The
Stingray Session
Loc: Bolsa
Chica
Crew: Bri
Conditions:
1-3FT, inconsistent, glassy, uncrowded.
The swell is supposed to be up a little
bit, but looking at the surf at Bolsa, the forecasts may have been a little
off. We push it further to the south end of HB. The swell here is hitting about
a foot bigger, but the waves are breaking section-on-section, and I’m not in the
move to surf closeouts, especially after Monday’s fun session and the drive
just to get here.
The sky’s overcast, compounding that gloomy
skunky feeling inside. Nope, the drive hasn’t been worth it thus far. We stop at
Goldenwest for a quick peek. It’s a little bigger than Bolsa, but there’s more
wind here, making the shape a little crumbly. Even though Bolsa doesn’t have
size, we head there for the quality.
As much as I’d like to use my Motorboat
Too, the conditions here are too small for it. When waves do come, they are
clean and decent, but the few heads in the water are just sitting there
stagnant, so I know it’s inconsistent.
Bri opts for the 6’8 NSP while I break out
the 6’10 Becker. There’s a small pack in front of Tower 20, but we paddle out
just south of them, so as not to interfere with their peak. Upon reaching the
lineup, a set comes in. Bri catches the first wave. I catch the second. Even
though my wave is barely three feet, there’s something about the length and
volume of my board. The wave is small and a little sectiony, but I pump down
the line so fast, my full rails getting me to the open face. As the wave closes
out, I do a foam climb with such ease that I’m surprised that this big board
can yet be so maneuverable.
The surf turns more consistent for a
moment, and the people in front of Tower 20 begin to sneak over towards me and
Bri, but the closer they get, the more they’re in the way. Going down the line,
they are forced to kick out for us.
Then things slow down again, and an
enveloping lull keeps everyone still. On the inside, two fishermen have their
lines cast out. No one else is paddling out, just the same three other guys who
have been out since we got here.
But the sets do come, and when they do,
they have good shape. I can’t get crisp tight turns, but forcing all my weight
on the tail for torque, I can whip the nose around, throwing out minimum splash
at least. The board’s width makes sticking the floaters so easy. And then I get
a right, two sluggish backhand turns. I’m surprised that I don’t purl.
Standing on the inside, I’m pretty stoked.
The tide is going down, the surf is getting a little better, and I’m getting
the set waves. Smiling, I stare out over the blue horizon for the next lumps coming
in. I grab my board and just then, it feels like something sharp stabs me in my
right big toe, just underneath the toe nail. The pain is immediately
excruciating. Wincing and whining like a bitch, I frantically climb on top of
my board and paddle out and away, eyes tight and jaws clenched. Stingray is the
first thing that comes to mind.
I cradle my foot and rock back and forth. A
wave comes. I miss it, almost getting run over by a longboarder. I imagine that
the flesh underneath my nail is jacked, but instead there’s a small puncture
wound on the tip of my toe. It bleeds profusely. I’ve never been stung by a
stingray before. There’s no barb in my foot. The wound is small, but it hurts
like a motherfucker. Looking behind me, I see the two fishermen on shore, so I
assume that maybe one of them had hooked my toe on accident.
Bri comes over. I have to try and put on my
tough guy act, but I’m visibly struggling. “Maybe we should go,” she says. Of
course I’m stubborn. By all means, I can’t go when the surf is getting better.
If my toe is in fact cut by a fishing hook, I should be fine.
Dealing with the pain, I catch more waves,
making sure my feet don’t touch the sand on the inside, and I’m actually
surfing well. However, the pain in my toe gets worse. It’s throbbing, and the
sensation even spreads over to my middle toe.
Still in denial, I switch over to the
Motorboat Too that I had left on the sand, but it hurts so much now that I’m
surfing like shit. I have to get out.
I hobble on the sand towards the showers.
The fishermen watch me as I walk behind them. They look away when I look back,
but they track me once I pass them. Maybe they know. Maybe fishing right there
behind me attracted a lot of stingrays.
I rinse off at the shower, and the cold
water makes the pain worse. Bri offers to drive, but I tell her I’ll be all
right. We hit traffic on the 405 North. Bri falls asleep. It feels like such a
long drive because the pain just pulsates, disappearing and then throbbing
hard.
Once we get home, Bri fills a basin with
hot water, and would you believe it? The pain subsides immediately. I’m so
drained from the sting that I pass out on the couch while sitting there with my
foot soaked.
There’s a first time for everything, and I
hope that the second time never happens again. Lesson learned. Stingrays . . .
you gotta respect those little fuckers.
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