Loc:
Manhattan Beach
Crew:
Klaude & Dais
Time:
0700-1000
Conditions:
2-3 FT+, walled, consistent.
Yes, my summer has just about ended. Reason
being, I had to go to Sacramento to help my Aunt and Uncle from Maui move in to
their new place. I was landlocked for a whole week, stuck with the Sacto Dry
Walkers. I felt utterly useless. Forced to go to the mall, I searched for any
kind of surf paraphernalia, but the closest thing I could find was skater
stuff.
Buff inland dudes with spiky hair, tank tops,
and tatted arms patrolled the mall. I stood in my flip flops, wishing they were
grimy with sand and squishy with saltwater.
But now I’m back. It’s Monday morning, and
I’m ready to finally get wet again.
Bri’s not feeling well, so I let her sleep in.
It’s already light out. Sometimes I beat myself up when I’m late for surf, but
I’m a lot easier going this morning. Late for what? I plan on doing nothing the
rest of the day anyway.
When I get to 26th Street, I can
see that lines are coming in from on top of the hill. The feeling is almost
foreign having been gone for a week, standing atop and watching the surf with
my arms crossed, the morning air behind me. The surf looks a little walled.
Only two guys are out. The signs are bad, but I have to head out there.
Bruce, one of the few guys who ripS on a
foamie, is out. I recognize some other faces, too. Only five of us. I go out
and sit away from everyone else. I’ve been gone too long, not just from Sac but
from surfing my spot. I might be on the verge of losing my local pass.
I watch the other guys go. The waves look
walled to me, but these guys are making the best of them. One guy just flies
down the line so fast, getting distance on the racy walls.
I see Klaude on the sand. When he paddles
out, he says, “It’s much bigger than yesterday.” There’s fire in his eyes. What
looks like shapeless surf to me looks like a fun-filled morning to him. He
catches a frontside right. The wave actually holds shape as I watch the back of
his head go down the line, and then he cuts back towards the pocket, throwing
out a small bucket. When he resurfaces, I throw up six fingers.
We see Dais on the sand, and this signals
my first legit wave. It’s a left. I pop up and pump down the face of the wave.
It’s an open-face wall, but I bottom turn, climb it, and try to throw my tail
up and through the lip as it curls down. Coming out of the turn, I try to
maintain balance over the bumpy whitewash. Dais is paddling out off to the
side. I regain my balance, point to him, and smile.
With the three of us out, Klaude announces
that he has to leave to work. “I don’t wanna go,” he says to the sky, as if a
higher power could give an almighty “OK,” and allow Klaude to stay. “One more,”
he says. He catches a wave and paddles back. “One more.”
When Klaude leaves, more people start
coming out. I guess everyone woke up late today.
The surf is still consistent. Dais gets
more than I, going left and right, moving throughout the lineup.
I get a decent right, getting one good
backhand hack. After that, the wind turns onshore a little. The waves aren’t
holding shape anymore, but we’re stubborn, trying to end the session with a
good one.
My last wave is far from good, but I ride
it straight and all the way to shore. It’s 1000. I’ve surfed for three hours,
despite the so-so conditions. It’s just good to be back in the water.
Afterwards, Bri meets Dais and me for
breakfast at Mandy’s. It’s so good to be home. I notice that they’ve posted new
hours, now closing at three in the afternoon.
“Why so early?” I ask the waitress.
“I was wondering about that, too,” she
says.
That’s funny. Shouldn’t she know?
Bri and I just chill for the rest of the
day. I haven’t been home for a week. I’ve missed my woman, my couch, my TV, my
internet, my fridge full of food.
Bri makes chicken piccata for dinner.
Setting down our plates in front of the TV, we start discussing our Netflix
options for the night.
The phone rings. It’s eight thirty in the
evening. It’s my sister. I have a feeling something’s wrong. I pick up the
phone and say, “Is everything okay?”
“I got a call from LAPD,” she says. Words
leave her mouth with straining weight. “The landlord found Mom . . .”
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