THE LOCAL, TUE 07OCT2014

Walls and a lineup packed with high school groms. What more can yo ask for?

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0715-0945

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, sunny, glassy, warm.

     I snooze too long. Stepping out of my apartment, the sky’s already bright, no hint of dawn. I’m a disgrace. That’s how my mind works. I should already be out there.

     Of course there’s no free parking, so I hit the lot. Bruce and some other guy are shooting the shit, Bruce reading the paper in his pickup and the other guy with a towel around his waist at the rear hatch of his Scion. The waves look walled but racy. Not ideal. The tide’s up, too. Wetsuit and Zippifish, I go.

     Paddling out, I realize that it’s way too warm for a wetsuit. Idiot. The high school groms start trickling out, so I follow suit, head back to the whip, and change into boardshorts.

     Back in the water, there’s a window where the crowd has thinned out without the kids. The second shift isn’t here yet, and it’s just the locals: Orlando, Davey, Ross, Roy, Kurt, Toru, and a bunch of other regulars. I know my place in the hierarchy, so I try not to open my mouth too much, and I damn sure don’t get greedy on waves.

     Roy tells me about a local spot that’s been working on the low tide. I’m grateful that he’s willing to share this with me. He paddles into a left, but it bogs out on the inside. He must’ve done something wrong on it because he gives a long frustrating moan and says, “Awwwwwww!” When he paddles back out, he motions for the next wave coming in. He sees that I’m going, too. Even though he has priority, he says, “Go, Matt!”

     I’m surprised at how many waves I’m getting on a day that didn’t look like much. You just have to be in the right spot. Plenty of walls, but if you get one with a little shoulder at the end, it’ll double up and be rippable.

     Orlando tells me how his parents are in town, so he has a week off. “We went to San Francisco and Santa Cruz. I went to that place with the big wave, mul-brook.”

     “Where?”

     “Mul-a-brook.” He looks down at his board, squints his eyebrows, and goes through calculations in his head.

     I say, “You mean Mavericks?”

     Toru introduces me to a kneeboarder named Jeff. Jeff’s in prime position for a left. I paddle for it, but I look over at him and say, “Go!” He does, but he gets churned up on the inside.

     Jeff has priority on the next wave, but he tells me to go for it, and all morning long, I’m getting pretty solid rides. Three footers all the way to shore. Plenty of pumping on the open face but so much distance. I sit south of the tower and end up way on the north side of it, almost in front of the brick house. The inside section stands up and goes hollow, but it’s so shallow. I have awkward kickouts, but I don’t want to ride my nose into the sand. That’s how I broke my fish that’s still in the shop.

     A get burned by a longboarder, an old school guy who has some good noseriding skill. When he paddles back, we both shoot for the same wave.

     “Go!” he says.

     “Thank you,” I say, before popping up and catching another long one.

     Shan makes it out. I tell him I’ll be back, as I run up the sand to move my car. Toru’s in the lot, changing and talking to Miles. When I walk past, he shoots out his arm out towards me for a fist bump.

     With the tide going down, the surf is going rounder. The long peaks are closing out more. Bottom turning, I feel the twin fins trying to slide out from under me. I’m unstable.

     Back on the inside, I debate on swapping boards and paddling back out, but it’s already a quarter to ten.

     I rinse off at the showers. A local guy runs down from the strand. I shoot him a nod. He’s wearing trunks and has a rashguard in hand.

     “Water still warm?” he says.

     “Yeah, I was fine. I trunked it just like this.”

     He nods back, faces the ocean, and makes a trot towards the water, where his friends are.