ZOMBIE SESH, FRI 04JUL2014

Loc: Somewhere north of L.A.

Crew: Rick, Dave T.

Time: 0630-0830

Conditions: Overcast, choppy, low tide, critical, 4-5 FT.

     The night before the surf trip, I was stoked. Not only would I be surfing a critical wave with the homies Rick and Dave, but we’d be doing it with a building south swell.

     With a 0500 rendezvous time the following morning, I went to bed at 2300 to at least get five hours of sleep, just enough rest for the sesh ahead.

     I’m awoken in the middle of the night by Bri. “It’s your sister,” she says. There are missed calls on her phone. I look at my phone. More missed calls, and then my phone starts ringing. It’s only been an hour since I went to sleep.

     To make a long story short, I had a “family emergency” that absolutely could not wait. It was a life or death situation. Livelihood was on the line.

     I couldn’t go back to sleep after that. Everyone met up at my apartment as planned, and we rolled out at about 0500, I with only one hour of rest. Now my livelihood was at stake.

#

     This kind-of-a-secret wave barrels when it’s good. Upon arriving, we see an SUV with surfboards on its roof leaving. Bad sign. It’s an ominous overcast morning, and the conditions in the water only add to the foreboding energy. There’s chop on the surface. I’ve seen this place when it’s off its face, but it’s not its classic self. No one’s out, just a few fisherman wading the shoreline. There are some waves, but they’re just ugly.

     Of course we paddle out. We have to, especially after driving about an hour just to get here. On mornings like this, you just know that your local spot was probably the right call. But you gamble and you play your hand. No redeals this morning.

     I put on my wetsuit, but it doesn’t feel like I’m the one doing it. I’m on a sort of autopilot, in a half-asleep daze. The morning air, wind, and sound of the whitewash are just too much for me to take in. I can’t believe I’m paddling out. My body’s telling me that I should be lying down with my head on top of a pillow with my eyes shut. My body’s telling me that I should have just told Rick that I didn’t sleep for shit last night, and that I’d have to miss this surgical strike. But surfing with friends who take surfing seriously is about commitment. We don’t like flakes. Anti-flake policy, especially with the WHC.

     I’m on my Lost Mini Driver, in case there are barrels. Right now it’s hard to tell exactly what the surf is doing. It looks flat, but small bumps form in the distance. This spot is critical. Much more critical than HB. A small bump pitches right away, doubling up in size. I paddle out and let a few bombs pass for lack of good positioning. I don’t want to say that it’s six feet out here, but it’s a sketchy four-to-five feet. The peaks are A-framing, but the rights are shorter. I go right for the fuck of it. The wave stands up so fast. The lefts demand sobering technique as well. The medium sized ones have better shape. I purl on a few, get down the line a little on some others, and get to claim one decent frontside carve.

     Rick and Dave shine in these conditions. They are older than I, but their experience has them going for the biggest ones. Upon take off on the set waves, the lip throws out a little. Rick takes off extremely late on a wave that’s unforgiving for late take offs and still gets all the way to shore. Dave goes too, no fear. I’m like 50/50, meaning that I eat shit on at least half of the bombs I go on. One left just stands up so fast and sucks out from under me, that I’m standing on flat level water while the jaws of an open face gape open to chomp down on me. And it’s not even that big. At least it didn’t look that way from shore. Here, four-to-five feet goes a long way.

     Throughout the session, other surfers paddle out and sit north of us, but we have the best spot, and no one invades. They leave right away. Even though the surf deserves some merit, it’s still not a decent day, poor-to-far conditions at best.

     I surfed a shitty session. Maybe it could have been better if I had more rest. All I know is that I’m beat. It’s the fourth of July. Everyone who slept in is now making their way to the beach, after Dave and Rick already pillaged and plundered the ocean, leaving the leftover carcasses for the late day trippers. I feel pillaged and plundered myself. Rows of cars head in the opposite direction, barely starting their day. Meanwhile, my solo slumber party is finally winding down. We’re not even past Malibu, and I can barely keep my eyes open.