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Loc: El
Porto
Time: 0645-0815
Conditions:
onshore, inconsistent, 2-3 FT, choppy
Walking down 45th Street, I stop
at Highland Ave. and press the crosswalk button. It’s a slow overcast morning
with a light trickle of cars swooshing by.
A man on the other side of Highland is
crossing the street towards me. Since the curb is small, and my surfboard seals
off the clear path on the sidewalk, I take two steps back to let the man pass.
He’s bald, wearing circle-framed reading glasses. One hand clutches the strap
to his laptop bag, the other raises his Monster energy drink to his lips. I
watch him approach with my smile cocked and ready to unload, but he doesn’t
look at me. I know he knows I’m looking, but he’s looking straight forward to
purposely avoid any interaction. Right there, I see the contrast between us.
Instead of a laptop I have a surfboard.
Instead of a tucked in buttoned shirt, I sport a three year old wetsuit that’s
torn to shit. He walks away, still clutching his Monster.
The surf had looked onshore from on top of
the hill, and . . . it looks like it might be “okay” from down on the sand. The
inside is consistent. A surfer sits on the inside, board perpendicular to his
body. He has his arms over it, using it to help him float. He’s given up
paddling forward. He’s stuck.
I duckdive two waves and skirt around and
right past him. He looks at me in bewilderment. I know that feeling. I’ve been
there. He’s wondering: “Why can’t I make it out? How did that guy get so lucky
to choose the right exact moment to paddle out?”
No . . . all that guy needs is a good paddle,
a decent duckdive, and some intestinal fortitude. Basically, he needs to pay
his dues. He needs TIME.
But the shape gets worse. Strong onshore
and a lowering tide, this combo isn’t helping. I manage to get down the line,
but you can forget about turns. Within an hour, the surf gets so choppy. If it
was bad when I had first arrived, then the surf has been obliterated. It takes
a while just to catch a closeout to shore.
On the beach, I turn around for a last
look. The sun has finally broken through the light cloud cover that had shone
over the Manhattan homes, making the whitewash a brilliant white. Everywhere is
choppy. If it had looked like this earlier, I wouldn’t have paddled out. I didn’t
even get my one-turn quota.
Walking back up the hill, there’s a black
dude working out. He gets down in a three-point stance, sprints half way up the
hill, and walks down backwards. As I approach, he looks at me with his mouth
agape, chest heaving. “Good morning!” I say, as chipper as possible after my
so-so session.
The man struggles for breath. He doesn’t
have to say anything. I know he’s tired. He manages to wrench away a smile from
his pursed lips and says, “Good morning,” too.
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