GOT SANDBARS?, FRI 17OCT2014

Loc: PV

Time: 0730-0900

Conditions: 3 FT, inconsistent, glassy, warm.

     Tuesday, Wednesday I had dawn patrolled my local beach breaks, and they were all walled. Sure, there were probably some corners here and there, but I’ve been surfing long enough to know a walled day when I see one. In an effort to balance my life more towards publication than surfing, I took those mornings in stride and went to the library to write. Thursday I saw that it was still walled, so I ventured to Bolsa Chica. There were waves, but they were all breaking on shore. What the fuck. What happened to the sandbars? I drove all the way to Brookhurst, and the tide was killing the surf. Cruising down PCH, south of the pier was walled. The other beach breaks between the pier and Goldenwest seemed okay but not worthy enough to pull over for.

     I went back to Bolsa again, trying to squint out some rideable waves. Other than the Jetty towards Seapoint, most surfers were on the sand just watching. One guy was out at Tower 23, the guinea pig who’s supposed to sell it for us. He didn’t. Nothing but closeouts.

#

     Fast forward to Friday. I’m at 26^th Street Manhattan Beach, looking at walls again. Good things supposed to come to those who wait. I’ve waited all week. The sandbars are not holding. It’s frustrating. Back to PV I go.

     The reason why I didn’t go there mid week was because I knew it would be packed. Word had to have gotten out about how Monday was good, and I didn’t want to deal with a crowd, but here I am now, hunting for shape.

     I know the Fish is going to work today. It has to. The forecast is much smaller for today. With a fat morning tide, I walk to the water’s edge and jump on my board earlier than usual, and then I hear and feel one of my keels hit a rock. Don’t think about that now, I tell myself.

     The paddle out is easy. I keep an eye on the horizon. Surfers are stagnant on their boards. It’s smaller and much more inconsistent than Monday.

     “How was it yesterday?” says one longboarder to another.

     “Tuesday was good. Wednesday was small.”

     I should have come here Tuesday, too. Fuck.

     There’s this redheaded grom on a flimsy shortboard right next to me. He sits at the bottom of the wave, desperate for something that will stand up. He can’t compete at the top with the longboarders, and with the high tide he has to paddle in late. I manage some rides, able to practice my laybacks. Still too much pressure on the tail, hitting the brakes on myself and bogging out.

     I get a good right and crank out one big backhand hack. Feels good.

     Later into the session, only the top of the wave is working. Waves are swinging wide, but the longboarders are getting them first. I try everything, even paddle much deeper than them, but I put myself out of position. Longboarder after longboarder, they get the bombs. It’s their day, and I don’t feel comfortable sitting elbow to elbow with them. I don’t think I’ll ever be that kind of surfer.

     I had been in such a rush when I arrived that I didn’t bring my flip flops. It’s a sharp walk back, having to keep an eye on each step, avoiding jagged shards of rock. Back at the car, I take a look at the keel that had hit the rock. It’s a little scratched on the edge, but it’s not bad. I feel the board. The base of the keel pushed into the board and cracked the glassing. Fuckin’ A. Board repair here I come.

     If someone asked me what serenity is to me, it would not be this.