A DESPERATE MAN, SUN 02NOV2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Crew: Klaude, Tom Y.

Time: 0630-0915

Conditions: 4-5 FT, offshore, consistent, crowded.

     It’s not even five in the morning, and the WHC is already shooting off messages on their text thread. Struggling to go back to sleep, my phone keeps buzzing and buzzing. I pick up my phone, squint at its brightness, and take in the messages in a discombobulated stupor. They’re saying it’s pumping, fun windswell peaks everywhere.

     At 0530, I roll out of bed, pull out my half flaccid penis, and drain it. My piss is mustard colored and pungent from last night’s rib fest. My friend Dan has one of those expensive smoker grills where it takes six hours to cook your meat. Good, but I ate like shit. Bri and I had a hard time sleeping because we were so full.

     Because we turned the clocks back, it’s already light out. Passing the Porto lot, there’s a line of cars. Those Manhattan Beach meterfuckers are late opening the gate. Good one. Way to fuck the community.

     I park on top of Highland and 26^th Street. Peaks are coming in a little sectiony and walled, but I can see the potential for shape out there. No one out. Wow. I guess the time change has thrown everyone off.

     Heading down the hill, the upper lot is empty. The lower lot is, too. Vietnam Vet Mike is by his famed bench by the apparatus drinking coffee. I look to my right. Big Jon is perched on the wall. He throws me a shaka. Out in the water, only two guys are out.

     I wonder if it’s one of those mornings when I’ll get worked on the inside just to get out. I’ve had one day’s rest, so my delts aren’t on fire. I do have to duckdive a couple of waves, but it’s nothing serious. One of the old local longboarders is out. He always wears shorts and a wetsuit jacket. He’s best identified by his handlebar mustache. The other guy’s on a shortboard, a pretty loud guy in the lineup but cool. He’s short, stocky, and has long slicked back hair. He hoots out loud at an outside set. I’d say he looks like Barney Rubble, but I’d hate to call him Barney, so Rubble it is.

     After Friday’s easy barrels, I really want to test myself today. I’ve said that I shouldn’t pressure myself, but it’s also what pushes me. I now know I don’t completely suck at tube rides, but I feel that getting consistently barreled in the South Bay will really mean that my surfing’s improved. It’s harder to get barreled here. I see that now.

     Being a test gerbil for those on the strand and in the lot, I just go for everything, for them and myself. I feel much more comfortable wiping out in the tube now. I have to. There’s no other way. Eating shit in the tube is practicing for barrels. Rites of passage.

     I really want a good left. Thinking about Friday’s tubes, my goal is to just set myself up and draw a good line. Since I still suck at barrels, it’s probably better if I’m not too deep. Although, I don’t have control over everything. My first couple of waves are deep. I pull in and get gobbled up, but something’s different. In the past, I’d deal with frustration. Today, I know that these closeouts still have value. All I need is good shape, and I can make it out.

     One of the lefts is long and racy. I pump down the line and set myself up for the end section that’s standing up. I get a little bit of drive time before it closes out.

     I’m still doing something wrong, maybe a lot of things. Perhaps I could have pumped faster, set myself up in a safer spot instead of being too deep. Still a lot to learn.

     My backhand’s still a mess. My worst wipeouts are from grabbing rail on the rights.

     Into 0800, more people are paddling out. Big Jon paddles up to me and says, “Because of the rain. They worried.”

     There’s tampon juice, motor oil, and dissolved dogshit in this water. I know. Yeah, it’s a risk, but sometimes you have to paddle out anyway.

     Tom Y. is out. Klaude is out. I can’t say that Collin’s a standout surfer here, but he’s going for everything, even on the ones I’m passing on. Props.

     Klaude gets a right and throws water out the back. Ross and Davie are killing it on the rights, getting snaps. Also, guys are eating shit. We ooh and awe at gnarly wipeouts, full Greg Louganis status.

     Turns . . . I don’t want them. On a big day like this, I just want to pull in. I’m sure I’m making mistakes. Probably pulling in on waves that I could turn on, but at this point, I’d rather miss a turn than a barrel opportunity.

     I’m late on a left, but I still paddle for it anyway. The face goes too vertical for me, and I lose my board on the popup. For the first time, I’m frustrated. I could tell from the way that the lip was curling that it was going to be a good one.

     Tom sees me on another left. It’s small but with decent shape. I pull in, but the lip is frothy. It’s a blind barrel. I almost make it out but the froth knocks me off balance.

     “That was a good one,” says Tom.

     Doesn’t count.

     Klaude’s waiting on shore for me. The surf gets inconsistent with the lower tide. You’d think that it would get better, right?

     He’s coaching his B-ball team this afternoon. I tell him I’ll check it out, and then we part ways.

     I linger on top of the hill, watching the surf after I’m changed. It still looks fun down there. I reach for my phone to take a pic, but my battery’s dead.

     Driving back, I can’t say that I feel fulfilled from the sesh, but I believe I’m making progress. I used to have the attitude that I’d never be able to get a barrel here, but right now it’s seems more achievable. I want to. I would prove a lot to myself if I could.

     A couple weeks ago when I had surfed with Ryan Harris at PV, he said, “If you can surf Porto, you can surf anywhere.” I’ve heard that many times before. I think El Porto always comes with a disclaimer or an excuse because our sandbars aren’t as good. It’s not Trestles. HB is peakier and has better shape. That El Porto slogan, I regarded it as something that the losing team always says, the one saving-grace statement that legitimizes our break. I’m not skeptical about it anymore. I believe it. 

"Okay. Who wants to get barrelled?"
"Me! Me! Me!"