RICK’S BIRTHDAY WEEKEND PT.VI (double), SUN 09NOV2014

A shot of Middles during an afternoon bike ride

Loc: Lowers

Crew: Rick, Gary

Time: 1230-1415

Conditions: 2-4 FT, sunny, cool, onshore, consistent, crowded.

     When I got back to camp after my first session, Bri told me that Nate and Dan had said that they didn’t see me. They packed up and left right after.

     Rick, Juan, and Gary came back from DMJ and said that the surf was too swampy there. Those guys exaggerate sometimes, but there wasn’t a hint of it in their report. I saw it on their faces. Pure skunk.

     Chilling in the afternoon, Bri and I borrowed Gary’s bikes. We cruised around the campgrounds, looked at Old Mans, which was tiny, and then cruised towards Lowers.

     We ran into Lorie, South Bay 26^th Street local, on the way there. She said that Kurt’s surfing right now, and since she had injured her arm, she just finished walking all the way to San Clemente.

     “There’s only six guys at Lowers,” she said.

     Bri and I rode our bikes there, and fuckin’ A. A set rolled in, the left unridden. Some kid busted two airs on the right, sticking them both.

Onshore Lowers with only seven guys out.

     I recognized one of the guys who I had seen earlier when I left.

     “It’s good,” he said. “Barely anyone out.”

     Bri and I rode back and gave the report to the guys. Juan grabbed his camera. We all suited up.

“FUCK LOWERS”

     Bri paddles out at Middles while the rest of us go to Lowers. The crowd of six has grown into fifteen, including us.  The morning sesh had been glassy, but the atmosphere has changed. Now we have glare, onshore wind, current, and a different crowd, not necessarily better either.

     I feel bad for Rick and Gary. They try to go on waves, and each time, motherfucking kids are calling them off of it.

     I stick to my inside routine. Fuck that, I’m thinking. I’m not dealing with that crowd. Like this morning, I’m getting inside lefts, but the shape is worse now. My single shot turns are lame. Even the groms on the inside are surfing way better than I. I’m like a grown ass man going through the kiddie slide at McDonald’s, it just doesn’t look right.

     “Hey!” some kid yells. Gary’s in front of him on the left. It’s a legit Lowers’ wave from the top. Eyes forward, Gary pumps down the line. The kid eats shit. If you wanna surf Lowers, you have to surf like a dick. When dealing with assholes, become an asshole yourself. San Clemente at its finest.

Rick called off on a left by some chick showing her cheeks. Photo by Juan A.

     I see Gary get a second legit ride. Shortly after, he bails.

     Rick’s still out. I ditch my inside game. Watching Gary, I want a real one, too, now.

     It takes a while, but Rick disappears behind a left. He got it because two guys stalemated next to him, fucked each other, and lost the peak. Funny how simple communication could have avoided that, but I’m stoked for Rick.

     “Hell yeah,” I say under my breath.

     As far as the rest of my session, it’s not even worth writing. Fuck. More people come out. I even sit furthest out, in the middle, where I’m supposed to have the best fucking chance for a wave, and it’s just too fucking crowded. I see the same fucking faces come back and forth. I get snaked once. The second time, some fucking kid with a face like a midget bags me on the right. I’m behind him the whole way. There’s no sense in talking. It’s either murder him or nott. Ah! I just fucking hate everyone here right now.

     Some French guy paddles into my leash on accident on the take off. Another wave lost. Hearing him speak French just raises my blood pressure. I can’t believe I paddled out for this. I had an okay session earlier. I’m suffering from this slot machine syndrome. I can’t leave. I have to keep feeding the machine, wasting my money, waiting for it to hit. When I finally do get a right, I barely toss any water out the back. I lost. House wins.

     Walking back, I see Bri at Middles. She spots me and paddles all the way to North Churches, keeping pace.

     “Oh my God,” she says. “I had such a good session.” She goes on and on about how she got so many waves to herself.

     “Were the big ones shortboardable?” I say.

     “Yeah, the sets were.”

     Back at camp, Gary and Rick don’t even want to ask how my sesh was. My face says it all.

     Juan’s going through his camera.

     “Juan says he saw you get bagged like three times,” says Rick.

     I shake my head. I think I understand now why some surfers localize their breaks. Violence, though not encouraged, sometimes is the answer. I understand that now.

“What Really Matters”

     After cleaning up camp, Juan fires up the grill and cooks some tuna steaks with asparagus. I had already cooked rice earlier. There’s mac salad leftover from dinner.

     In the late afternoon overcast, the three of us grub over the picnic table, joking and exchanging stories about this whole trip.

     Who cares that my last session was shitty. I had wanted to strangle some people earlier, but now I could give a fuck. Fuck everyone at Lowers. All I care about are my homies here.

     We fight over who’s gonna eat the last tuna steak. I could eat five, but I want to see my friends eat it. I try to push it on everyone, but they all say they’re full, so I polish it off and even kill of the scraps on everyone else’s plates, too. 

Juan Suave, Gary AKA Balls Deep, and Rick. So blessed to have these guys in my life. Old Venice Vets.