Time:
0700-0900
Conditions:
4 FT+, offshore, high tide, swampy.
Crew:
Russ, Gary
Board:
6’0 Lost Mini Driver
Upon landing at LAX Tuesday morning, I had
been stuck in Tuesday for over 24 hours, meaning that I had flew back into time
17 hours, so I arrived in L.A. 8 hours before I had technically took off . . .
on the same day. Think about that for a minute.
So I was tired as shit. Tuesday I didn’t do
anything but give my penis some relief and take a few naps. Bri was happy to
have me home, and she doted over me. I missed that doting.
There was no way I was surfing the
following morning. I still felt like shit. Plus it had rained. Plus, the
forecasts had shown that the surf’s been huge. It’s hard to get back into it
after not surfing for three weeks, especially if my first paddle out would be a
bit harrowing, definitely colder from the last time. I was a vegetable for a
day once more before paddling back out.
#
The
Return of The Duck:
The plan was to meet Gary at Rosecrans at
first light, but of course I’m late. Gotta get back into the groove. I’m off.
There’s a puddle of water in my garage from the rain. It’s dank. Everything
feels moist. My neighbor parked his truck in there, so there’s barely any room
to maneuver. I go through my list, check it twice, make sure I have all my
gear, and drive off.
After scoring free parking on Highland, I
head down the hill to meet the fellas. Everything needs getting used to once
more. The cold morning air, the oily sunblock on my face, the cool sidewalk
underneath my feet. A chill hits the back of my neck from the offshore breeze.
The sky’s a light blue with streaks of pink clouds. Could be sunset but it’s sunrise.
My world’s turned since I’ve been gone.
The shoreline isn’t very familiar either.
The high-tide swamp climbs the sandbank, nearly touching the lifeguard tower. I
do a hasty warm up and hit the water. It’s much colder than I remember. Upon
duckdiving, I realize that I’ve forgotten my earplugs. In full submersion, I
can taste the water. It tastes like an ashtray.
Gary turns around and waves. I wave back.
Once I see Russ, he looks at his watch and shakes his head.
“I know,” I say.
The high tide makes the waves roll through
like finger tips, not enough exposed to push the surfers into the waves. Every
once in a while, a rogue wave sprouts up and extends out of the water just
enough for a good ride, but most of them are walled.
On a good note, my shoulders have never
felt fresher. Usually they’re sore from all the consistent paddling, but right
now, no pain.
I mostly catch lefts. My turns feel
sluggish from my quad setup. From the lack of shape, I bottom turn and pull a
couple check turns off the lip just to get some kind of rotation and movement.
One left sends me pumping down the line. The shoulder wedges up in front of me,
and instead of pulling in, I try to go around it and get clobbered by the lip.
Even though it’s high tide and unintimidating, there’s a lot of energy in the
water. When I get sucked under, I’m held there longer than expected. My lungs
are starved for air. It’s not even a big day, but usually I’m much more
comfortable in these situations. Panicked, I fight my way back to the top and
gasp for air. I’m nauseas.
I get back to the lineup and play it off
like everything’s all right, but I’m a little shaken.
Gary and Russ take the first two waves of a
set. I’m out of position for the third, so I duckdive it and go further out.
Russ returns and says, “Fuck, thought I had
that one, but the offshore held me up.” He turns around. “My dad still out
there?”
Gary’s caught inside for about ten minutes.
Paddling like crazy, he’s in a weird rip.
After a couple more waves they both head
out. I surf a little longer, hoping to end the session with a good wave, but as
the tide gets higher, the surf gets more inconsistent.
Changing back at my car, traffic swooshes
by right next to me. My hot-water bottle provides some relief, but I’m chilly
again at the advent of undonning my wetsuit. Been a while. Gonna have to get
used to all this again.
 |
| DRC Christmas party that evening |
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