TO COMPLETE A QUIVER…, THU 6FEB2014

Loc: El Porto

Time: 1500-1700

Conditions: 1-3 FT, raining, onshore, choppy, scattered wind swell peaks

     I’m surprised that I’m even thinking about paddling out. Dark clouds hover over PV. There’s spotty rain all over the South Bay, but right now it’s not. It’s overcast though. Three guys are out in front of 45^th, and the surf is small, choppy, and onshore. On top of that, all three surfers are on shortboards. Wrong equipment. They can only go straight on the sectiony waves, and they aren’t selling the surf.

     Regardless, it’s the end of my school week, and what better way to end the week than a paddle out? I have zero expectations. I just want to get wet. Also, I came prepared.

Throw Back:

     I’m paddling out on Bri’s NSP. It’s 7’10, thick and wide. Finding the sweet spot to lie on this board is a little challenging at first. The nose dips under the water. I scoot back a little.

     The inside waves push the board up against my body, putting pressure against my stomach. Wow, I need to give Bri more credit for riding this awkward thing.

     I sit north of the other surfers, only two guys now. Even though the surf is crap, I’m glad to be out here. It’s a “whatever session,” and I know that I’m guaranteed to catch a wave on this board, but will I do it well?

     On the first two lefts that I get, I walk the nose, turn around, and try to ride backwards, purling both times. Yup, it’s a lot harder than it looks on TV.

     I still manage to make it back out to the lineup without having to turtle dive the board.

     My next waves are late takeoffs, but there is so much board that balancing is easy. I try to bottom turn, struggling to draw a higher line. I stick my hand in the face of the wave to stall, and I get the positioning I need. Even though the wave is sectiony, the board just drives through the whitewash, getting me to the open face. I try to walk the nose to make it past the next section but purl.

     There’s so much more to longboarding that I had failed to appreciate. Bri looks much better surfing on this thing than I do. She has style, and I look like I’m forcing the board into turns instead of flowing with the board’s energy.

     But my wipeouts and goofy rides are so fun. More surfers are out, most of them on shortboards. They’re not going down the line. Meanwhile, I have waves to spare, eating shit, resurfacing with a smile each time.

     Into the second hour I finally get into some kind of longboarding groove. I draw an ugly frontside turn, redirecting the long boat of a nose towards the shore and down the line again. Not a cutback, but the closest thing I’ve ever come to a turn on a longboard. I can see why they say “bend the knee” when you’re turning on one of these things. Of course, I wasn’t directly over the tail. I sure as shit didn’t bend my knee. So how did I look? Fuck, I was stiff legged, leaning so far forward like I was bending over to get fucked in the ass.

     I had the most fun just making all the sections, even the reforms on the inside. I got to play with the length of the board, stepping forward to gain momentum, shifting back to the rear to check turn and slow myself down. It’s buoyancy has standing taller than usual, giving me a different perspective of the wave, seeing soft, moundy shoulders instead of sections I can’t make.

     Towards the end of the session it starts to rain. When I’m back on shore, three shortboarders pass me on the sand to paddle out. They take a look at the NSP and scoff under their breaths. It’s funny to think how I used to be one of those guys on the wrong equipment, on a 6’0 potato chip when the surf is crap. And Rick used to lecture me all the time about riding the right equipment, his choice being a fish. And I’d discount his advice, thinking I knew better.

     Well, I’m stoked now. Even more stoked than the last session I surfed at PV when I cut my foot, and the waves were much better that day too. I have a newfound respect for longboarders, so long as they aren’t too greedy with the waves.

     So I’m checking Craigslist now, looking for a big fat fish that I can ride in small, onshore slop. I’m beyond sold on having a small wave board. Surfing the NSP made me realize that with the right equipment, you can just about surf everyday if you want to. 

TWO WEEKS, WED 5FEB2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Crew: Bri

Time: 0700-0900

Conditions: 2-3 FT, low tide, cold, inconsistent, crowded

     Two weeks since I last surfed. Two weeks nursing this stubborn slice under my toe. Two weeks listening to Rick and his homeboys talk about how good the surf has been. Two weeks later, and my cut has still not healed. Two weeks too long.

     Klaude told me today that he feels like the guy who doesn’t surf. Well, I’ve been that guy lately, not by choice either. But it’s so easy to fall out of a surf groove and surf identity.

     Sleeping in, watching Bri shut my apartment door with a hot water jug in her hand; picking up a book and reading down its face instead of sliding down the face of a wave. Might as well be productive.

     How about my paddling arms? Will they remember? My condition. Has it deteriorated?

#

Dawns:

     Don’t take dawn patrols for granted. They’re not so easy of a habit to delve back into.

     Grabbing my gear, I shut and lock my garage door, realizing that I’ve forgotten my wetsuit and a bunch of other necessities. “Fuck!” I say. I open it back up again, triple check my equipment.

     I drive off, passing by Bri who’s stepping out of her car. “Meet you there!” she says.

     That’s my chick. More of a damn surfer than I am nowadays.

     Driving down Grand Avenue, the El Segundo waves look small and weak. The Jetty looks weak too, but upon passing 45^th and looking down, I see that I am deceived. My view is quick as a flash, but it’s a flash of peaks.

#

Where I’d Rather Surf:

     I send out the courtesy text. KK, Khang, Dais. They all work. No surf today. Looking down from Highland Avenue, I only see two guys in the water. It’s 0640. There are peaks here too, scattered and sectiony, but I have a feeling it might improve with the tide. Nonetheless, there are waves.

     Porto looked better, but I’d rather not deal with the Porto crowd on my first day back.

     I walk down the hill in my flip flops, trying to baby my wound. Bri walks out of the parking lot just in time to intercept me. The top deck of her NSP has a thick coat of green wax, wax that Cheryl gave her at our Christmas Party.

#

Welcome To Grom Town:

     Did I say that there were only two guys out? Well, multiply that by thirty. I swear, it’s like high school out there in the lineup. The break in front of the lifeguard tower even has groms in different colored rashguards, not sure if it’s a contest or a test from their coach.

      But the groms . . . the same ones that I’ve seen here in years past, when they were little shits to being the bigger shits they are now. Their surfing already far surpasses mine. A Kolohe Andino lookalike with purple hair busts a frontside, three-sixty air. Other kids are doing massive carves, connecting them into cutbacks.

     Fuckin’ A. What do I have on these kids? I’m not sure. I’d like to think that I’ve had way worse wipeouts. I’m talkin’ lifetime achievement award wipeouts. But that’s it.

#

Look At Her:

     Bri . . . she’s not the noob that she was when I had first taken her out to Palos Verdes on our first date over a year and a half ago. She sure as shit ain’t the noob that I took to Old Mans, struggling to pop up.

     She paddles right past me, heading towards a spot that she’s eyed out for herself. Her body is positioned on her board with the knowledge of knowing where the “sweet spot” is. The gaze she fixes over the water before her is confident in her route. And each stroke of her arm that breaks the water’s surface in perfect cadence is done so with a purpose. She’s earned her title as a surfer girl. 

     We trade off on a couple of waves, but she gets much better rides. Three good ones to be exact, despite the crowd, despite the forty-five minutes that she has before work. After her last wave, she turns around and waves.

#

Square One:

     Here a grom, there a grom, everywhere a grom grom.

     “You catch any fun ones?” asks an older Japanese guy next to me.

     “I got one,” I say. “Earlier. Got only like . . . one turn. Hopefully we can get this place to ourselves when the kids leave!”

     That ride I got earlier. It wasn’t much, but it was my best wave of the day. I was in position for a perfect left-hand shoulder. Three feet. I went. A chick was on the inside, paddling towards the lineup watching me. I bottom turned and forced one gouge, weight of my whole body into the tail, arms flailing, mean torque. But that’s it.

     A whistle sounds from the shore. Minutes later, all the kids are paddling in. The waves do too.

     Something happens with the tide. Either it’s bottomed out too much or maybe the swell has officially backed off into a twenty-four hour lull, but the spot that I have all to myself has become inconsistent.

     Regardless, when the waves do appear, I’m in the wrong place. Old Japanese guy gets two slashing turns on a right. Next set, he gets two cutbacks on a left, his old ass throwing buckets out the back.

     A little after 0800, I see the local vets paddle out just south of me in front of the brick house. There’s Roy, Ross, Toru, Vietnam Vet Mike, and some other familiar faces. It’s more consistent there. More crowded too, but by 0830 half of them are gone.

     I struggle to get more than one turn, and I’m lucky if I’m not on a closeout.

     The saltwater exfoliates the pruned, surf-starved skin under my feet. I rub my toes, pulling away skin like layers on an onion. My cut stings.

#

     At 0900, I’m done. Back at my car, I look at my cut, and the wound is now saturated from the ocean, winking at me every time I tug my toe. Or maybe the slice is a smile. The jokes on me. I get it. Perhaps a mouth saying, “Feed me more waves, muthafucka!”

     And then there’s tomorrow, for which I have school, where I’ll be dawn patrolling the school library and not the beach.