THE CHANGE, WED 01OCT2014

Loc: Huntington Beach (Brookhurst)

Crew: Randy

Time: 0800-1000

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, onshore, consistent, choppy.

     South wind pats our faces as we step out of the wagon. It’s onshore early. We walk out towards the beach for a look. This is supposed to be my brother’s last session here in a while. The patchy clouds mask the sun’s rays, keeping the atmosphere a dismal grey. An older guy is walking towards us. I rehearse my morning greeting in my mind, but the guy beats me to the bunch.

     “You guys checking it out?” he says, and after answering with a word, the guy starts talking about his hip surgery, his son who does airs and works for Rip Curl HB, and then he starts to look familiar.

     “Excuse me,” I say. “Is your name Michael?”

     “Yeah. Michael J.”

     I tell him that I surfed with him a long time ago during his surgery, and how he could only knee board at that time.

     He offers up his fist for a pound and says he’ll check the surf with us.

     The peaks are coming in more scattered, but the wind is making everything choppy.

     “You know,” says Michael J, “I was by Dog Beach yesterday around ten, and it was perfect. The wind changed, I paddled up to a pack, and I was ‘the guy!’”

     Randy and I decide to go for it. Michael J bids us farewell. An entourage of surfers parks next to us. One of them has dreads. They’re talking about a surf movie that they’re in.

     “Dude, can I borrow some wax?” asks Dreads.

     I think about how some guy at Jalama had given me a bar of wax in the lineup and how Klaude had just did the same for someone else at Trestles.

     “Sure,” I say, offering up my bar.

     He thanks me repeatedly.

     “It’s just wax,” I say.

     “Yeah, it’s just wax until you don’t have any.”

     The pros paddle out at the best peak, so Randy and I walk further south towards tower 3.

     My Motorboat Too feels so small after surfing the Zippi, but I can appreciate how duckdiving it is so much easier. We sit in a small gap between a string of surfers. We both get waves, but their faces have so much chop that the rides are more technical than enjoyable. The faces have steps in them, so I have to shift lines to get distance on them.

     The current’s not too bad, and there are waves, but I’m disappointed. This is my brother’s last sesh here for a while, and I wonder what nature is trying to tell us. Is this a message? Is this nature’s way of saying that we can’t expect a good session just because it’s his last day and that he should be staying instead to be here when the waves are good? I don’t know. But at 0900, the wind changes. The waves are still choppy, but they’ve cleaned up a little. I see my brother go for air attempts and rotations for finishing maneuvers. He’s throwing buckets out on the lefts. Meanwhile, I’m having a hard time, either scratching out or backing out at the last second because I’m too deep.

     “It’s really peaky right now,” says Randy. “You can get around them.”

     I take his advice and just go, wisely picking good lines to maximize my rides. Some of the waves are so racy that I lack control. I try an air but end up with extended legs and fins still in the water. Amateur. But I do get one good ear-biting forehand carve and a couple backhand snaps, but I still didn’t surf so well.

     Randy knows this spot. This used to be his home break, and he’s milking as much as he can out of it until next year.

     Afterwards, we head to IHOP for omelets and pancakes. We’re stuffed. I take him to do some last minute shopping, drop him off, and by 1945 I have him back at the airport.

     I hate to see him leave, but I know he has to go. He has business to tend to. I tell him that I’ve had so much fuckin’ fun with him and that I love him, and then I give him a hug. I’m gonna miss him.