MY ENDLESS SUMMER, PT.15 SUN 10AUG2014

Bri took this pic from the cliffs as we were leaving. Smallest day of the swell, but still excellent conditions.

The Jalama Sessions

Loc: Cracks

Crew: Gary

Time: 0630-0800

Conditions: 2-4 FT, soft, inconsistent.

     Last night, some ghetto ass motherfuckers were up late, drinking by the trashcans that are about twenty yards away from our tent. “Tent.” If you see a tent at night chances are that someone’s in it . . . sleeping. Leave it to inconsiderate motherfuckers, little wannabe gangsters at that. Their meeting of the minds finally ended when someone said, “No, fuck that! I don’t play that shit.” I heard footsteps of the guy walking away with a friend.

     “Come back here, Pussy! Say that shit to my face!”

     But now, at 0530, I’m up. Gary’s up. He walks down to the toilets. When he returns, he looks much happier than he did when he had left. I ask Bri if she wants to roll, but she barely budges. She says she’ll sleep in.

     Now, it’s Balls Deep and Donny Duckbutter on a mission to take over Jalama, but that’s not entirely true. . . .

     Once we hit the sand, it’s a slow stroll towards the Y Spot. Other surfers are ahead of us, making their morning hike, too. A few heads are already out. Gary and I don’t admit it, but at least I can say for myself that I’m fucking tired. In my 4/3 wetsuit, my back muscles feel constricted and tight. My left tricep is already burning just from holding the surfboard.

     The march there feels like forever, and when we get there we see that the crowd is rather small . . . just like the peaks. Like yesterday morning, the waves are coming in at three feet, maybe four on the big ones. Surfers start off with one strong entry move, and then most of their waves fizzle out.

     Entering the water, I feel how tight my back muscles are again. I catch a small inside right, but it mooshes out before I can get a turn. I’m not even mildly aware of where Gary is. At this point, I’m not expecting bigger sets or a good surf performance. I’m just out here because it’s Jalama, because this place has given so much over the last two days, and because not paddling out on our last day is like wasting a free meal.

     I sit wide like I usually do. It takes a while, but a four-foot wave comes my way. People are watching. I turn, kick, and wait to slide down, but I don’t. . . . The wave leaves me behind. My timing was off. I blew it. Everyone else watches the wave peel, unridden.

     Gary sits with everyone else. I go there, too. Finally, I get some waves, but I’m surfing like shit. It doesn’t matter that I’m hydrated and well nourished. My body screams REST. Other guys start sitting on me. No respect, but that’s okay. I’m not surfing like I deserve it.

     Towards the last half hour, I get a solid left, but some skinny dude with long hair drops in on me. I’m not in the mood to hoot him off, so I hope he sees me and kicks out. He does a tight cutback in the pocket, sees me, and then kicks out. And of course, the wave mooshes out for the second turn.

     I paddle back out next to him, wondering if he’ll turn my way and apologize. He doesn’t.

     A little later, Gary and I are going for our last Jalama waves. I go right, and Skinny is on my shoulder, trying to paddle into it. When he sees me, he whips his hair and looks away in disgust. Like it’s my fault? Anyway, I ride the wave in, settling for a checkturn to end the Jalama Sessions.

     The idea of leaving such a great surf destination isn’t what’s on my mind. Unfastening my leash, I exhale hard. It’s been fun, but I can’t go on.

     On the walk back, I watch Gary pick through polished sand stones that are scattered along the beach. He picks up the ones with holes in them. I search the shore for sand dollars that Bri had been wanting. I can’t find any. I feel like a bad boyfriend for not searching harder for one since we’ve been here.

     At camp, Bri already has some things packed up. Folding the tents takes the longest time, but we’re on our way within an hour.

Now I know. . .

    Before leaving Jalama, we park by the cliff and take pictures by the cross. We can see Cracks below. The water’s so glassy, and the peaks are still coming in cleaner than ever. It looks bigger from up here. Only a few guys are still out, splitting peaks. They look hollow from here, but it could be a vantage point trick. Seeing the surf, I feel well rested, like I could go for another session. We’re leaving, and the conditions are still pristine.

Peaks, marching in like soldiers.

Could've stayed there for hours, taking photos.

     Crawling through the barbwire fence, our feet crush the gravel as we approach Gary’s Suburban. An empty road lies before us. It’s time to go home.