SHARP, WED 22JAN2014

Loc: PV

Crew: Shan

Time: 0745-0945

Conditions: 5 FT+, sunny, glassy, semi crowded, sectiony.

     Shan had texted me last night, saying that he’d hit up PV in the morning. After a day of much needed rest, I tell him I’ll be there at first light.

     This morning, after hitting the snooze button, first light is no longer an option. I get up at about 0600, make some coffee, eat some breakfast, and head out the door.

     I cruise along Highland Avenue, looking for signs of surf. Hammerlands has surfers sitting off of the jetty. Even the south side of the jetty has a pack, a small one. I see no heads at 45^th, but in passing 26^th Street I see a light crowd. There are definitely lines coming in, and I doubt that the local beach breaks can hold any shape.

#

     I score prime parking near the path at The Cove when I see a Japanese guy with long hair in a pony tail walking behind me.

     “Morning,” I say.

     “Hey.”

     I take a closer look and realize that it’s Ross, Manhattan Beach’s own, veteran ripper. “Not surfing local?” I say.

     He scoffs and says, “No! It’s been shitty!” He has his hands in his jean pockets, looking down at the surf. “I can’t tell if there are waves.” He paces. “Eh, I think I’ll just paddle out.”

     “Okay. See you out there!”

     I check my phone, and Shan says he’s leaving in five minutes.

     Down at the cliffs, two Japanese kids are about to paddle out. One leads out ahead of him, and the other kid hesitates, timidly taking small, awkward steps. He puts his board down to use it for balance. Even after I’m done warming up, he’s still trying to walk out to where it’s deeper.

     I take the same path he did, and I get hung up on some jagged rocks to. The water is murky, so I can’t see where I’m stepping. My left foot slips on a rock, and I feel it slide into a deep, jagged hole. I wince at the pain. I finally get to deeper water and paddle away.

     I’m gaining on the kid in front of me and think about the long paddle outs that I’ve had in Java and Bali. This is nothing. I expect to pass the kid, but then the white wash from the sets start rolling in. Duckdive after duckdive, it’s like I’m on a damn oceanic treadmill. My rear delts burn and my upper back muscles go tight. I guess . . . it doesn’t matter where you’ve been or what you’ve surfed. If you’re out of surfing shape then you’ll suck ass regardless.

     I overtake the kid and make it past the inside break. A guy on a longboard takes a left, heading straight for the kid, and then I see the longboarder kick out. He looks pissed. “Mannnn!” he says while throwing up his arms in disgust. The kid was in the way.

#

     I’ve surfed decent swell at PV before, probably six-to-seven feet. Today it’s not that big. During the lull, we all sit scattered. The sets are somewhere between five and six feet. When they arrive, they are mostly sectiony with a deceptive shoulder. Then the sets start breaking even further out, leaving everyone out of position.

     Even though there are a good handful of surfers here, the crowd is manageable. At any time, a surfer may be in the perfect spot, too deep, too far outside, or caught in the impact zone. It’s that kind of day, and I love it because it gives everyone a chance.

    

NO LONGER SPOILED:

     At Trestles Klaude had said, “This place is too easy.” I think Trestles is so forgiving and rippable that one can be easily fooled into believing that he’s an advanced surfer. But coming off of an awesome Trestles trip, I’m struggling with PV’s waves. Don’t get me wrong. PV isn’t critical. Even the time I had surfed it bigger, it wasn’t. I mean, let’s be serious here. The Cove doesn’t break “round.” It isn’t a fast barrel machine, it’s not a slap that will pitch you over the lip into the shallow reef. There are rocks at PV, but the waves break so far out that they aren’t really an issue. Even though PV can hold decent shape with big surf, it’s still a slopey wave. However, it is still a wave to be respected. On this morning, there is a lot of water moving around. Something about this spot makes me feel slower, paddling around on my shortboard. I can see why this is a good longboard spot; you need the extra volume. Also, since the waves are sectiony, you really have to be able to read them well or be good at making the sections.

     I go left on my first wave. I take off late, but the big, spilling lip sinks my rail as I slide down its face at an angle. My second wave has some decent shape, but my front foot slips off of the deck.

     Now I’m a little frustrated. I should’ve taken the time to strip my board. I had this same issue at Churches.

     Sets appear when I least expect it, and like a bunch of lemurs, everyone paddles towards the outside in unison. After duckdiving each set wave, there is another bigger one behind it breaking even further out.

     I thought I was in shape, but working through the whitewash wears me out.

#

NEVER FLAKE:

     I’ve been in the water for an hour, and Shan’s still not here. To give you a little history, he’s a guy who always hits me up the night before to surf and never shows up. I look around. Ross is still here. He has a short, fat board, and he’s ripping it on both lefts and rights. Even on the closeouts, he manages at least a turn. Other longboarders look back at his spray and then look at each other, as if saying, “Who is this guy?”

     Ross paddles up to me and says, “Ho! Fun!”

     I’m thinking about how I’m going to deal with Shan if he doesn’t show up. I picture myself back at my car, reading his lame excuse of a text, and then writing back: FLAKE. That’s it.  

     Looking towards the north side of the Cove, I see Shan paddling towards me. Right on.

#

     I’m trying to share some waves. Everyone’s a familiar face by now, and I don’t want to be greedy, so I’m a good sport. I hoot guys who catch the bombs.

     I get a rare left that has a long shoulder to it. I manage one top turn, and the lip pushes me back down the face so fast that I lose balance.

     On my next wave, I lose balance and fall half way into my cutback. It’s not a good morning for Donny Duckbutter. What happened to all the good turns I got at Trestles?

     By 0930, the lulls get a little longer. The difference now is that the rights are working much better now. The shape improves a bit. More shoulders instead of walls come through.

    

BEWARE OF NOOB:

     A longboarder drops in on a guy. The guy is yelling behind him, trying to call the longboarder off of his wave, but the longboarder doesn’t know how to kick out. After the wave closes out, they are both floating in the marbleized foam.

     I keep my eye on the outside. A left rolls in. A fishrider sitting south has a decent shoulder. Down the line, on his line, the longboarder is still there, stuck in the inside, off of his board. The fishriding has to jump off of his board and into the longboarder to avoid a collision with the boards.

     Now an outside, rogue set has sprouted up. I already know that I’m not gonna make it, and I’m prepared to duckdive. As the first wave breaks, I see at least five longboards get ditched. I mean, I haven’t seen nothing like this in a while. Just boards getting shoved aside in the lineup with their riders diving to save their lives, while their boards bob dangerously in the surf.

#

     At the two hour mark, I tell Shan that I’m taking one in. Meanwhile, the north part of The Cove is giving long, rippable rights. I catch a left, tagging the lip once before straightening out back to shore.

     A chick, who I usually see at Porto, paddles towards shallow water. Her man friend walks up to her and takes her board. They walk up the hill. He still carries her board. Fuckin A. SURF VALET!

     So it wasn’t that great of a session for me, and I can’t blame the waves. It’s just different here, and other guys in the lineup were ripping. I accept that I surfed shitty.

     The bottom of my left foot hurts, so I take a look. Right there, in the most critical and inconvenient spot, where the crease on the bottom of the bend of my big toe meets the ball of my foot, is a fucking deep and clean slice.

     I had cut my other foot last week and now this. Maybe it’s time for some booties.

     My phone has been blown up with texts about what the call will be on Friday because of the increase in swell. I just came back from a Trestles camp trip, so I might just come here. 

FIRST CAMP TRIP 2014 DAY 4, MON 20JAN2014

Loc: Churches to Lowers

Crew: Bri

Time: 0730-1000

Conditions: 3-4 FT, sunny, slightly onshore, cold, crowded, mid-to-high tide.

     Good luck on dawn patrolling. Last night my back started cramping up, like one wrong move and I’d pinch a nerve. It’s been fucking cold at night into the forties, so Bri and I slept in the car. That’s right. We grabbed our full-size inflatable mattress and put that motherfucker in the wagon. Slept warm and snuggly. Cramped like a motherfucker but better than the tent.

#

     The morning air is so cold that I shiver at the thought of my damp wetsuit that’s been lying out all night. My dumb ass left the 4/3 at home since it was so fucking hot on Friday. Now look at me. I’m a bitch. My dumb ass had also told Bri on Friday: “You’re not bringing your five mil.” Idiot. I dragged her down with me. Ill equipped for winter camping and winter surfing. The days may be warm, but the nights are cold. The water’s cold.

     Plus I’m beat. My back muscles scream for recovery. The light onshore wind gives me goosebumps as I watch surfers in hooded wetsuits and booties fly down the line. The window is better today with a later low tide, but I don’t froth or jump at it, not like yesterday.

     We eat a light breakfast and break down camp. Big stuff first: tent, mattress, sleeping bags. We pack until we’re confident that our evacuation from the campsite will be fluid and flawless.

#

     When we paddle out, the tide’s softened things up a bit. We waited a little too long. So we’re back at Mons Pubis just like yesterday. We sit wide, and I get a high-tide left. The inside bowls on high tide, which makes the face really rampy, perfect for airs, but I’m not that good. I get three turns, pumping down the line and tag the lip when I can. It’s a great start. Session made.

     With the tide getting higher, Mons kind of walls up a little. There are waves here, but only the prime breaks have the best shape, so Bri and I paddle to Middles.

     Middles . . . it’s the most consistent I’ve seen this place in years, but it’s also more crowded than it was yesterday.

     There are inside waves, but the crowd owns them right away. Bri and I are so beat; we don’t feel like competing, so we sit at the edge of the crowd.

     We settle for the inside waves, still fun but not bombs. Out back, so many surfers are sitting wide of Lowers, Little Lowers. It’s working. There’s a rogue wave at five feet. I see the lump protrude above the blue horizon. A single longboarder is on it. A couple hoots emerge from the crowd. It’s incredible. The lone longboarder on this wave puts his hands behind his head while he does a slow entry before dropping further down with speed.

     I turn to Bri and say, “I want a bomb. I’m gonna go out there. If I get one of those, I’m pretty much done.”

     So Bri stays at Middles and I work my way just north of it. I’m in position for a decent wave, and a longboarder drops in on me. I try to pump and make the section, but his wake hinders my progress. Either way, it’s not the bomb that I want. When he turns around again, I wave him forward and say, “Go.”

     Now I’m trying my best to get in the right position. A set comes. Three waves, but there are just too many guys deeper than I am. One thing about Trestles is that you can pop up late and still make the section, especially on the high tide.

     I miss the whole set.

     An old man on a green longboard paddles up to me, smiling. He has a hood, gloves, and a hat. His face is wrinkled, and his hair is white as a lab rat’s. The smile on his face looks plastered, like the effort behind it requires him to hold it for a while before slowly morphing into the next facial expression of his choice. He holds out his hand and says, “Thank you!” As old as he is, he clenches my hand with the strength of a gorilla.

     “Thank you?” I say.

     “Yeah, for letting me have that wave back there.” He continues with how the wave was slopey and how he kept on looking back to see if I’d catch up.

     “It’s okay,” I say. “I told my girlfriend that I just want one bomb and then I’m pretty much done.”

     The old guy looks out towards the top of the wave. “Well, I owe you a wave. If I get one, you just paddle right into it and take it.”

     The old man’s gesture . . . it’s what’s missing in surfing today.

     I never get to take him up on his offer, but just the fact that he offered it is reward enough.

     I sit at Lowers, waiting for a wave to swing wide. It’s consistent enough to scatter people around, but then I’m surrounded during the lull. I sit wide again. Too wide, and the next set rolls in and puts me in position for the left. It looks like a perfect, monster A-frame. I go, dropping in steep and critical, but . . . as the section builds into Lowers, it walls up and closes out.

     I straighten up and ride the white wash in. Fuck it. I got a bomb. A closeout bomb, and I don’t want to deal with that crowd again.

     I walk towards Middles and see Bri chatting with another old guy in the lineup. I try to paddle up to her, but she catches the next wave.

     Sitting in the lineup, I see more of the insiders coming in that I had decided to pass up earlier. It’s consistent. I should’ve stayed here.

     Bri hasn’t returned, and when I see her on the sand, I can’t believe how fucking far she took her wave. She’s all the way at fucking Mons Pubis. She pretty much caught the wave all the way to Churches.

     I struggle. I want to end my session with a good one. I get outboarded and outpositioned by guys on the outside. I catch a small closeout in. I’m done but don’t feel defeated. It was four days of surfing, a whole day yesterday.

#

     Opening the door to our studio apartment in El Segundo, it’s a relief to be back. I see my bed/couch. El Futon! I’ll be glad to get a good sleep in.

     We do laundry and cook dinner. A shower’s never felt so good.

     Oh, and Al never made it. He didn’t have time. Obviously didn’t get Bri’s new/used board that I had found on Craigslist. Oh well. Only a couple homies showed up, but “only” is an understatement. I had a campsite with only water and no electric. The first two days were only one-to-two feet. I only had the best surf that I’ve had since Indo. All owed to a last-minute decision to get a campsite four days ago. I guess “only” ain’t so bad. 

FIRST CAMP TRIP 2014 DAY 3 (triple sesh), SUN 19JAN2014

Loc: Churches

Crew: Bri, CC, Klaude

Time: first light to evening

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, sunny, offshore, glassy, crowded.

     From my fart sack, I can hear the white noise of consistent white wash. I zip open the tent. It’s 0545, but I can see that there are waves this morning. The energy’s already different about this place. Vans and trucks start parking out front. It’s gonna be crowded today.

     Bri’s knocked out, but I still make her a breakfast drink and some hardboiled eggs.

     Some hardcore dawn patrollers paddle out first while it’s still dark out. I see their shapes riding the rights all the way to shore. The surf is more like 2-3 FT and consistent, much better than yesterday.

     My wetsuit’s a little damp, but I trudge through the torture of putting it on. The nights have been cool here, so my wetsuit is friggin’ cold. I cake on the Vertra, expecting this session to be long.    

     I make contact with my DRC die hards. Christina’s on the way. Klaude sounds terrible like the cranking of unlubed gears out of the back of his throat; he’s croaking not speaking. He’s done, I’m thinking. “Don’t get mad if I don’t make it,” he says.

     Bri’s still in the tent, and I tell her I’m going out for a little play sesh before Christina gets here.

False Start I:

     Now it’s time to break out my Lost Mini Driver. I change the configuration from quad to tri-fin setup since the waves are softer here. I paddle out right in front of the campsite. Immediately, I get a three-foot, down-the-line right, but my board is so fucking loose. I feel like I’m skating on loose wheels on every turn. I do get four turns. Seriously . . . FOUR! But my turns are terrible. It almost feels like I’m single finning it, like my turns lack commitment and emotional content; I’m turning with caution to prevent from falling. I get another wave and again I don’t feel right. I guess I’m so used to riding quads that it doesn’t feel right without that extra grip.

     When I get out of the water, I’m fucking freezing. The air temp is much cooler than the water, and the sun still hasn’t made it above the horizon yet.

     With numb fingers, I put my quad fins back on.

False Start II:

     Yes, the surf is getting much better. More guys are sitting at the top of the wave, but Churches is still pretty spread out.  

     I get a four-foot right. Four. No bullshit. It’s been so long since I’ve seen waves line up like this, just perfect shape, little triangles of texture on the wave’s face, a drooping line for what looks like an eternity but leads all the way to shore. Churches, I love you and your waves, but I hate your crowds.

     I feel like a gawd damn pro with the quads. Losing all hesitation, I put as much torque as I can into my backhand snap, so much that I just stop right there when I smash the lip, and even though I stall I still reenter the wave with speed, arms out, knees bent. After the second turn, my front foot slips off the deck. Bri’s paddling out right in front of me.

     Motherfucker. Damn it. That was such a good start to an epic ride, but I lost it. I get another wave again. I slip again. I head back to camp to throw on more wax.

     Christina arrives, so I take a moment to give her this morning’s surf report. “I’ll probably work my way towards Middles,” I say. I can’t talk long. Gotta get back out there.

CLASSIC MIDDLES:

     I surf with Bri at Churches for a little while. Christina paddles out to join us. With the girls together, they start yapping their mouths about girlie stuff, so I leave them be. It’s good for Bri to get her girl time in, and I’m not opposed to it. It beats surfing with just me, as I can be a dick sometimes. Being a good boyfriend and a makeshift surf coach can be a conflict of interest.

     Churches gets so crowded that I work my way towards Middles, and there are already a bunch of guys there. I haven’t caught Middles when it’s working in a while, but the sight of the crowd is a sign that it might be good today.

     Even with the tide going high, there are waves breaking through it. My favorite spot to sit, just south of Lowers, is working too, but there are already motherfuckers on it. The waves are lining up so well that guys all the way at the top of the break cancel out any chance for guys on the inside to paddle into them.

     Even though it’s crowded here, it’s not as crowded as Churches. I work the inside, managing to steal some rides from the longboarders.

     I’m not catching the bombs, but the three footers that I get are so long that I get three-to-five turns. But I’m so eager that I lack the grace that I surf with when it’s less crowded. I’m forcing the turns hard, like someone who’s been surf starved, surfing each wave like his last. I can’t be a pretty thing to watch right now, but I’m going for it.

     Bri and Christina show up. They’ve made the paddle all the way from Churches, but they sit way on the inside, at the edge of the crowd. I’m positioned in the middle, and proceed to catch more waves.

     By 0945 I’m hungry. I have an empty stomach feeling where I’m just drained of all energy. The sun’s bright on my face, and I could use some water and nourishment. With Bri and CC still in the water, make the walk back to camp.

First Break:

     I scramble some eggs and warm up the last of the tortillas for the girls before they get back. The air temp is still cool, especially in the shaded camp ground, so I throw on my jacket while still wearing my half-draped wetsuit.

     I eat some breakfast and rehydrate, still watching the surf. When the girls come back, they eat.

     Bri and CC get their girl time in, setting up a blanket on the sand, reading, and tanning together. The whole time I’m sipping on my water just watching the surf. All I can think about is Middles. It was good during high tide. It’s still good now. I know it is.

     I call Klaude and start speaking surf-stoke gibberish: “Duuuuuude! Classic, man. Middles is classic right now. Three-to-five turns.”

     I hear the sound of people and the hum of a restaurant environment behind him. “Ummm, okay. I’m eating breakfast right now. I’ll be there at about one thirty, two.”

     I hang up, still frothing about the surf before me. Long rides at Churches in front of the campsite. How can I not think of anything but surf?

Round Two:

     At 1130, I apply another application of Vertra on my face. I must look like a fucking geisha. I walk up to Bri and CC who are on the sand sun bathing. “I’m going out again,” I say. “I’ll be back by the time Klaude gets here.” And I walk, hoping to score Middles again.

     When I get there, Middles is twice as fucking crowded. The surf is a little better with the tide drop, but fuck . . . there are so many fucking people.

     I sit in the same spot for a while. Some guy, who just paddles out, turns and goes right in front of me. No etiquette. It dawns on me that surfing is the same as dating: Nice guys finish last. And right now, I can’t be nice. I have to be greedy. “When fighting devils, you have to be a devil yourself” (Ninja Scroll 1993).

     I’m no Jubei Kibagami, but I insert myself in the middle of the lineup. I hate doing that, but I must. Because I’m competing with half of San Clemente, my only chance is to sit deeper than everyone else and hope that I can make it down the line.

     A set wave comes; I’m deep and behind the peak, but I have a chance at making it. This wave is almost five feet.

     “You going?” says the guy on my outside.

     “Yup,” I say.

     “Woooh!” someone yells from the lineup.

     I drop in, pumping on the highline. The lip’s starting to chandelier down. I guy about to paddle in backs out, but I’m too deep. The shoulder spills, and I’m caught behind the whitewash. Before bailing, I catch a glimpse of a guy dropping in on the perfect spot, way on the shoulder.

     On the next set wave, I’m all alone and in perfect position. I still paddle in a little deep just in case. I have a clean, unmolested drop in, but I’m surfing with anger and frustration, losing all style and fluidity. I hit the lip on my first turn, and it doesn’t feel as good as my first turn this morning at Churches. On the next turn, a guy drops in on me. “Hey!” I yell, and I mean YELL. I watch him pumping in front of me. He ruins the face, forcing me to pump through his wake. I almost lose balance. I yell, “FUCK!” and he pulls out. I get another turn, but my stoke isn’t there. I fall behind the section, lose balance, and fall.

     Back at the lineup, an Asian dude, with short spiky hair, on a shortboard shakes his head and says, “I saw that guy snake you.” He shakes his head again. “That’s fucked up.”

     “Well,” I say, “as long as there’s some wave left to ride. He kicked out at least.”

     Then on the next wave, Spike goes, but he doesn’t look. At the most critical, speedline of the wave, he cuts a guy off. The wave closes out, and they are tangled on the inside. They both flip their boards around, checking for damage, and after a while they are both smiling. Spike paddles back towards me. I throw him a smirk, and he keeps his head down for the rest of my time out here.

     I still have to jockey for position, trying to work my way around groms, men, old ass men, chicks, and they all have the same looks on their faces. For the first time this morning, I feel bad about having to be greedy. After all, who deserves the waves the most? I can be a dick and say that the old guys have had a life time of waves, so I should have priority. But looking at the faces in the lineup, I see their desperation for at least one wave. Some of them haven’t caught shit the whole morning. How is my plight any worse? Surfing is a selfish sport, but there has to be balance. In a perfect world, we’d be sharing these waves, keeping track on how many we’ve had, who’s been sitting where the longest, and calling people onto waves when we know we’ve had our share. Unfortunately, the world isn’t perfect. This is Trestles.

     So I head back to camp and see Klaude unloading his car. He’s armed with his ukulele and pulls out some wetsuits. Bri and CC are nowhere to be found, and then I find them in the tent both lying on the mattress. CC is bundled in Bri’s sleeping bag, and Bri is lying next to her reading a book. They are talking about poop. Literally, poop. I watch them for about fifteen seconds before saying, “You guys are on some serious, female-bonding-type shit.”

     Klaude walks up with some chips and salsa and sits down on the bench. I tell him about my frustrating second go out while pacing back and forth.    

     Klaude’s relaxed, strumming his uke, his eyes hidden behind his circle-rimmed shades. “Dude,” he says. “Sit down.”

     I sit, munching on some chips and salsa. I stand up and start pacing again, talking about the surf. Our energy is at polar opposites, and I know that I’m being a buzz kill, so I munch on more chips and drink water.

Round Three:

     But I must go out again. We must go out again. The tide is dropping, and the surf is getting better and better. At 1400, I slap on an extra thick coat of Vertra once more. I can only imagine the neck tan that I must have now. In my reflection, I can already see that my face has darkened multiple shades.

     The rest of the crew is still getting ready to surf, so I tell them that I’ll meet them at North Churches AKA Mons Pubis.

     Mons Pubis is usually empty, but there are a lot of people here. Looking out at Middles, the crowd has not thinned out either. No spot is empty. Everyone knows. The world knows that Trestles is working.

     I sit wide off of the North Churches’ point, and I try to have a better attitude about it all. I want to smile. I want to share. I want waves without being aggro.

     A guy in a blue wetsuit scratches out on a perfect left. He groans loudly as he misses the wave. He looks like he could be a local boy from the islands.

     “Looks fun,” I say.

     “Yeah, bro! Much better than the waves we’ve been having lately.” He’s definitely a San Clemente local, not Hawaii local. But he’s cool.

     I paddle south of him and say, “I’m not back paddling you, just gonna sit over here.”

     He smiles and says not to worry about it. Just then, the best lefts that I’ve seen all day start to roll in. I pass up on the first, letting a grom who’s deeper go for it. The next one is just as good. I pop up, and the section builds. I’m pumping and building speed the whole time, making it to the shoulder. I come out of the section fast and get a front-side turn off the midline. I don’t have to bottom turn that much for it because of my momentum, but the power generated from coming out of the section sticks my feet to the board, going full rail into the carve and coming out of it fast. I pump down the line to where the shoulder tapers off, put my rear foot over the traction pad, and draw a tight-arching line into a wrap around cutback. I rebound off the lip and get a little more distance before the wave closes out. Best wave of the year, easy. It’s my best frontside, wrap around cutback since Java—my first legitimate one ever.

     I’m beyond stoked. My surf session is made. I look around for my crew, but they aren’t here. Back at the lineup, I keep an eye out for them, and then I see that I’ve drifted south, further into Churches. CC, Bri, and KK are at Mons Pubis.

     I paddle over towards them. “The lefts are so nice!” says Klaude. I watch him paddle late into a spilling wave. He disappears behind the right, and then his head emerges over the wave as he does a slashing cutback, throwing some water out the back.

     When he paddles back I say, “Aww yeah! I saw you get a little cutty!” I draw an arch with my hand in the water, splashing some of it up in the air.

     “You know what the best part about that wave was?” he says.

     “What?”

     “You saw it!” He laughs, but I know what he’s talking about. It’s not often that our best waves are witnessed, and it feels good to have validation from a close friend. I feel the same way.

     And Mons Pubis keeps on working. With the low tide, the waves are standing up more. It’s glassy and offshore. The water’s so smooth that the sun reflecting off of the water pierces our eyes and faces. It hurts just to look out, but it’s a pain worth going through for perfect conditions.

     The peak shifts further north towards Middles, and we have it all to ourselves. I pick off the rights early, cancelling anyone else who’s at North Churches. CC gets a wave, I lose track of KK who’s on the inside coming back from his rides, and Bri dominates the peak, holding off people from infiltrating our post.

     Finally, some guys paddle over to hit on Bri and sit in the lineup with us, but we’ve had so many waves that it doesn’t even matter.

     I watch Bri go on a critical drop on a set-wave right. I think that she wipes out, but then she stands up, fighting the choppy face all the way to shore.

     Klaude and I split a peak, he going left and I right. I get two turns, and then that’s when I feel completely depleted. I’m done. I’ve been surfing all day, and there’s nothing left in the tank. That empty-stomach feeling comes back, and there’s no way that I’m going back out to duckdive the sets.

     It’s 1615, and KK and I trail behind Bri and CC on the way back to camp. When we get there, we take our time drying off, marveling at the beautiful sunset, long rights still going off at Churches, and the glaze that we all have from an epic session. The waves weren’t necessarily “epic” since that’s a misused term, but it was epic because Bri and I got to share it with our friends. It wouldn’t have been the same to have called them on the phone afterwards, telling them how good it was. They were here. They made the commitment to come out and make the drive, just for the day, and it was more than worth it.

     We head to the showers, where in honor of Fransaucian tradition, KK busts out the beers. We drink in the showers, talking shit from over the cinder-block separator. From there it’s AYCE sushi in Mission Viejo, all of us.

     In the middle of dinner, I have to take a shit twice. Looking in the mirror, I see that my face is sunburned despite how much Vertra I had put on. My eyes are bloodshot red, my nose is wrinkly like it’s about to peel, and my face and neck are so contrasted in shades that I look like a freak.

     I finish washing my hands, smiling at the reflection in the mirror.

     It was worth it. 

FIRST CAMP TRIP 2014 DAY 2, SAT 18JAN2014

Loc: Churches

Crew: Bri

Time: 1330-1615

Conditions: 1-3 FT, sunny, offshore, glassy, low tide, empty.

     We wake up to a glorious morning. It’s the only way I can describe it: waking up with the surf right in front of you, the sound of the waves, the cool ocean air, and the sun illuminating the sky while it’s still making its way over the San Onofre cliffs.

     We had originally planned to surf at first light, but I woke up early to take a piss and was taken aback by the utter silence. On the way to the porta potty, I took a look at the ocean, and it was flat as a fucking lake.

     So we take our time getting up. I boil some water, get some coffee going, and set up some chairs under a tree, watching the high-tide moosh.

     There are only a small handful of surfers out. The top of the wave at Churches has an occasional peak, and there are already ten guys huddled close together, like a rugby match on surfboards.

     Not worth it. That’s the only thing that comes to mind. I had sent out the DRC signal last night, invited Rick and his crew, even my best friend and his wife. Out of everyone I contacted, only Klaude and Christina said they’d be able to go. I couldn’t do so without giving the warning: FLAT.

     But I have so much to read to get ahead of my last semester of school that I whip out a book and chill out in the shade. Bri does too. Of course, she has to take my fucking favorite chair, the one that reclines and has a built in footrest. I’d like to push her off that thing and take it for myself. Why do I have to be stuck with the piece of shit lawn chair? Why? Because I’m a boyfriend.

CHAIR THIEF

     Thank goodness my expectations for surf were low before even driving out here, and I actually enjoy myself just reading on the sand. With the lack of surf, the beach is EMPTY. We don’t even have any neighbors camping next to us. Churches and Trestles are only this desolate when there aren’t any waves. It looks like a Tuesday instead of a Saturday.

A rare set

     By 1330, we paddle out. We have to. Instead of a double sesh, we wait for the tide to drop out, hopefully making the waves stand up more, and hopefully the new swell starts to show early . . . but it doesn’t.

     We surf Churches first. It’s a hair bigger than yesterday bug god damned inconsistent still. On the Becker I get a two-turn right. Not vicious snaps on this big thing but legit enough to be impressed in turning a board so big.

     We paddle all the way to north Churches, pretty much having the surf to ourselves. It’s that fuck-around surf: small, playful, and just happy to go down the line a little and trim.

     We get out of the water earlier than yesterday because we don’t feel like cooking in the dark. We also skip the showers, and we’re only beginning to smell a little bit like ass.

     Tortillas, eggs, sausage, green onions, and a red bell pepper. Bri mixes all these ingredients into what her dad calls a Hobo’s Breakfast. And fuckin’ A, it’s delicious. 

PORTO TO CHURCHES (double), FRI 17JAN2014

Loc: El Porto

Crew: Bri

Time: 0645-0830

Conditions: 1-2 FT, sunny, offshore, glassy, high tide, soft, crowded.

     Since I didn’t surf yesterday, I’m hell bent on surfing today. Bri leaves about five minutes ahead of me. She parks in the Porto lot while I score parking on the 45^th Street hill.

     Looking down at the beach, some small waves roll to shore. The tide is already high, but it looks like there’s a small window before it gets too swampy.

     We paddle out at the same time. Halfway to the lineup, a small, inside two-foot wave begins to peel. I turn and go, and the small wave holds enough shape for me to get two, mooshy turns before bogging out.

     Heading back to the lineup, the same thing happens again.

     Despite the mooshy waves, the lineup begins to fill with surfers. I try for waves, but the tide already has its effect on the water, and I don’t have enough board. Meanwhile, Bri is able to paddle into just about every wave rolling through.

     I’m an idiot for riding a shortboard in these conditions. I can’t say enough how much I need a fish in my quiver. Other people have made the same mistake too. A chick is out here on a shortboard as well, only going straight because she can’t even make the sections.

     When Bri leaves, I tell her to swap boards with me since she’s going to work. Now I got the NSP.

     It’s been at least a year since I had last messed around on this thing. I’m so used to shortboarding, that I misposition my body on the board, lying way too far towards the nose. Finally I find the sweet spot, and it feels so awkward having so much board in front of me. Yet, the sheer size of the NSP (7’10) feels like an ocean liner, like I can draw a straight line and paddle anywhere with speed and stability.

     Now I’m sitting at the top of the wave at 45^th. I catch a left with ease. Gliding down the line, I walk just short of the nose and turn around, trying to surf backwards, but my line’s not high enough, so I purl the nose.

     On the next left, I walk the deck again, keeping a high line, but I can’t get to the nose—I have never gotten a nose ride in my life. I still manage to surf backwards on the end section before the wave closes out.

     Back at the lineup again, I realize that a lot of people are still waiting for waves and haven’t caught shit, so I must surf differently. I’ve chastised longboarders before for not sharing, and catching waves is so easy on this thing that I don’t want to be a hypocritical wave hog.

     I paddle south towards the tanks, away from the crowd, but the waves here are inconsistent because the water’s deeper. Now I have to watch the waves break more consistently at 45^th.

     When a left does come, some guy is in my way on the inside, so I pull out. On a late take off, I try to pump the NSP to get the highline, but there’s so much rail that I can’t move the board with my feet.

     To think I’ve been critiquing Bri on how to surf this thing, and I am doing a terrible job surfing it myself. You can’t surf a longboard like a shortboard.

     On the way back out to the lineup, the chick on the shortboard is scratching for a wave. I’m on her outside, and even though the wave is walled, it looks like she wants to go right. So I try to paddle over to her inside, where the whitewash will be, but the wave is so mooshy that it holds her up when she’s about to drop in. And of course, I am directly in her fucking way!

     She pulls out. I take the wave on the head, refusing to have to turtle dive this thing. I know I fucked her and so does she. I paddle over and say, “Sorry ‘bout that.”

     “It’s okay,” she says with a frustrated grimace.

     I paddle further north where the water’s even deeper, and I stay in Barney Town for another twenty minutes before I leave.

FIRST CAMP TRIP 2014, Fri 17JAN2014

Loc: Churches

Crew: Bri

Time: 1600-1645

Conditions: 1-2 FT+, sunny, offshore, glassy, low tide, empty.

     So there are different reasons why I called a last minute camp trip. One, I’ve been looking for a transitional, seven-foot fun board for Bri, and there’s one on consignment at Trestles Surf Outlet. Two, it looks like there’s gonna be some decent swell on Sunday and Monday. Three, my homeboy Al who I went to Java with last summer, will be down south with family, and he wants to meet up.

     When Bri comes home from work, I meet her with the surprise that I’ve reserved a campsite for the whole holiday weekend. She showers and packs while I do the finishing touches with the gear.

     I call Trestles Surf Outlet to check on the 7’0 Terry Senate fun board. The girl who answers the phone puts me on hold, comes back on and says, “We just sold that board a half hour ago.”

     Disappointment and regret overwhelm me. Motherfucker. We missed it. I should have just driven there yesterday and drove back. FUCK! I should’ve, should’ve, should’ve. That board would have been perfect for Bri. I break the news to her. She’s disappointed too but says, “Don’t let that ruin our weekend, Hun. Let’s just go have fun.”

     It’s 1450, and the freeway is jam packed. I call the office at the campgrounds, and they say that their office closes at 1600. Now I’m expecting the worst. We’re not going to get there in time. The first night reservation will be a waste. We’ll end up sleeping in the fucking car.

     It’s a quarter to four and we’re just reaching Irvine. I call the office, and they tell me that we can still check in late.

     Our campsite isn’t as plush as the ones on the sand with the fire ring and electrical hookups, but we are right in front of Churches. The weather’s still warm despite the early evening and low angle of the sun. The surf is small, but there is some shape. Pretty soon it will be dark. We still need to set up camp, but we have to paddle out, even if it’s just for one wave.

     I put on my short-sleeve full, and . . . the water’s pretty fucking cold. Only a dozen longboarders are scattered across Churches. I’m on my 6’10 Becker board since the surf is tiny. And on this chunky board, I catch some small rights, pumping and drawing a good highline to milk the little, lined-up waves. I get about three waves. When the sun goes down, it’s time for us to set up camp.

     Afterwards, we go out for some Mexican food at La Tiendita and decide to call it a night. It was a long day, surfing, driving, and stressing over a missed purchase and gridlocked traffic on the way over here. Now I can let those other things go and just enjoy this weekend.