom. He’s coming back to
the South Bay.
Passing the tanks at Porto, I see well
defined peaks rolling in, at least in the three foot range. It doesn’t even
look that crowded yet, and north of 45th is still desolate. I have
half the mind to surf here, but I’m hoping that my favorite spot further south
is doing it too.
Bri and I score free parking, and the surf
here is . . . just a little bit smaller, but it’s doable.
I partly curse myself. One, I should’ve
been up at first light to catch this good window of surf from the start, but if
I had woken up early, I would’ve been at HB right now, surfing crumbs. So all
in all, waking up late actually worked out—a blessing in disguise.
There’s a pack of surfers in front of a
spot I like to call the Brick House, so Bri and I sit further south where the
crowd is thinner. The peaks are scattered and sectiony, but there are some
decent shoulders to be had. It’s two-to-three feet and consistent, and for it I
have my Motorboat Too.
Bri catches waves easily, going down the
line, all the way to shore. I catch a right, feeling how much speed this board
has. I force a top turn, throw out some water, and catch a small floater at the
end section. The next wave is a left, a set wave, and I paddle in a little
late, forcing a guy on the shoulder to back out for me, but I lose balance on
the pop up—too late—and wipeout.
It’s fun riding this board, but I’m only
now feeling and realizing what the proper use of this board is. It’s really
meant for slow gutless surf, or it’s better equipped for point break waves. I
do okay with it on my backhand, but forehand turns are hard.
On a left, I pump to the shoulder, and
crank out a flaring carve, that I usually pull off on my Mini Driver, but it
doesn’t feel right on this board, more like I’m just pushing the tail and
pivoting the board with no style. I need more time to figure this board out,
and I may have to take better account of what conditions to ride it in.
Just outside of the main pack, closer to
Bri and me, we spot Tom, Klaude, and Toru. Tom says that HB was terrible. Now,
surrounded by our friends, we commence to having a fun session together. I don’t
get many significant waves. The water’s still clean for the most part, but a
lot of the bigger waves are closeouts. Meanwhile, at the Brick House, Miles and
Bruce put on a clinic on their longboards.
All around us are different faces, groups
of guys we’ve never seen before, and they’re crowding the lineup.
“I like it here,” says one to his friend.
“Yeah,” his friend replies. “It’s a
different vibe here.”
I know localism is bad, but my natural
instinct is to be annoyed at hearing this. I don’t want any new surfers here.
We have enough as it is. But this isn’t my beach or my ocean. We have to share.
This is surfing. That’s just the way it is.
South of us, a SUP guy is yelling, “Fuuuck!
Come on!” at the top of his lungs. Looks like some surfers were in his way. Now
that I don’t like. Especially from an SUP guy. I mean, you’re already standing
on a big ass board with a paddle, hogging all the fucking waves. Do you have to
yell at the guys on the inside, who you’ve already taken waves from the whole
morning?
Tom leaves. Klaude disappears. The inside
is super consistent, forcing multiple duckdives just to get back out. The crowd
doesn’t thin, so when the onshores start kicking in, Bri and I leave.
On the way home, all I can think about is
that lone peak that I had seen at Porto while driving out to surf. I avoid
Porto because of the crowds, but if my other spot is crowded too, I may as well
surf Porto. I think tomorrow I’ll be going there.
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