FRI 03OCT2014

Loc: El Porto (42^nd Street)

Crew: Rick, Bri

Time: 0645-0845

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, offshore, swampy, crowded.

     It’s been a while since I’ve done the hustle down 45^th Street into the Porto lot. Crossing the street, the pavement is cool underneath my feet. Purple hues spread out over the water, the sky a dark blue. Black dots already litter the lineup. The sand is well groomed, a blank canvas before the invasion of surf-stoked footprints. Bri’s waving me down as she walks down the steps from the lot. I wave back.

     The tide is much higher than yesterday, the surf much smaller. Backwashed lines break in wampy fashion, like the way water swishes when you’re carrying it in a bucket, trying not to spill. The wash catches Rick on a left, and he has an awkward wipeout. He flags me down and paddles back to 42^nd. He has to work hard against the current.

     “I almost didn’t want to paddle out,” says Bri.

     “I wouldn’t blame you,” I say, but . . . I don’t see the same gnarl here that 26^th Street had. We paddle out. Rosecrans is bigger. I see a guy pull in and make it out. It’s barreling there.

     I had put on my ear plugs to prepare for today’s beatings. A line rolls in. I turn and go, but my timing’s off, so I end up purling. I’m better than that.

     Again at Rosecrans, a guy’s going left on his backhand with a frothy cylinder right behind him. He pig dogs and places his arm in the wave’s face to dump some speed. He gets partial cover before straightening out to shore. I respect that. He’s comfortable, knows how to be ahead of the hollow section to avoid getting gobbled from being too deep. I’m not quite there yet.

     Rick goes right and gets two backhand snaps. He’s one of the few guys that have gotten a wave with an open face for turns.

     With better timing, I pull into some closeouts. The earplugs help, but I get some long hold downs. If another wave were about to break on me, I’d be fucked. I’m no Shane Dorian, that’s for sure.

     Bri’s the only girl out. Three other girls paddle out on Costco Foamies, but only one makes it out. She sits way outside not going for anything. Those three don’t count. Meanwhile, on the NSP, Bri has a hard time finding a quality wave, but she’s going for it. The guys around me watch her as she takes waves to shore. They haven’t caught shit yet, and here’s NSP girl clowning. That’s good shit.

     My wave of the day is, surprise surprise, a left. There’s an open face that I pump down, leading me into a section that’s standing up. I stick with my line, keep pumping, and then pull in. At least I get some barrel vantage for a second before it closes out on me.

     I think about how I need to be surfing better in hollow conditions, pumping in the barrel, and how this winter may mostly be like this, at least if it’s ground swell. No turns. I’m gonna have to get more mentally prepared to just draw a line and pull in.

     When Rick and Bri leave, the surf gets more inconsistent with the tide topping out. Yet, new faces emerge around me. Everyone’s on it. I catch a closeout in and head to the showers. A guy’s holding his longboard, teaching a chick who’s with him how to rinse a surfboard while he holds the shower button. “Now rinse you and your wetsuit off,” says Teacher.

     Chick in a wetsuit rinses off, keeping a hand on the button. I walk up and say, “Go ahead, I got it,” as I hold the button for her.

     She looks at me with a twisted grimace. “No, it’s okay. You go ahead,” she says.

     Motherfucker. What’s wrong with people that can’t accept genuine decency? I didn’t even have my pervert hat on. I would have done it for anyone here.

     I rinse off and head up to hill where I had scored free parking earlier. A lady pulls up and asks if I’m leaving. Her windows are closed. We can’t hear each other. I pull at the neckline of my wetsuit and slowly say the word, “Changing.” She drives away. I take my sweet as time, playing music, gazing out at the water.