I NEED A FISH, SAT 15FEB2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0630-0845

Conditions: 1-3 FT, sunny, warm, glassy, mooshy, high tide

     It’s 0530. Bri’s still conked out. Even after I turn on the TV and play Who is JOB (Pipeline sequence), she only rolls over to bury her face in her pillow (yes, I’m a surf geek). Whatever tiredness that I had felt is gone. Jamie O’Brien has me stoked, yesterday’s surf session still has me stoked too, so I’m ready to get an early start.

     The sound of the running water to full up the water jugs finally jars Bri loose from the mattress. We’re at Manhattan Beach by 0615.

     We’re early but we’re late. Prime barking by the lifeguard station is taken, so we have to park on Highland Ave. Changing in the dawn’s, light-blue light, with the radio turned down but still loud enough to nod my head to, I feel dedicated to have woken up so early. Few cars are on the streets, curtains are still closed with lights off, and the cool morning air are confirmation to belonging to the few, the proud, the dawn patrollers.

     I expect the surf to be just like yesterday if not better, but walking down the hill towards the beach, the peaks looks smaller and weak.

     We pass Vietnam-Vet Mike again, now watching the surf from his VIP parking spot that’s right in front of a house on the strand. He looks at us and says, “It’s definitely not like yesterday.”

     In the lineup, we surf next to a longboarding local who wears boardshorts over his wetsuit. He and Bri are the only ones catching waves. Another guy, on a shortboard like myself, tries to pump down the line, but the waves are so small and soft that it’s hard to turn. He struggles. We both struggle. I get a right, forcing a backhand snap before it mooshes out. He gets a frontside layback snap. After that, there’s just too much tide for any shortboarder to do anything.

     Later, I spot Klaude in front of the lifeguard tower south of us. I paddle towards him. Orlando is here, his homie Jose, Robert, and some over veteranos.

     Klaude’s on a shortboard like myself.

     I wish I would have brought the Becker board today, but I thought the surf was better. And now, despite my lecture on riding the right equipment, I’m on the wrong equipment.

     Bri’s able to get so many rides. Each time she gets to shore is like a slap in the face. Idiot, I think to myself. And then again, it’s not so much than I’m an idiot because I’ve been watching Craigslist for a good deal on a fish: preferable 5’8 length X 20 wide X 2.5 thick. I had missed out on a deal that I took too long to pull the trigger on. The best deal right now is all the way in San Diego.

     I don’t mind longboarding, but that’s Bri’s board right now. I’ve ridden fat fishes before, and I’ve done well in mooshy and small conditions on them. I need one right now.

     Our friend Deathwish Dave shows up. He lives in Mississippi right now, only in town visiting. He paddles out and tells us how he wants to move back so badly.

     I switch boards with Bri, easily catching three waves. Even with the waves breaking closer to shore, I muscle into them early to at least get some distance.

     Afterwards, I depart with the NSP, strapping the Lost Mini Driver back to my ankle. I tell Bri that I’ll wait for her on the sand.

     I sit on the shore on my board’s rail with the opposite end pitched in the sand. At least it’s good for sitting on.

ONE ANGRY MAN, FRI 14FEB2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0700-0900

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, sunny, warm, glassy

     I expect a small day of surf, so Bri and I drive separately to the beach (since she has work). She has the NSP and I bring the 6’10 Becker board, the next biggest board in my quiver. 

     When we get down to the beach, we see that the surf is standing up pretty well, peaky despite the incoming tide.

     Vietnam-Vet Mike says hi to us as we pass a bench on the strand, his morning hangout spot. “Where you been?” he says. I explain that I’ve been at Porto in the evenings. He points to Bri. “She’s been tearing it up!” he says, confirming Bri’s local celebrity status, overtaking my own.

     The tide forecast must have scared people away. Even the high school grommies are thin right now.

     While the pack of locals sits further north, we have the lifeguard tower all to ourselves.

     The rights are working this morning, and I paddle into them. They mush out a little towards the inside, so I try to cutback to stick with the spilling lip to keep momentum, but I bog out anyway.

     Bri, of course, has enough board to go all the way to shore.

     Wave after wave, the same thing happens. Turns out that the Becker is bigger than my other shortboards, more volume easily, but its shortboard shape isn’t good for mushy surf. At least for me. I’m sure that there are pros out there who can get an air out of one-foot closeouts, but I’m just a Barney.

     Once Bri leaves, we swap boards, and my whole session changes. Mike paddles out, and we trade off on waves. Two bald brothers sit on the inside, scratching out or just unable to get any distance. I get a left, walking the board, doing everything technical that my skill level is allowing me to do to get down the line. One of the bald brothers is right in my line, and what does he do? Absolutely nothing. He could at least paddle a couple of feet forward to get out of my way, but he sits there stubbornly wearing a scowl, his eyebrows pointed down. Earlier, I had even paddled away from him so as not to hog the spot. Even though he’s being a dick, I feel sorry for him, and then I feel like an asshole myself. . .

     How many times have I sat there, upset that I wasn’t getting my waves while watching some other guy (usually a longboarder) get all the rides. Today I could be that longboarder, but I did my best to share. I know enough etiquette from experience to not take every fucking wave. Just because I can doesn’t mean that I should. I have to share to promote a positive surf-friendly environment, the so called “Aloha” of the art.

     The guy’s mad. Part of me wants to say something like, “At least get out of the way.” I do whenever I’m in the way. The tide’s just too high for a potato chip thruster right now. He’s on the wrong equipment, but he doesn’t know, and he blames me.

     And what’s the point? It’s so mushy and hard to get down the line without volume right now.

     I watch his brother catch an inside wave, and he’s pumping so hard to stay in it that he looks like an angry gorilla stomping his feet and banging his fists on an invisible surface.

     Dude . . . wrong board, man. Wrong board. You need to be on something else.

     Maybe one day he’ll figure it out.

     I paddle away from Angry Man. Back in the lineup, I let the next wave go. He scratches out, left behind and defeated, finally giving up his stroke with a frustrating splash. I can’t see his face, but his shakes from side to side in fits of frustration. 

SURFING AND IMAGE, THU 13FEB2014

Loc: El Porto

Time: 1600-1730

Conditions: 1-3 FT, sunny, warm, glassy

     Back in 2006 when I first started consistently surfing, I would drive straight to El Porto after work with my NSP and surf gear pre packed. You’ve heard this story before. . .

     I would come here with zero expectation, zero pickiness about the conditions, and I would be filled with stoke just to paddle out and get wet.

     Turns weren’t even on the wish list yet, for going straight meant going surfing, and surfing was all that mattered.

     I was proud, 7’10 NSP with flames and all. As long as I was in the water you couldn’t tell me shit. I saw myself as a surfer, just as much as the guys on their shortboards shredding, and then something happened. . .

     Blame it on my influences: my brother, Rick, my stack of surf DVD’s, or just blame myself. Somewhere along the line, image got in the way. My board became too big. Maybe it was the way other surfers looked at me in the lineup, or the way they looked cranking out turns, somehow able to paddle into waves on their tiny boards. Maybe it was my insecurity. Somewhere along the line, I wanted to surf like them, look like them.

     Of course, the Donny Duckbutter of today would have told young Donny to stick to his NSP, “Learn to turn that fucking thing at least before you taper down.” But what did I do? I bought a 6’10 Becker shortboard, a big shortboard but still a shortboard shape. And there I was, paddling into waves on a shortboard . . . going STRAIGHT.

     And it was enough to satisfy my ego because I was on a shorter board. It looked cool. It didn’t have that funboard shape that spelled B-A-R-N-E-Y.

     But the Becker board got too big too, so I tapered down to a standard shortboard, a 6’0 hand-me-down from my brother, and I paddled into waves on that thing . . . going STRAIGHT.

     That shortboard was blue with a cool design on it, like a cross between a tiki face and a dark blue spider on its deck. The lightness of the board combined with its sharp, blade-like shape and spelled P-R-O. I didn’t feel like a pro, but I had a pro board, and walking from my car to the sand I looked like a surfer who belonged to the ripper fraternity of shortboarders.

     Years later, I matured, or I at least thought that I did. I stuck to my shortboards, eventually buying a bigger 6’6 on recommendation from my brother. From there I tapered to a 6’3 before I went to Bali, and then a thick 6’0 Lost Mini Driver, that’s 20 inches wide and 2 ½ inches thick, before I went to Java, a board I considered “big” by my standards.

     Just this week, I’ve been paddling out on the NSP again, just because of my time crunch for surf. I’d rather paddle out and catch waves on a longboard than scratch out on one foot surf on a shortboard.

     I had been giving my girlfriend advice on how to surf this thing, and little did I know that even I can’t turn this thing with grace. I had missed out a lot on my fundamentals by ditching this longboard too soon.

     So today in the lineup, I’m surrounded by shortboarders, paddling into sectiony, two-foot slop, only going straight or bogging out down the line. Meanwhile, on this Barney board, I’m stacking up the wave count against them, using different points on the deck to get down the line and milk the sections as long as possible. Only now do I realize what the point of surfing is.

     Up until this point I had been a victim of my own ego, my own pride to never be caught dead on a longboard because they represented the beginner level of surfing, because I wanted to “turn” and “rip,” because I wanted to at least have ranking as someone who is “good.”

     But on crappy days, what’s the use of riding the wrong equipment, to have a cool board, only catching a couple of waves in a couple of hours and going straight on most?

     The purpose of paddling out is to catch waves. I’ve been a Barney all along. I haven’t learned anything. I’ve had so many sessions, bobbing in the lineup, complaining about the longboarders, SUP guys, and guys with the fishes because “they were taking all of the waves.” Beginners or not, they made the right calls, paddling out on whatever it took in order to actually surf.

     My attitude had been terrible, saying that the surf was too small, too choppy, too inconsistent, instead of accepting that, regardless, it was still “SURF.”

     So today I’m out here, with the sun in my face, headache-causing and blinding. I’m one of the few guys out here on a fun board. I could be a kook, and I could not. Maybe I’m a longboarder by choice. All I know is that . . . that doesn’t matter anymore.

     I’m out here on the right board, the right equipment. I drove to the beach knowing that I would catch a wave today no matter what the surf was doing. I’ve unwrapped a dusty gift that’s been forgotten and left in a dark corner of a basement, something that’s been here all along.

     I’m not a shortboarder or a longboarder; I’m just a surfer. I have the right gear to surf every day if I want to. Shortboard or long, fish, tri-fin, or quad-fin, nothing (save for a swell that’s way too big for me) should keep me out of the water.

     I’ve pulled into the Porto parking lot and pulled out too fast too many times.

     Surfing is not about the image. Riding a board that you’re not ready for defeats the purpose and idea of surfing entirely. You must do whatever it takes to get you on a wave instead of bobbing in the water like a useless buoy.

     Years ago I had paddled out to Porto, stoked to catch anything, and I had called that “surfing.” Today on my NSP, I can call it surfing again.

     The lost gift that I’ve unwrapped is just that. There have been waves all along, unridden, all right here in this very spot.

     I catch a long right, walking up to the nose, just a foot shy of it. From the spilling curl of the lip, I’m in the most powerful point of the wave, passing the other shortboarders who have backed out for me.

     From my vantage point, I’m so high up that I can predict where the next sections will be before they even form. I hold my line, confident that I’m on the right board that will take me all the way to shore. 

INVISIBLE, TUE 11FEB2014

Loc: El Porto

Time: 1600-1730

Conditions: 1-3 FT, foggy, cold, semi crowded

     I only have school Tuesdays and Thursdays. It’s the best school schedule I’ve ever had, but because I’m a cheap ass, I have to drive to campus early in order to score free parking. It’s the only way I can secure a parking spot, so Tuesdays and Thursdays are long days for me. However, in the evening I’m able to catch the surf.

     The sun’s shining off of the 105 East when I exit the offramp into El Segundo, but there’s a thick marine layer straight ahead. The wind looks light against the trees, and I have the feeling that the onshore wind is light; there’s a chance that the surf is decent.

     I take my shortboard but I also take the NSP just in case.

     When I reach Porto, the lot is desolate. On top of that, I can’t see shit. I mean, the fog is so thick that I can only hear the whitewash but everything at the edge of the sand is invisible. I wait for surf signs: someone on the sand with a board, someone suiting up, or cars with any kind of surf paraphernalia.

     Nothing.

     Who knows what the surf is doing? It could be fun out there, but I sure as shit can’t see it from here. With the obscured sun going down, I’m burning daylight. I should go home.

     The gray coast looks cursed. A lifeguard truck drives in front of 45^th, heading north towards the jetty. I’ll be the only one out there. What is something were to happen to me?

     But then there’s the thought of catching at least one wave. What if it is good out there? It would be worth it to paddle out and disappear into the marine layer, having the place all to myself. Even if it’s only a foot.

     The image of clean, empty, long shoulders enters my mind, so I enter my wetsuit and feed the meter in response.

#

     I forgot the feeling of walking out to shore with a longboard. It’s kind of funny, back on this thing. It definitely doesn’t do much for image, but who cares? I just want some guaranteed waves.

     Two other guys suit up from the parking lot, so I’ll at least have a couple guys out here with me.

     The water is cold. The tide is low, and there is a lot of chatter in the water on the inside—waves criss crossing, peaks peeling at different angles, chop. And already half way to the lineup I can begin to see through the fog. What I see astonishes me. Alone in the lineup? Fuck no. There are heads bobbing in the water as far south as I can see. Two longboarders are sitting way out in front of me, too far out to catch anything. It’s not crowded to morning standards, but for an evening session? Yeah, there are a lot of people.

#

     The surf is small and junky. I’m picky, waiting for something with shape. More shortboarders paddle out. One guy is short and skinny in a neon wetsuit. His hair is long and black, but his face is weathered and aged. He looks like he’s been around and experienced different surf destinations. He looks at me and suddenly looks away. I know that look. He’s thinking, Look at the kook.

     There are cliques of surfers out with that same look. The I’m-good-so-don’t-get-in-my-way look. And I’m thinking to myself . . . Is that how I fuckin’ look?!

     But I don’t. At least right now I don’t because I’m on a flaming Barney board. Literally flaming—there’s a flame design around the 7’10 words on the deck.

     So I mind my own business and catch my waves, making the best out of them.

     I go down the line, trying to utilize the length of the board. More rights today than lefts.

     Outside sets appear, only three feet but closing out.

#

BARNEY BEATDOWN:

     And it’s been years since I’ve taken a beating with a longboard, and here I am . . . memories. I’ve forgotten how to turtle dive. I flip the board around, holding onto it in a submerged embrace with arms tight. My bottom torso droops down. As the wave washes over me, my face is awkwardly mashed upside down against the deck. It looks like I’m stuck in mid motion trying to suplex my longboard, but my neck’s getting tweaked. I do turtle dive the next wave, and I pull the bottom of it down which causes the nose to submerge, and the wave rams into it like a breakwall, snatching it out of my hands.

     Once I make it out, the surf gets more consistent and walled. I misposition myself, sitting too deep and paddling too soon, forcing me to pull out. I need my shortboard.

#

JUST ONE:

     Now I’m back in the lineup in the mix with the same faces, and this time I’m on my Lost Mini Driver. Being on this board after surfing on the NSP, it feels so tiny. To think that my previous boards were shorter. I even have a 5’9 Merrick Motorboat Too collecting dust in my garage, neglected and abandoned. I’ll never ride anything that short again.

     But even on this board, I’m able to paddle into these waves. It’s more suited for these beach break closeouts. I pull in left and right, going for broke, not expecting to get barreled but I’m willing to surf them despite the lack of shape.

     A right is breaking off of 45^th. A guy in a red-trimmed wetsuit pops up on his shortboard, actively pumping down the line. He digs in deep off the base and does a front-side air.

     So there are waves right now, but you just gotta be in the right spot.

     The peaks are scattered, and guys are jockeying in the lineup all around me. The first wave of the set sends everyone scrambling, but I’m left by myself with the second wave. The left is walled but the right is tapered. And on this racy, three footer, I get down the face, doing subtle trims to set myself up.

     A surfer on the shoulder contemplates paddling in. He sees me and backs off.

     I climb the face and get one backhand snap, disrupting the waves face, followed by a splash from the disturbed water.

     It’s a small consolation, this wave, but it’s all I wanted paddling out here. In the midst of the crowd and the conditions, I got my one turn.

     I change in the dark, heading back home. My headlights illuminate guys changing in their towels, half naked in the cool night air. All of us here together, in search of one turn, too. 

I DIDN’T, SUN 9FEB2014

Loc: El Porto, The Tanks

Time: 0700-0900

Conditions: 2-3 FT, crowded, glassy

     For the first time in weeks, I see Rick and his homies at 45^th. It’s not because they haven’t been here, but it’s because of how I had cut my foot at PV. And they’re here: Manny, Jimmy, Gary, and Rick.

     I had expected the surf to be small, so I’m on my 6’10 Becker while Bri rides the NSP.

     I hear Rick hooting down the line. He doesn’t see me yet, but I see him get a little snap off of the lip, throwing out some water. He eats it on the inside, resurfacing with a wild and hysterical laugh, a symptom prone to stoked surfers. He sees me for the first time this morning and says, “What’s up, Matt! Did you see my turn?”

     All of the homies are sitting on top of 45^th. Not just the homies, but most of El Porto. It’s crowded, and I’m sure I can insert myself in the lineup and catch some for myself, but I’m on a bigger board than usual. Of course I can catch some waves by the tanks, free of the crowd. But I watch ride after ride, hoot after hoot, the boys trading off on waves all the way to shore.

     Meanwhile, the peak in front of the tanks isn’t working much. I pop up on waves, cutting back into the white wash, waiting for the reform section to stand up, but they bog out instead.

     And in the pack, Rick and the boys are catching waves. Because I don’t join them, I get front row seats to the WHC show, the surf contest between old Venice guys who are ripping it up.

     I paddle and try to catch some waves of my own, bogging out, rides deflated. All because I didn’t want to sit with the crowd.