Loc: North
Churches, Middles, Lowers
Crew: Bri,
Francis, Alex, Rick
Time:
0630-0900
Conditions:
Light overcast, consistent, warm, sectiony, 3-4 FT+.
“It was a raccoon,” says Francis. I saw it.
It had something in its mouth and carried it away.”
“How big was it?”
He holds out his hands much wider than its
body. “At least fifty pounds,” he says. “It just looked at me all pissed off
and walked off slow.” Francis imitates it with a mean walk-by.
I call Rick. He’s late. He’s supposed to be
here to set up his daughter’s birthday party campsite right next to ours. I
tell him that we’re heading towards Middles and that we’ll meet him there.
On the way to Middles, I stop and paddle
out at North Churches. The left is working the best that it’s been since we’ve
been here.
My first wave solidifies the trip. It’s
what I’ve been looking forward to all along, to get a wave at my favorite spot
here, a frontside wave, a LEFT. The incoming tide makes the shape a little
soft. It doesn’t take much water here because the left lines up into deeper
water, but the wave stands up and still holds shape, a little soft but still
skatey. I get two front side turns and end it with a baby floater. Stoked.
The only problem is that everyone is on it
today. It’s even more crowded than yesterday. A Japanese contingent of five
surfers takes every good wave, one by one.
Bri’s frustrated with the crowd, so she
sits right on the border of Churches and Middles, really taking the ones that
swing wide.
Alex and Francis aren’t surfing
aggressively, but they position themselves at the take-off spot the whole time,
staying in prime contention for waves. But not me. Too claustrophobic.
Bri and I paddle to Middles. One of the
cleanest A-frames I’ve seen the whole trip rolls through. I take the right,
getting one turn before it closes out.
We run into Lori and Kurt.
“I saw your friend Rick,” she says. “About
an hour ago.” She points towards Lowers. “He paddled over there.”
I track Rick down, and then I see his bald
head. He’s doing battle at Lowers, much better than I had yesterday. He’s on
two waves but kicks out for guys already on them. But he gets an unmolested
right all to himself. It’s a small one, but he surfs it well, throwing out
buckets the whole time.
We all join at Middles. Unfortunately, the
incoming tide already makes the spot inconsistent, so we call it an early
session and head in.
Breakfast is pancakes, eggs, and sausage. I
feed everyone. Soon, Rick sets up camp and his daughter and her teenage crew
show up.
Alex is an extremely handsome man. Coast
Guard. Male model material. I introduce him to the teenage girls as my male
modeling friend who is taking a break from his photo shoot. I also say, “And he
has very nice abs.” Alex, who’s standing there shirtless, doesn’t see this
compliment coming. Four sets of eighteen-year-old eyes look down towards his
six pack and package. Alex . . . you’re welcome.
#
Alex takes off to catch the Argentina vs.
Netherlands game, while Bri, Francis, and I opt for an early afternoon surf
session before the tide kills it once more.
We surf north Churches again, where the
Japanese contingent still remains. It’s good for the first hour. It turns a
little inconsistent. More people leave, and we have it to ourselves.
Francis rides the Kadowaki single fin,
styling on his rides. Not as many turns this time, but hot-dogging poses. He
surfs it well.
I’m here for the lefts, getting my turn of
the trip, frontside pumping and getting a legit forehand snap right in front of
Francis. He cheers me on. I’m going to miss how much he pushes my surfing.
It’s an early end to the afternoon sesh.
The sun’s still nice and high. We kill a beer at the showers, a classic
tradition started by Fransauce.
 |
| Chef Briana, propane stove extraordinaire. |
 |
| Seba is late for the surf, but not late enough to take off his shirt! Seba, Francis, Alex, Rick. |
Alex returns. My buddy Sebastian shows up
to hang out. Rick gets the grill going. Bacon-wrapped hot dogs. Alex ends up
roasting marshmallows with one of the teenage chicks by the grill. They whisper
softly to themselves. Why, if Alex were a lesser man, he’d . . .
That night, once all is settled, the moon
nestles behind some low-lying clouds, but its light is still bright. Our
once-quiet campsite is now filled with teenage giggling, the annoying kind.
This time, we bring our beach chairs out to
the sand. We’re the only ones on the beach.
“What’s your best wave this trip?” says
Alex. We all take our turns. Next is the Best-Non-surf-Moment category, and we
go over that, too. My favorite memory is that night at Jack In the Box, just
seeing all my friends and my woman so stoked over the day’s events.
It’s our last night here, and we try to
milk it as much as possible. The moon only peeks out for quick moments at a
time. Still, if we stay out here and refuse going to sleep, we can make this
whole trip last just a little while longer.
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