THE RINGER (double—MB & Churches), FRI 12SEPT2014

Loc: 26^th Street

Crew: Randy

Time: 0800-1000

Conditions: 2-3 FT, glassy, inconsistent, crowded.

     With a slight bump of NW windswell, we gamble on surfing local, and after yesterday’s mediocre shape at The Crans, we do 26^th instead.

     Since parking’s shit today because of street cleaning, I aim straight for metered parking. Last Friday was chaos, but today there are spots to spare. I guess the beginning of the school year really has cleaned up the crowds a bit.

     First off, the fucking meters. They suck. I put in for two hours at first, but then I change my mind and try to add more time with my credit card. I accidentally hit the plus button too many times. I just want to put in for twenty more minutes, but when I hit the minus button, it still adds more time. I hit the cancel button. Authorizing. And just like that, my meter’s good until 1230. But that’s okay. MB, I’ll let you win this time. I scored many a free parking in the past to get upset over this, you motherfucker, you. . .

     Groms are already beginning to leave. Perfect timing. Because of the tide, some of the waves are coming in a little sectiony. The right in front of the brickhouse is working. There’s also a left just south of the main peak.

     Even though the tide is supposedly at mid level, the waves are breaking a little slopey, but once they peel they stand up a little higher. My first left is a pumper. Sectiony, but I speed past. No real legit turns though. Just a warm up. Main thing, there’s a little bit of shape today.

     Paddling over the shoulder of the next wave, I see Randy paddle into the left. He crouches down low and holds a high line. It’s like slow motion. From my perspective, going over the wave, I see the lip curl perfectly over him. Just like that, even after I’ve surfed this spot so many times over the years and have never gotten legit barreled here, Randy gets one.    

     There’s a hoot from the shore. It’s Roy, throwing up his hand. He’s sitting on the sand in trunks. The golden haze lights the particles in the air around him, illuminating his shaggy do and his dark brown skin. Some say that Randy and I look alike. I wonder if anyone who saw Randy’s barrel thought it was me.

     And I try. As my grandpa would say, “I try li’ hell, boy,” and nothing.

     The local vets paddle out. I shoot the shit with Ross, Toru, Miles. I try so fucking hard to just get a good fucking wave, but I just can’t. No legit turns. I still can’t get it out of my mind. How the hell did he do it?

     Back at the car, Randy says he had fun. I nod my head in agreement. Yeah. I guess it was fun. I want to ask him about that wave, but I don’t.

#

SINGLE SHOTS, FRI 12SEPT2014

Loc: Churches

Crew: Bri, Rick, Jordan

Time: 1730-1930

Conditions: 2-3 FT, howling onshore, choppy.

     When Bri and I arrive at Churches, it’s a little onshore. Yet, before us are smooth groomed lines with minimum texture. The waves look a little walled, but their soft slopey shoulders are holding shape. Scattered rights everywhere. Small but rippable.

     “Let’s paddle out now,” says Bri.

     Trust me . . . I want to, but Rick has the campsite for the weekend with his family. They are here, probably still setting up. We have to report.

     Poor Rick. It’s packed this weekend. Even though all the campers haven’t checked in yet, I know that it’s packed because Rick has the smallest campsite up on the bluffs. It’s narrow, squished between another site and a white fence, which borders the road. Small.

     Rick’s running around, trying to erect his EZ UP. Rick’s wife and daughters are here and so is their friend Jordan, the South Bay future chick pro. As much as we’d like to say hi and change, Bri and I help Rick set things up, but we hit the water right after.

     This place usually has shitty wind conditions in the afternoon. Today’s no exception. The unmolested waves that Bri and I had seen earlier are now gone. It’s choppy. The water feels much colder than the South Bay. In my short-sleeved rashguard, my arms get riddled in goose bumps, and they remain that way throughout the whole session. I ask Bri if she’s cold. She’s hot.

     We begin at the bottom of Churches and work our way to its main peak. Rick and Jordan paddle out twenty minutes later.

     Churches’ waves are already slopey, but the onshore wind is mashing them down even more. I’m cold. Each gust gives me shivers. I eye the small bumps on the horizon, hoping to scratch into them, but it’s hard. I’m on my Motorboat Too. Seemed like a good idea if the size is diminishing throughout the weekend. Might as well shortboard now.

     The peaks are coming in scattered but sectiony, too. Bri can catch just about anything. I escape the crowd, sitting deeper past the top, so most of the waves I get section off. Before they do, though, I get some single-shot snaps. Yup, each ride holds shape just long enough for me to crank off one turn. There’s a decent shoulder on one, and I actually get a weak cutback on its mooshy shoulder.

     Rick and Jordan sit at the best spot with the heaps of surfers. I see them both scrapping their way into the biggest waves of the evening.

     They leave. The sun goes down. The wind finally calms. The great orange in the sky is now below the horizon, the scaffolding from the ASP event has been setup in the distance in front of Lowers.

     It’s a hot shower afterwards and a ride in Rick’s family van with everyone for some Sonic’s. Even though the surf wasn’t that great, it’s an honor to have been invited here to spend the weekend with Rick’s family. All the girls love Bri. Sitting here with a Footlong Quarter Pound Coney with chili, mustard, onions, and cheese, and an extra large Oreo Sonic Blast in front of my face, I feel like one of the family.