Christina’s
Farewell Paddle Out
Loc: Manhattan
Beach
Crew: Klaude
and Dave
Time:
0700-0945
Conditions:
1-3FT, clean, inconsistent, walled.
I said fuck it on Friday and slept in. I
was feeling surfed out. I checked the local surf on Saturday, and it was
terrible. To think that I had complained about the shape at Trestles. Now that
I’m back in the South Bay with my surfing fate dependent on weak windswell, I’d
take non-classic Churches any day.
But yesterday I couldn’t say no to surfing,
especially when my friend Christina had kindly asked for a surf get together
before she leaves to Australia.
#
Looking down the hill from my street
parking spot, I can see that the waves are weak. Little lines roll in with the
vitality of a dying man’s veins. With Bri out of town, I had grabbed the 6’8
NSP just in case. Looks like it will see some action.
I haven’t been punching in my “local card”
lately, so it’s nice to see all the familiar faces again. Bruce, Oscar, Mitch,
Roy, and Ross are out.
Even though the surf is crap, there are
occasional two-to-three-foot walls that stand up. These waves are easy to catch
on the NSP. Immediately, upon popping up, they are already running away. I do
fast bottom turns, pointing the nose down the line, and then I shuffle to the
front of the board. I fail at my imitation noseriding attempts, purling. But
there is one wave that lets me climb the face for a baby floater as a finishing
maneuver. Either way, I’m having fun. The surf is small, but this NSP is making
it worthwhile.
It’s 0800, and no one is here yet. I scan
the sand, but I tell myself not to think about it too much. Right now I’m in
the water and catching waves. That’s all that matters.
Roy and Ross are still managing on their
short hybrid boards, and then I think about my Motorboat Too that I have
stashed in my car.
On the way up the hill to swap boards, Deathwish
Dave runs into me. He’s just gotten back from Mississippi, fortunately to move
back to SoCal permanently. I offer up the NSP and tell him that I’ll see him on
the sand.
Back in the water, Dave and Klaude paddle
out together. Still no Christina. Even though the waves aren’t offering much
for shape, we still have fun. We’re forced to pull into waves for closeout
tubes. One wave even stays open long enough to swirl over me, offering a quick
barrel perspective. I’m picking up my old habit of grabbing rail on my
frontside, and it forces me to crouch down lower, making this little
swirly-swirl possible for me.
Dave even gets a welcome back wave, riding
it straight onto shore.
By 0930 it gets inconsistent, and we call
for our last waves in.
Walking back on the shore, I turn to Klaude
and say, “Well, Christina’s paddle out sure was fun . . . Too bad Christina
wasn’t here.”
Kristen, Dave’s chick, is on the sand
chilling. We post up by her, waiting for Dave, and that’s when I feel something
touch my asshole. I turn around. It’s Christina, holding her blue Zippi Fish.
“You guys gonna paddle back out?” she says.
I’m quiet. I look at my watch.
Klaude says, “We’ve been here for hour.”
CC says that she lives in the valley now
and Skyped with her boyfriend until 0840.
We give her a hug and say that maybe we’ll
catch her next weekend.
Afterwards, Klaude, Dave, Kristen, and I go
out for breakfast at Metro Café. The place is packed. Dave used to work here,
and his sister still does. I’m familiar with the staff, while Klaude pretty
much lives here. So in the midst of the crowded breakfast swarm, our table’s
given a lot of attention. We still have our glasses on since it’s bright out,
we share house special sautéed banana pancakes, and even drink mimosas.
Whatever the surf session had lacked is now made up for during this small get
together. And so what if Christina didn’t show up to her own paddle out? It
made the rest of us commit to showing up, and if we hadn’t, we wouldn’t be here
right now, buzzed off mimosas, eating breakfast. Plus Deathwish Dave picks up
the bill. What a guy.
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