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| The surf's not always going off when I come here, but I still love this place. |
Loc:
Oceanside
Crew:
Eight-Inch Al
Time:
0745-1030
Conditions:
4FT+, clean.
Pre Blog:
Upon graduating from school almost two
months ago, I had already planned to take the summer off. There will be plenty
of time, probably the rest of my life until retirement, to work and be a nine-to-fiver,
so I might as well enjoy life while I can. This summer is my last hoorah before
life gets too serious. Therefore, I’m creating a series of chronicles dedicated
to my unemployed beach-bum summer, my very own “endless summer.”
The Return
of Eight-Inch Al:
So it begins. . . My buddy Al was my
roommate in Iraq. For ten months, I had to endure his gnarly farts in our tiny
two-man room. Last year we took a trip to Indo together, and I haven’t seen him
since. Since he’s in transition between jobs right now, he’s found the rare
opportunity to travel south for a couple of days.
Day 0:
We didn’t surf the day that Al had showed
up, which was Tuesday afternoon, but I had made plans to make the best of the
day. I took him to our friend’s surf shop, where he was able to rack up on
discounts for much needed surf gear. Next, we scored Cabo Cantina’s taco
Tuesdays, and let me tell ya, five dollars for all you can eat tacos is a no
brainer. Khang even joined us for a few beers.
Afterwards, I had to make sure that he got
some face time with my surf mentor, Rick A. We had caught him at his house
without the wife and the kids home, so he had the opportunity to tell Al all
about his trip to Costa Rica, which was highly relevant since Al is getting
married there next year.
It was important for me to bring Al back
into the fold. We could have easily just went to a bar, drank, came back, and
slept early for the rest of his trip, but relationships were at stake here. Who
knows when he’ll be able to make it back again?
Even late at night, with work the next
morning, Klaude made it to my pad to say wassup.
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| We call him Eight-Inch Al. You can kind of see his man bulge. And Klaude continues to morph into a male model since his eye surgery. |
The Right
Call:
With only four hours of sleep, we manage to
wake up at 0430, car already packed. Our first destination is Trestles, in hopes
that the incoming swell will have some early-morning forerunners. One look at Old
Man’s at San Onofre tells me otherwise. In the darkness of this predawn hour, I
can see that the tide is completely drained out. Little two foot peaks roll in.
They are clean, but not what we came here for. I can already see tiny shoulders
at Churches dribbling its own brand of white wash. Al suggests we head to
Oceanside.
This is where I’m supposed to say how
O-Side is going off, but it’s not. It’s a hair bigger with small scattered
peaks rolling in by the jetty, but it’s drained here as well.
So it’s off to a McDonald’s breakfast, and
honestly, I had NO IDEA that their oatmeal breakfast was so freaking delicious.
What the hell do they put in there?
 |
| Lacking the patience to wait for a set, I snap a quick pick before suiting up. |
The wrong call was Trestles. The wrong
call, allegedly, is Oceanside. The right call was breakfast because right now,
the surf is about two feet bigger than it was forty-five minutes ago.
“I haven’t surfed in almost three months,”
says Al. “I might be rusty.” He lives in Sunnyvale, and his closest surf spot
is Santa Cruz, but he hasn’t had a chance to hit the small windows of surf that
NorCal offers in the summer.
Meanwhile, I’m concerned about my own
surfing. I had been expecting small, 2-3 FT surf, so I only have my Motorboat
Too groveler, and, from my experience, it underperforms in punchy shoulder-high
plus surf. I didn’t even bring my bigger AM2 Futures fins.
The tide is still low upon walking out. Al
asks me repeatedly if the water’s been warm or not. I reassure him that his
short-sleeve full 2/2 should be fine. He’s so used to surfing cold water.
The crowd is thin, with only two surfers
just north of the jetty, where we are, and a small handful of guys further
north at another peak.
Walking into deeper water, some four
footers start rolling in. After surfing Trestles for a while, Oceanside waves
look a lot more menacing. All ego aside, I’m not gonna hold my dick and act
like I’m some kind of big-wave surfer. The waves here stand up more and are
rounder, making wipeouts a little more consequential and the duckdives harder.
I paddle out with a conservative mindset, especially on my small-wave board.
Most of the waves coming in are long with a
declining line, offering a small shoulder. The low rocker surprisingly gets me
into the wave much earlier than expected. On the low tide, the wave immediately
stretches out into a long pumpable face. I race down the line, pulling off a
lackluster check turn on the lip before it closes out. All in all. Not bad. My
board feels a lot better than I had expected.
From there, the waves just get better and
better. Al and I begin pumping this swell up. We’re definitely gonna score at
Trestles if O-side is doing this.
My skatey board is working well in these
conditions, taking off on a four-foot set and pulling off an opening carve as
the shoulder reforms and doubles up. I’m comfortable, bending my knees and
sliding down the face as the section before me rebuilds. I get two big swooping
pumps just flying down the line. Why not go for an air attempt? I have speed.
I eye the section in front of me before the
closeout and launch off of it, but my fins never break loose, and I flop
backwards onto the water with my nose pointed towards the sky, as if my board were
a dog being yanked back by its chain. No airs today. Maybe none for another ten
years. Maybe never. Although, it is fun to push your surfing and try different
things.
Al does pretty well, getting his surfing
redialed again. He gets some long lefts, and then he just starts going for
everything, even the closeouts. I try to tell him to be pickier, but he just
can’t help himself.
The sun comes out by 0945. So do other
surfers. An army of groms assault the break on their foam boards. And you’d
think that the surf would get better with the tide push, but it doesn’t. The
small rise affects the surf with swampy like conditions. The lines get longer
and offer up less.
We leave the water by 1030, and I’m surprised
to see that the tide isn’t that high, yet the surf is so affected right now,
lullier and smaller than it had been earlier.
Regardless, we’re stoked. What had looked
like a case of the skunks turned out to be the excellent start of a surf trip.
O-side was the right call.
#
Loc: Churches-Middles
Crew: Al,
Khang, Sebastian
Time:
1630-2030
Conditions:
3-4FT+, onshore, walled
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| "Dude, I totally wanna do you tonight." "Me too!" |
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| Gotta have the beer in hand during surf recon |
After checking in to our campsite, Khang
joins us. We watch the surf the whole afternoon, even go on a recon walk to
check out Middles and Lowers. The verdict. . . Lowers is the only spot working.
We’ve been bamboozled. Oceanside had been so good earlier. Trestles had to be
just as good, was what we had believed. But at 1630 there’s no sign of the
shape improving, bigger waves, or calming wind. Our best bet is to paddle out
and hope for conditions to change.
We hit the top of the wave at Churches
first. A shortboarder is on a right, connecting all the sections of a racy wave.
There’s chop on its surface, but he’s pumping down the line and managing it
well. He ends the ride with a small, backhand cutback, rebounding off of the
whitewash. There might be hope.
Once out there, I get some similar waves,
just chasing the sections and going down the line. For forty-five minutes, the
three of us secure this spot. For forty-five minutes, we don’t get one quality
ride. Even though the tide is low, the inside mooshes out, too weak to carry
our boards further.
I hate it when Churches and Trestles aren’t
working. It’s not what we come here for. Not worth reserving a campsite,
loading up my car, driving the distance, and staying for a couple days for.
“I’m gonna check Middles,” I say. I’m so
disgusted that I don’t even want to make the paddle. I catch a wave in and make
the walk.
Looking at the surf is like walking through
a war-torn city. The shape here is worse. Just long crumbly lines of three-foot
closeouts. I reach the battle position and stop. Nothing’s happening here.
There’s Lowers in the distance. Despite the onshore wind, the gold and blinding
light reflects off of the A-frame peaks. The black outline of a surfer is
getting frontside cutbacks on a never-ending right. Dozens of black dots paddle
back out for more waves. Lowers is the treadmill that never turns off, the wave
that never sleeps. The biggest lie in surfing. The most rippable and accessible
wave that is so competitive that it’s inaccessible. I can go on and on.
I turn around to head back to the churning shit
surf, which is Churches, but I notice Khang just making the paddle to Middles
from Churches. He didn’t opt to walk. He waves at me from the distance. As much
as I don’t want to surf here, I’m so stoked to see how motivated my buddy is. I’ll
have to join him.
It gets a little bigger. Four foot
closeouts with a face that might hold up for a quick turn before the lip
crashes. Sets start coming in. We’re darting outside. Yet, no shape. Yet, there’s
Lowers in the distance. Perfection in the palm of my hand, looking at it from
here.
“I’m going to see if there’s anything
swinging wide,” I say to Khang, before paddling over there.
Wave
Thievery:
Oh Lowers, how I love and hate you. Mostly
hate. It’s like walking through the Amsterdam Red Light district without any
money, armed only with a throbbing boner. I see your waves and want them badly,
and so do the other hundred guys here.
I sit wide. So do some others. The looks on
their faces are defeated and apprehensive. Fists clenched on their rails,
unable to paddle back in and unable to move closer. Nothing swings wide, and
when a wave appears like it will, there’s always someone at the main peak that
paddles into it first.
The pack. The uninfiltratable pack. Guys
who I had just seen on the right-hand waves paddle past me over and over again,
still scoring. The middle and inside of Lowers is packed too, a clusterfuck of surfers
who settle for the smaller ones. But what does that make me? Clinching my
rails, sitting on the outside, I am a mere begger. I can’t even compete for the
scraps. I’m not competing. I’m just hoping that a crumb will fall off of the
table and land before me.
Another surfer paddles past me and doesn’t
look at me. He probably doesn’t even see me. I’m invisible. And the look of
determination on his hard-edged face just shows that he knows he’s going to get
another wave.
I think about my brother’s advice: Always
sit on the peak. I think about Rick and Gary, those old school Venice guys.
They wouldn’t be out here on the shoulder if they were here. So I paddle. I
compete.
The current keeps the main pack paddling
north to stay in place. It almost looks choreographed. Synchronized surfing.
The sun’s rays are so blinding that
everything is aflame with orange. The surfers backs are shadows. It hurts just
to look towards sun, so we all face south towards the sea, waiting for the
peak. We all sit during the lull. One guy starts paddling. Everyone starts
paddling again.
I’m faced with the same dilemma I’m always
faced with surfing here. If I sit tight in the pack, I feel so claustrophobic.
If a set wave comes, I don’t want to get run over or be in anyone’s way. So I
sit further out, but now I’m out too far for the waves coming in.
I try to turn and go, but I’m out
positioned. I see the same guys returning from the inside, ready for the next
meal. Meanwhile, I can only watch more waves come and go, putting up a pathetic
attempt to scrap for it, only for “Christmas not to come this year” every
single time.
Everyone paddles against the current again,
a surf migration of arms and planks to move twenty feet just to get pulled
back. I see the same kid who was sitting wide when I had first got here. He’s
in the same place, same position, same look on his face, the open-mouthed grin
filled with metal, not frowning nor smiling, just frozen.
Paddle back. Fuck this. I hate this fucking
place. No waves there. No waves here, at
least none that I can catch.
I’m sitting at the top of the wave but wide
and off to the side. A wave passes me. Behind it, a massive wall of water
stands up on the far outside. When I say far on the outside, I mean it is
fucking FAR. I can feel the air suck out from all around me. We’re all thinking
the same thing. It’s a rogue wave, the set of the evening, six feet easy, jutting
out of the sea as if the ocean were flexing a bicep, and oh yeah, it’s been
working out.
Just like that, everyone sitting at the
peak is too deep for this wave.
I’ve been anxious since the second I
entered this territory. I paddle out without much urgency because I already
know that I’m in the perfect spot. Wide. Now, will anybody take this wave from
me?
I turn as the peak stands up. Just about
every surfer on my inside has duckdived this wave. A brave soul turns to go. As
the lip curls, he’s fully enveloped and swallowed by it. Gone. Right on my
inside, a guy is paddling for it. It’s now or never. If he gets it, I’ll be in
his line. I kick, scratch, and pop up. The take off is steep and fast. I go
from lying on my belly to looking down at a long dark slope. The guy next to me
purls his inside rail, and he disappears into the wave with a violent splash.
Time slows. I’m so high up. From my vantage
point, The building on top of the cliffs above Middles appears closer. Below
me, a sea of surfers unexpectedly caught in the impact zone of a giant wave,
the wave that I am on.
It’s not even about surfing this wave well.
It’s about not losing it. This is a Lowers wave. Not just a wave. A BOMB. For
those surfers out there who have that competitive edge to get wave after wave
here, as much as I hate you, I salute you. I do not have what it takes. That
being said, I should not be the surfer on this wave, not the guy who sits wide,
hoping for one to fall onto his lap. But I’m here. I’m on it. I got it.
The wave’s a bit big for my groveler. I
feel the rush of water underneath me and the air in my face. Dozens of surfers
below me. I’m staring at all those in my path. Paddling with eyes wide, they
stare back at me. Probably both in awe and a little bit of, please don’t
fucking run me over.
I bottom turn at mid face and hit the lip.
I’m hung up, almost losing it. Not on the first turn! But somehow, I don’t know
if it’s the wind, I’m pushed back down the face.
More people on the shoulder. I point at the
gap I’m going to shoot for, between two surfers going up the face and one other
guy just a few feet behind them. I shoot for it. Clear it. A little more
weaving is involved to set up my last turn. I’m clear. There’s so much texture
on the water. The end section is standing up for one last hit. I do another
midline bottom turn and tag it once more before it closes out.
I did it. I got one. I get down on my belly
and ride the white wash all the way in.
#
To say that I’m stoked is an
understatement. I’m smiling at the people sitting on the cobblestones on shore.
They probably don’t know why, but I don’t care. Grinning from ear to ear, I
look back at Lowers. Motherfuckers. Haha. I can’t believe it. Someone waves at
me from Middles. It’s Khang.
I’m so done. I don’t want to paddle back
out, but I can’t leave the homie hanging either.
My third time paddling out this evening, I
reach him.
“Duuuude!” I say.
Khang smiles, shakes his head, and says, “I
saw the whole thing.”
#
Al’s back at camp. So is Sebastian, with
his wetsuit unpeeled to his waist. Turns out that the shape at Trestles had
gotten a little better after Khang and I left. Seba had shown up with his
longboard and met up with Al in the water.
Churches is looking a little better now.
The wind has calmed, making the surface conditions clean again.
It wasn’t an ideal evening session, but we’re
all here now. Four friends, drinking beers to the setting sun.
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| You know you got real friends when they don't surf but still paddle out with you anyway. Sea Bass on the left. |
We opt to go to Denny’s for dinner. I order
two different breakfast meals from the value menu, four bucks each. It’s a lot
of food.
I thought I knew San Clemente, but I was
wrong. A bunch of white kids cOme in, baseball caps twisted to the side and wearing
wife-beater tank tops. Some chicks there Are all tatted up, wearing short
shorts with the cheeks hanging out. Wow. Who knew San Clemente was a little
Ghetto?
Instead of the big Coleman Instatent that I
usually use for me and Bri, I brought smaller tent that I had let Francis and
Alex use last week. It was so hot earlier that we didn’t bother to attach the
rain fly.
Lying next to Al on the inflatable
mattress, the mesh screen lets us see the night sky. The moon is right above
us. I haven’t camped like this in a while.
“Dude, this is so romantic,” I say.
“I’m so tired,” says Al.
I giggle going through my phone.
“What are you doing?” he says. He puts his
head back down on the pillow and rubs his eyes. “I know you’re up to your
bullshit right now. I’m not in the mood.”
I show him my phone. It’s gay porn. One
dude’s blowing another guy.
“You’re fucking sick,” he says. I have
myself a good laugh.
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