ESCAPE (double sesh), TUE 26AUG2014

Loc: Churches to Lowers

Crew: Solo

Time: 0700-1000

Conditions: 4 FT+, walled, consistent, crowded.

     With my mom’s passing, things have been pretty hectic. Once all of the big items were moved out of my mom’s apartment, leaving only minor items and a cleaning job to do, my sisters and I decided to take a day to handle our own neglected errands. For me, it meant paddling out. With the biggest south swell to hit SoCal in years, I hoped to score. I imagined pristine conditions with scattered peaks everywhere, especially Middles. But . . . I also knew that it would be a gamble. The swell would be coming in south east, meaning that the shape could be walled. But what do I know? I’ve been wrong in forecasting wave quality this whole summer. It seemed like a gamble worth taking. Plus, I really wanted to paddle out and just be by myself to reflect on my mom.

     The night prior, I had packed everything in my car for a night’s stay, even a twin-size sleeping mattress that my mom had stashed away in her closet. I was ready, not to just car camp it but to do so comfortably.

     I left El Segundo when it was still dark out. All I had to do was get in the car and go. I had missed the feeling of hitting the freeway in the dark early-morning hours. Yet, I felt more alone that I ever had before. The idea that my mom wasn’t a phone call away anymore was still hard to accept. Whenever I wasn’t with her, I knew that she was always “there.” But now she wasn’t. When I thought about her, I pictured her the last time I had seen her, on a grocery errand. The quick way I had hugged her and said goodbye. The routine pitter-patter hug I would get back from her, and the urgency she had to hurry and put her groceries away so she could get on with her day. I’d see her again, I had thought, as always, for another grocery run when she would need it, a small fix around the house, maybe a screen door or her surround sound would act up. But that was the last time. 

#

     Exiting Basilone, I get a quick Glimpse of Lowers. Plenty of people are out. A wall swings in through Middles. Doesn’t look like there’s shape.

     When I get to Churches and park, the surf doesn’t look as big. Four-foot waves are coming in consistently, breaking best at the top of the wave, the main point. The waves appear to be sectiony, but they hold shape enough to gain distance and crank a couple turns on.

     So far I’m not sold on the surf, but I’m here. Conditions could get better. The swell supposed to peak tomorrow. It could be epic by the end of the day.

     I’m not in a rush to change, so I take my time. Sunblock, wetsuit, warm up. I paddle out at the bottom of Churches and sit with a few other stragglers, hoping something will swing wide. Usually I’d be antsy, but I just sit and gaze out. Mom. . . The waves are gonna have to come to me today.

     When the sets come, they come in huge walls a foot bigger than I had seen earlier. I paddle into my first right, but it runs away fast and sections off. My next two waves the same thing. Closer and closer, I get to the main peak. Sitting wide south of it, I watch a couple perfect rights roll in. There are good waves today, but only breaking best in the prime locations, and this morning it’s packed with longboarders.

     Instead of sitting with the pack, I paddle north of it just south of Mons Pubis. Middles looks like shit, but there is an E-Z UP there with a whole crew of longboarders. Everywhere that is breaking has heads, but I somehow manage.

     I snag a couple rights that pop out of nowhere. Thank goodness I have my quad setup. I draw a highline going right, making it past a spilling section. I bottom turn and get one solid backhand hack. It feels good, kicking out of the wave, paddling back. There are so many people and only a few are getting waves. I got one.

     But other than a few random rides, it’s hard to catch anything with shape. And now I’m here again, like so many times this summer, sitting and waiting for the good wave that never comes. After catching nothing but closeouts, I call the morning session. Fuck it. I’m gonna be here tomorrow anyway, so why push it right now, especially if the surf might improve.

    

The State:

     After drinking some really strong tea back at the car, I rummage through my cooler. My sisters and I had to clear out my mom’s fridge. One of the items I took was a pack of Fig Newtons. I had recognized the pack as being one of the items that my mom had bought when I took her grocery shopping. Sadly, out of the two rows of newtons, she had only eaten a third of one row. When we had gone through her apartment, it was like being a crime-scene detective. What were her last moments like? How much had she eaten from the groceries we got on the last run? There was a fresh pot of rice cooked that she had never even had a chance to dig into yet. Okra on the stove.

    Now I munch on the Fig Newtons. I’m not a fan, but today they are nourishing the hell out of me. Sitting in my car with the sun beating down on the white roof of my wagon, I’m reaching into the yellow wrapping, plucking out a newton. I wish my mom would have eaten more of them instead of leaving behind so much. I would’ve been happier to see maybe half of one row left, but there are so many. The groceries. She barely went through them before she passed. The abundance of newtons left. A reminder of how quickly her life had expired after I last saw her.

     I walk to Old Mans hoping that I’ll find Mecca—big lefts peeling at the northern most break into the military campgrounds. When I get there, it looks like windblown shit. It’s smaller and just as sectiony with little dribbly shoulders. But again, I’m here to get centered. Waves are just a consolation. I finish off my bearclaw donut and tea and then head back to the vehicle.

     The best part of the trip isn’t in the water. Thus far, it’s sitting in my chair, on the sand, under my beach umbrella. I fade in and out of a nap before falling into a sleep-like trance. My body is so relaxed that I should be sleeping, but my eyes are open and I’m fully conscious. It’s like I’m in a dream state but awake. Onshore wind kisses my face and keeps me cool. The umbrella keeps the sun off my skin, protected. In front of me, I can make out the waves above the sandline. Surfers ride the high-tide inside waves, pumping as far as they can before kicking out. I sit, frozen, like a stone on the sand, stalling, waiting for the late afternoon for the surf to get better.

#

NO ESCAPE, TUE 26AUG2014

Loc: Middles to Lowers

Crew: Solo

Time: 1530-2000

Conditions: 5-6 FT+, walled, consistent, ridiculously crowded.

     Churches looks like complete shit. To think I had cursed this morning’s conditions. Walls roll in like mini tsunamis, clearing surfers in their path.

     I paddle from Mons to Middles, catching myself a little too close to shore a couple of times, having to dart outside to duckdive the sets. Miraculously, a smaller wave, a left, comes my way, and . . . it has a tapered shoulder forming at the end. I can’t believe it. I paddle and pop up, and it stands up right away. I get to my feet just in time and set my rail to go down the line. It’s a Jalama-quality ride. First maneuver is a tight frontside cutback in the pocket. I redirect and pump twice before getting a wide arcing carve. I hit the last section, which is now a petered out two-foot shoulder, but I still hit it regardless. Three turns. Best wave of the day.

     I continue my paddle towards the top of Middles, wondering if I should have just stayed there to wait for another.

     At Middles, I’m around a small pack of surfers. They’re waiting. We’re all waiting for something with shape. Walls roll in. It’s okay. I feel as if I have an edge because, remember, today’s not completely about surfing. I’m here to reflect.

     I’m a statue on my surfboard, letting the closeouts pass, staring out at the horizon. Mom. She’s really not home. If I called, no one would pick up. Every wave I catch is a closeout.

     Over the horizon, the sun is finally getting low. Underneath it is Lowers, and, of course, it’s working. It’s the only place working, but, as you can imagine, it’s fucking crowded. My technique of sitting wide is what half of San Clemente is doing right now. But . . . I can rely on the sunset. The darkness. When the light starts to wane, people will leave. That’s when I can have my chance. That’s when I’ll score Lowers.

     I creep towards it, but we all know how this works. You stare and paddle towards Lowers long enough, and you’ll find yourself there. So now I’m just outside of the main peak. Waves are swinging wide, but they are so big that surfers who are sitting deep can get into them. The main take off is so congested. I watch three or four guys on the same wave.

     “Hey!” yells a guy going left. A grom is in front of him. They both eat shit.

     A high pitched voice replies, “What are you doing?! Get out of here!”

     So many waves I watch pass. But now the sun is setting. Its little crescent giving a bright-orange goodbye like a sad smile. Still, I wait it out. I have the edge, the edge of time. I can sit here forever. I don’t care. But . . . people aren’t leaving. It’s still crowded. I have no choice but to sit at the top of the wave. The wave . . . is getting bigger. The swell is finally filling in, a prequel to tomorrow’s swell of the decade.

     “Did you just yell at some kid?” says a surfer. He’s talking to Yeller, the guy who had the altercation with the grom earlier. “Was that you? I saw you two split a peak. You went right, he went left, and then you swung back around and went left.”

     Yeller paddles away. The guy follows.

     “Why don’t you go in and apologize to that kid?”

     Yeller shakes his head and doesn’t say anything. He tries to paddle away, but the guy follows him where he goes.

     “No? You don’t wanna apologize to the kid?!”

     An outside set comes in, washing everyone up. Good. Now I’m at the top waiting for mine, but it doesn’t come. One by one, like an army of immortals, each surfer regains his spot in the lineup, and then it’s Suck City all over again.

     Now the lights at the nuclear boobs are on. The sky over Camp Pendleton is purple. Yet, motherfuckers, they’re still out here. I see the faces of desperation around me. Other cats who had hoped for their opportunities to shine, just like me, waiting for their one wave to make the Lowers sacrifice worth it. And it’s still crowded.

     When the next bomb rolls in, I’m sitting deep on the left. A guy on my inside tries to go, but I know he won’t make it. He can’t. This wave is too big, easily overhead, and he’s too deep. I pop up and go anyway but find myself sliding down a dark vertical face of water. The wipeout is violent. Even way outside, I touch bottom. Panicking, I kick as hard as I can to the surface, hoping that there isn’t another wave. When I reach air, the rest of the set comes in. I didn’t give respect to the ocean. With the swell coming in full force, the lineup goes from trying to score a good wave to just trying to make it out in one piece.

     I turn and go on an inside wave, but it’s so dark now that my timing is off. Late, I eat shit on a right. Through the tumbler once more. It’s either belly ride it to shore or paddle back out towards the dim horizon. The black dots of wetsuits are now faint. But . . . it can’t be for nothing. I’ve been out for four hours, and I’m not gonna end it with a cherry on top?

     I paddle back out. The looks of desperation now turn into looks of worry. The set takes too long. I paddle towards the middle of the wave, and then the bomb arrives. The exploding white wash is two storeys high. I point my nose to shore, and I’m engulfed in foam and pulled down under. Now further in, I hold onto my board on the next one. Who gives a shit about a Lowers’ wave? I’m out of there. I smile as I approach the cobblestones. Other surfers are doing their balance dance over the rocks towards the sand. I cant my board at an angle to slow myself down, but I’m going so fast that my speed barely dumps. The water in front of me starts sucking off of the rocks. What had looked like a lot of water is now suddenly drained. I lean on my right side to keep my board afloat above the rocks. My right arm and leg are hit by a barraged of blunt-edged rocks, like being kneed and elbowed by a Muay Thai Kickboxer. After thudding my way to shore, I check myself for wounds. My board’s fine. Other than a small cut underneath my fingernail, the only thing bruised is my ego.

#

     I’m back on the 405 North towards El Segundo. I couldn’t find it in me to sleep in my car. The surf sucked. If it sucks now, it’s gonna suck tomorrow, especially if it’s not holding size now, just imagine. . .

     I feel even more alone driving home in the evening darkness. It’s not just my mom. Since she passed, I’ve been with my sisters every day, clearing out her apartment. It’s too soon to be alone.

     I reach over for the package of Fig Newtons, scraping the ribbed plastic container as my fingers search for one, but all I find are crumbs.