PORTO THERAPY, THU 28AUG2014

Loc: Rosecrans

Crew: Gary, Jimmy B.

Time: 0700-0900

Conditions: 2 FT+, glassy, low tide, sunny.

     Without being on the WHC text-message thread, I’d be completely out of the surf loop, but I’ve been able to see where Rick, Gary, and the rest of the homies have been surfing and how good they’ve been getting it. I read that Jimmy and Gary would be paddling out at Porto. I hadn’t paddled out with friends since my mom passed, so I thought it would be healthy to just stay local and see some familiar faces in the lineup.

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     It’s funny how the faces at the Porto parking lot change day to day. There are always the usual suspects, but there are also those who pick up surfing during the summer only to disappear during the winter. Some are sporadic in their surfing, showing up hardcore after their Costco purchases, only to decommit once a week to once a month, and then retire their foamies to that corner in their apartment or their garages, sometimes Craigslist, never to surf again. Of course, if you’d ask them, they’d say they surf. But I’m not mad at them. In fact, it’s these habits that keep the lineup less crowded, so we should be thanking them.

     Yet, I pass the committed. Like Mark AKA Surfing Santa. He’s here. Tony. Looks like he’s driving a van now. Usually I show a shaka or two on the way to my parking spot but not today. I haven’t paid local dues lately. I feel like a tourist. Unfamiliar ground.

     All the way at the end, I spot Jimmy and Gary. When I pull into my spot, they look surprised. I shoot them a nod and stagger out of my wagon.

     Surf. Porto. I’ve missed it. Even though the surf is drained out, it’s surf that’s down the street. The best kind.

     “The tide’s about to start coming up,” says Gary, grinning underneath his goatee.

     Jimmy points out to a wave breaking. The rights are sectiony but the lefts have shoulders. Looks small, but I don’t care. “The water’s been warm,” he says. “I’d wear boardshorts, but I forgot them. Lucky I have a wetsuit in my car.”

     Since I showed up after them, they hit the sand first. I go through the changing ritual slowly—left leg, right leg, pull, make sure the sac’s nice and snug.

     Sand squishes between my toes as I make my way towards the shore. The morning smell of salt, cool air, and damp sand. I love it.

     I’m able to walk through the low tide before sliding onto my board. Clouds scatter the sky like white diarrhea in a toilet bowl, but once the sun sifts through, its beam is intense on my face. Wow. It’s barely seven in the morning, and it’s hot. I’m burning. Jimmy was right. Boardshorts.

     But the surf itself is tough. We all paddle into fast rides, ending just as fast as they begin. The best I can do is pump for some distance. Since the tide is low, there are some hollow sections. None of us are making them, but we pull in. Tiny-barrel practice. On my forehand, I pull in and grab rail, leaning so far forward that my body’s contorted just as parallel as the board, and, surprisingly, I get a cylindrical glimpse before it closes out.

     The surf doesn’t get better as hoped. It’s now that time, when the boys have to get their last waves, and that’s when Gary, AKA Balls Deep, gets one of the rare sets. It’s a low-tide dredger. He pulls into a three footer, and the lip chandeliers right over him for a full legit cover up. I hear a couple hoots further down the line. Eyes on Garr. The section runs away from him. He disappears but not before getting good distance in the tube. I’m telling you. These Venice vets. . .

     And Jimmy leaves, too. For the next half hour I go for the little closers, not expecting a good ride, but that’s fine with me.

     I leave the shore, this time with my feet sinking into the wet sand. There’s no wind, in front or behind me. I hit the Rosecrans shower, the water just as warm as the ocean. Dripping wet, I turn and face the ocean once more. Aside from the waves, everything else is perfect. I can see the pier, PV engulfed in a golden haze of light behind it. There are only a few people out. It’s a slow day at Porto, typical with the lethargic surf. Yet, there’s something therapeutic about being here. Feeling the water slide down my face and palms, I can’t hear a thing but the faint sound of waves crashing. I don’t think I’ve ever felt better leaving the water, having caught nothing but small closeouts.