DINGED THE FISH, SAT 29MAR2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach, 26^th Street

Time: 0645-0900

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 2-3 FT, sunny, glassy, swampy.

     Bri and I score free parking on Rosecrans. Looking towards the surf break, consistent three-foot waves are lining up and peeling. Fuckin’ A. Excellent gamble on first light. Looks like the tide’s not killing it after all, at least not for another hour.

     We hump towards 26^th Street because that’s where Lost is doing a demo day with their boards, and some of our friends will be there.

     And the surf looks fun, much better than Surfline’s forecast. From Rosecrans all the way to 32^nd Street are empty peaks. We stop just north of 26^th, where there’s already a thick crowd gathered. Once we paddle out, the surf ceases.

     There were initially three of us here, now other surfers stage on the sand and infiltrate our lineup. On top of that, the surf noticeably slows down. Already? Fuckin’ tide. DAMN YOU! 

     The waves get fat right away, taking away the functionality of several peaks. Now 26^th is the only consistent peak, and it’s crowded with surfers on neon-green Lost boards.

     The scene makes me sick. I had just surfed in a thick crowd yesterday morning, and I came here today, partly, to escape it. The Lost demo brings in more heads than usual. Of course, the local vets are ripping the shit out of 26^th—Roy, Randy, and a bunch of other sniveling jackals. All these guys are cool, but the surf isn’t consistent enough for everybody.

     Gary waves at me from the pack. I wave back, but I don’t even want to approach the crowd.

     Bri and I paddle past them and sit on the south side of 26^th, where we’re able to score some waves to ourselves. Some waves are pushing through the high tide, starting off mooshy and reforming on the inside. I can’t really turn, so all I can do is try and draw a good line.

     On my last wave, I kick my board away from me on the shorepound. I walk up to Bri to give her a post-surf kiss, when I notice the nose of my board is flexed up, and there’s a jagged line where the lamination is ripped.

     “I think that must have just happened right now,” says Bri. “Looks like you fell pretty hard.”

     But I didn’t fall hard. I recovered quite well, but my board . . . I had flung it forward, and with all its volume, and the weight of the crashing wave behind it, it impacted into the sand too hard.

     Fuck . . . I had gotten away with doing this in the past, and here’s the hard Barney lesson that I’m going to have to learn: don’t ride your board all the way into the shore pound.

     My fish’s life flashes before my eyes. Baby, I had just barely bought you. And now I’ll have to crawl back to the other boards in my quiver, asking for forgiveness. There is only one way you can kill love, and it’s through neglect.

     What the “fuck” does that have to do with surfing?

CRUMBTASTIC, FRI 28MAR2014 EVE

Loc: El Porto

Time: 1700-1845

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 1-3 FT, strong onshore, mid tide, consistent.

     Aside from surfing, some of us surfers also try to stay consistent with workout routines outside of the water. This evening I’m faced with two choices. I can either go to the gym or rush it for an evening session.

     Parked again on 45^th Street, for the second time today, the wind is howling onshore. The trees above Chevron sway from the blasts of wind. Down below, the sun is glaring off of the ocean’s surface, but on that surface are lines of peaks coming in. Granted, they are not big lines, but they look rideable. Over the marbly inside whitewash, peels an peak ready to be ripped or at least glided down, and I’m that surfer who’s ready to do so.

     Bri and I paddle out just north of the tower. Surprisingly, there are four other surfers here. In front of 42^nd sits a whole pack of surfers, so despite this onshore wind, others have the feeling that a window of rideable waves might open up.

     The tide is at about mid height. At the break, I see crumbly three footers. The waves are choppy, but there are little end-corners that have potential for distance.

     Paddling out, I already have a feeling of satisfaction. Unlike this morning, I have zero expectations. And even though the surf is a bit blown out, it’s uncrowded and there are rideable waves.

     To get into them, you have to catch them a little late, sort of let the wave crumble over you a bit. The momentum from the spilling lip sends my fish forward. Popping up quickly, I’m faced with a two-foot shoulder. Instead of pumping, I practice my cutbacks since the waves are breaking slowly.

     Bri’s not used to surfing in these choppy conditions, so she struggles a little before getting some long rides herself.

     I glance at the guys on shortboards, watching as the pointed noses of their boards protrude up and out of the faces that they are trying to slide down on. Not to sound snobbish about poor board selection, but really, in these conditions? Gotta have more volume.

     My wave of the day is another left. I’m barely beginning to start doing cutbacks, and this wave that I’m on is holding shape, allowing me to pull off three of them—granted the last one is in the flats. It’s just funny to finally get this maneuver down on a retro twin-fin fish. Who would’ve thought? I can only hope that this skill will transfer onto my shortboards when I start riding them again.

     By 1830, the tide is so high that it gets swampy, turning the surf inconsistent. The stubborn wind maintains its onslaught until Bri and I leave. Regardless, we’re both stoked. I know I am. Even though this morning’s conditions were much cleaner, I had so much more fun on this crumbly session. Sometimes you have to lower your expectations and catch a window of surf when others don’t want to go. You’ll be surprised at the unclaimed stoke waiting for you.

     

CHOOSE WISELY, FRI 28MAR2014

Loc: El Porto

Time: 0645-1000

Conditions: 4 FT, glassy, offshore, high tide, inconsistent, crowded.

     I paddle out at Porto, in front of the bathrooms, and spot Gary sitting outside. He paddles into a right. I had planned to surf here at first light before the tide, and . . . I was right. The wind is offshore, the water is glassy, and the peaks are scattered enough to be working from 45^th Street to the bathrooms, the sandwich shack, Rosecrans, and even further south.

     A bomb comes my way. I’m deep. Late. But I go for it anyway, resulting in the lip crashing onto my back, sending me into the depths.

     “That was such a good wave,” says Gary. “You were late, but you had to go.”

     Of course. When in the company of veteran chargers who shred, it’s always better to go too late than not go at all. If not, you’ll get your Porto Pass revoked.

     I had ditched the fish this morning, leaving it in the wagon. I’m on the Mini Driver. After yesterday’s beatings, I vowed to use my shortboards when the conditions call for it, and whipping out the Mini Driver seemed like a good idea. Our peak in front of the bathrooms slows down. Even 45^th does a little. Gary looks at me and gives me a shrug that tells all: The tide is killing it.

     At 0800 he leaves, so I book it back up the hill to swap boards. Really, I should’ve been on this board from the get go, but from the top of the hill it had looked like shortboard conditions.

     And even though the surf has swamped out and slowed down, nothing stops the incoming surf crowd. It’s Spring Break right now, but even grown ass adults who should be at work are out here. Is the economy still that bad? Are so many people still unemployed? Or maybe we’re all just surfers, right? Fucking the system, doing whatever it takes to be in the water, at all costs, whenever the conditions are right.

     Despite the excellent conditions, nothing can beat this tide but time. There are occasional outside waves that sweep through, but being in position is a bitch. Either the roguers break outside, or the inside waves break—nothing in between.

     I have a chance at a left. There’s a guy on my outside, I pop up late, looking down. Sticking the landing, I look down the line to prepare to pump, but some old guy is on the shoulder, heading straight towards me . . . going right on a LEFT. So I bail. I worry that the guy’s gonna run over my board. When I resurface, I see that the guy realizes he’s on a left and not a right, so he struggles to cutback and go down the line. Amazingly, I’m not pissed, like how I would usually be. It’s just so crowded and frustrating right now, I simply accept that this is EL PORTO.

     I’m “over it” at 0900, but I can’t leave. I’m stubborn. I know that the window’s gonna get good. I estimate by 0945-1000 the tide will drop. God willing, if the wind stays calm a good window of surf will open.

     I paddle back towards the bathrooms, and I get my first waves in almost an hour, but they are so mooshy that I get entry cutbacks and have to crouch down to stay in the pocket. There are bodies everywhere—elbow to elbow in the lineup and on the inside.

     Not only did I choose poorly when it came to board selection this morning, but I should have known that Porto would be packed. I should have known that the swell is backing out, compounded with a high-tide means that I should have done what I did yesterday—wait for the right window.

     Walking away from the surf, I turn around and face it once more. The peaks are beginning to stand up. It’s breaking well again from Rosecrans to 45^th. The size is down to 3-4 FT, but it’s still playful out there

     And I had been up since 0545. That was me, eating a banana in the dark with a cup of orange juice, expecting a solid session. 

FISH BLIND, THU 27MAR2014

Never underestimate the surf, even when it's high tide and it looks like this.

Loc: El Porto

Time: 0900-1030

Conditions: 3-5 FT, scattered peaks, high tide, consistent, punchy, fast.

     I’m choosing to surf with my fish today, and why not? Looking down at 45^th Street, I’m stoked to see that the wind has finally calmed down. Even though it’s onshore right now, it’s light. The ocean is far from glassy, but it’s rideable. I don’t see anyone in the lineup “selling it,” but the high-tide peaks are big, fat, and rideable. Why not use the fish?

     It’s a pristine day with a pristine parking spot. I had checked the cams in the morning and waited for this window of opportunity, right now, right here, this is where the surf lull ends and the surf stoke begins.

     I must be hot shit in my disco suit. “Disco” meaning that my Hurley wetsuit is loud as shit with the white shoulder pads. Okay, but I’m not. In fact, I admit, I’m a Barney, and I’ll prove it to you . . .

     The Porto parking lot is only a quarter full at this nine o’clock hour. There are barely a dozen heads out from the bathrooms to 45^th, and I wonder if they’ve all been waiting for this window too.

     Down at the shore, as opposed to viewing the ocean from atop the hill, the surf looks more walled and sectiony that it had earlier. It’s a long paddle out. A shortboarder in the impact zone ditches his board, pinches his nostrils, and dives under the wall of whitewash stampeding over him.

     But when you’re hot shit, you time your paddle out right and make it out to the lineup unscathed like me.

     Don’t ask me if this is a windswell or a groundswell, but I’ll take a guess and say that this is windswell. The peaks are coming in consistently, scattered, and mixed with walls and shoulders. The high tide makes the waves appear soft, but there is size. Due to the legit five-foot faces, soft waves still need to be respected.

     As soon as I reach the lineup, I turn-and-go on a mooshy three footer. The face turns into marble white foam from the last wave that had swept through. The surface is choppy, so I draw my torso back into a sloppy cutback. I’m standing too far forward. My arc is too long, but I still rebound off of the lip and milk the rest of the wave as it dissipates.

     Retrieving my board, all the way on the inside again, I feel great.

     Great . . . there’s a set coming my way. My fish is wide and thick, giving me plenty of speed. Duckdiving my first wall of foam, the nose of my board shoots up and jerks back towards shore like a cat thrown into water. What the fuck? Again on the next wave. I had underestimated the surf. Yes, these are high tide conditions, but there seems to be a lot of water moving around.

     Back at the lineup, I catch another left, and it’s another ugly ride. Regardless, I at least get distance, cutting back into the wave on the end section before it fizzles out, but every wave has its price.

     The inside is a frickin’ treadmill. I haven’t been worked like this in a while. Duckdiving my fish feels like I’m trying to duckdive a wide table or a fucking stage. Winded with heaving breaths, I tell myself that this is at least good for my cardio.

     Some guy says something to me in the water. I can barely hear him because I have my earplugs in.

     “It’s only this left,” he says. “No rights.”

     “You gotta be picky,” I say. I usually don’t talk much in the lineup because sometimes surfers are too into their egos, you’d be lucky enough just to get a smile, but it’s always refreshing to meet someone cool in the lineup, which in this case I’m down to geek out and run my mouth.

     Just as he had said, “There are no rights,” but there is a “right” right in front of me.

     Picture the perfect high-tide section during a scattered session. I’m right on the shoulder, and the wave looks flat where I’m sitting. I paddle and kick as the wave hits the sandbar. The flat shoulder jacks up, sprouting an open face that lines up. Popping up, I see the other surfers over the shoulder, looking back at me. In this case, the fish is perfect. It’s gotten me into this wave early and with stability from the shoulder, but now the face is standing up. Drawing a deep bottom turn, I climb the face and get my first top turn, whipping my nose back down the face and tossing some water out the back. The face is still open, so I get a second one.

     I’m beyond stoked and beyond my one-turn quota. I can’t wait to be in the lineup again. (Don’t act like you haven’t been there, when others recognize you for a good ride and say, “nice wave.” It’s not just me.) I want to paddle through the lineup, knowing that I caught the wave of the day, but this is where the beat down begins.

     Looking over the next wave, everyone is darting for the outside. I had caught the first wave of the set, and I’m in the perfect spot to get pounded. With the tide going down, the lips are starting to get a little round, true Porto style. I duckdive and get obliterated by the lip, getting sucked down so far that I hit bottom. Second wave is brutal. Third wave the board is yanked from my grip. I look around. I’m the only jackass that’s caught inside. Hyperventilating, my instinct is half-telling me to turn around and call the session, but I can’t. Too much pride here. Surfers on the shore can’t see me turn and bail like that.

     And then I finally do make it back out. Fuckin’ A. My mouth’s hanging open like an elderly guy who’s just been ass raped. Porto’s made me pay for each wave that I’ve caught. Everyone else around me’s on shortboards. Wrong choice on my part. I’ve been fish-blinded. 

WHEN TO CALL IT, MON 24MAR2014

Loc: El Porto

Time: 0800-0945

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, overcast, low tide, punchy, fast

     Sometimes you have to know when to call it instead of hanging around, doing overtime for one more wave.

     This morning, I cruised through Porto, there was decent shape. It seems to hold the low tide better, especially at 45^th. From there I cruised further south, where the surf is usually less crowded, and it was a foot smaller. I turned back around, luckily scoring parking on Highland.

     The sky was overcast and depressing. It would have been easy to stay in bed. I chose my Kainalu Fish over my shortboard today since the surf looked small.

     Dots of surfers lined 45^th Street to 42^nd, and there were gaps of dead space between the bathrooms and Rosecrans.

     Sitting in the lineup, some guy yelled to his friend, “They found the Malaysian Airliner!” I couldn’t help but eavesdrop because I’ve been wondering if they’ll find that plane or not. Have I been out of the news loop that long?

     Some groms were in the lineup, and an old guy said that it was their Spring Break.

     It didn’t take long for the waves to start coming in. Towards the outside, long peaks would sprout up, giving workable shoulders at their ends. The low tide made the waves stand up as soon as they hit the sandbar. Surprisingly, the sets were a little bigger than three feet.

     I cursed myself for the wrong board selection. I’ve been spoiling myself with this fish, and even though I had set up all my boards for specific conditions, I’ve gained some weight, and the Mini Driver is my only second option until I get lighter for my smaller boards.

     My first wave was a closeout, and I pulled in even though there was no hope for glory. Paddling back to the lineup, a small inside wave came my way. I turned and went on it, and then I wound up gliding down the line on its clean three-foot face. Despite the weather, the water was glassy—no wind.

     As the wave softened up on the inside, I cranked my first top turn, but I drew such a long arc that I transferred the energy into a small cutback. I almost lost the wave, so I took a step forward to push the nose back down the face, and I slid right in. That wave was the best wave out of the last three or four sessions I had surfed.

     After that, I kept pulling in on the closeouts, even pig dogging on my backhand. I purled doing so on one. My fish wasn’t made for surfing like that.

     However, I still manage two more fun rides, going left and right.

     With the tide going down, the waves were getting faster, but they were still fun. I thought about the things I had to do today: write this blog, read at least a hundred pages out of a novel for class, and respond to some work email. I could have easily pointed my board back towards the lineup and milked the rest of the window, but I thought about calling it. Why not? I had already caught three decent waves. I could get an early start on today’s business without draining myself of energy. And was today the day to stay out for a marathon session?

     I had fulfilled my stoke quota with the three fun waves that I got in less than two hours, and the surf wasn’t epic to justify an extended session.

     Back at my car changing, I felt like I had received just the right dose of surf, and I didn’t feel bad leaving it behind in order to start my day.

Here's another pic of my friend, Rick, snaking me yesterday. He actually fell hard on my board, but he didn't do any damage.

DIFFERENT TERRITORY, SUN 23MAR2014

Loc: HB Pier (north side)

Crew: Bri, Hideki

Time: 0700-0900

Conditions: 1-3 FT, overcast, inconsistent

     I haven’t renewed my state-parking pass because it costs around two-hundred bucks, so instead of surfing my favorite HB break, Bri and I meet with the homie Hideki and his HB crew.

     Surfline says that the surf will be 2-3 Fair, but driving towards the pier, the ocean is a God damn lake.

     When Bri and I reach the water, the lineup is packed. Hideki waves. We wave back. His crew here is thick, and they all surf here consistently, all ten of them.

     Aside from them, there are the other regulars, sitting shoulder to shoulder.

     It’s so crowded that it throws me off. I don’t like surfing in crowds. I wait for tensions to flare, but they don’t. If the lineup were this crowded in the South Bay, there would be an altercation, but everyone here is cool. It’s actually refreshing, that despite the close quarters the energy here is good.

     As far as surf goes, Bri wins today’s heat, getting most of the waves. Most of my session is spent sitting and scratching out, not even getting one turn.

     When’s the last good session I had? It was at PV when that huge storm had hit, but that was so long ago. . .

     I’m hitting my limit, feeling uneasy with the consecutive shitty sessions. It’s time for a power sesh, a really good one with back-to-back waves. I need a day that’s good enough to whip out my Lost Mini Driver again and practice some snaps.

     When we leave after a fruitless paddle out, we go to Sancho’s for breakfast burritos with Hideki and his homies.

     I feel a little uneasy here in the HB scene. Big white guys with piercings and tattoos walk their dogs nearby, and yet, Hideki and his friends are perfectly relaxed. Like my Mandy’s Restaurant in El Segundo, this place is their local spot—they feel right at home. 

THE GUYS WHO ARE GOOD, SAT 22MAR2014

When friends snake friends

Loc: El Porto

Crew: Rick, Gary, John A.

Time: 0730-0900

Conditions: 1-3 FT, onshore, overcast

     I have homies at my favorite local break, but I haven’t seen Rick in a while, so I choose to go to Porto. The lot is only half filled, and it makes sense because the surf is shit.

     It’s an overcast morning, overcast enough that it looks like it might drizzle. The wind is already onshore, and the small peaks are crumbling. But despite the wind and the weather, the small crumbly peaks have shoulders.

     The lineup is a little crowded. There are a lot of longboarders today, usually a sign that the performance surfers will take a lay day today, but even the local celebs are out, like Wagner, local big-wave charger and aerialist. As I had said before, he used to talk to me in the lineup, but he doesn’t even look my way anymore.

     Another local guy, who’s bald-headed with tattoos, snakes him on his Costco foamie. On the way back to the lineup, he looks at Wags, whistling to get his attention. “Every day, my brother,” he says. “Every day.”

     Meanwhile, Wags doesn’t even acknowledge him. He looks like he’s annoyed and hungry for a wave. They split the next peak. The Costco guy comes back and takes another one again, unsharing.

     The encounter reminds me of when I went to Java last summer. I’ll never forget the tension I had felt in the lineup during overhead slabby surf. Guys were smoking cigarettes in the water. I’ve seen some pretty massive egos, and I’m thinking . . . why have one at Porto, especially on a day like this. Why have a nasty ego at all.

     I don’t mad dog the people around me. I don’t even care that most surfers are better than I am. I’m here for the love and stoke for a turn.

     But getting a turn is hard. Rick snakes me on two waves. Yup. Two. He’s the homie though, my surf mentor, and these are mess-around waves anyway, so who cares. I’m stoked to see Rick stoked. 

WHAT GREAT LENGTHS, MON 17MAR2014

Loc: El Porto

Time: 1000-1200

Conditions: 4-5 FT, walled, sunny

     This morning it was onshore and looked like crap. I left, waiting for a better window. So that’s why I’m at Porto, having scored free parking on 45^th. Yes.

     Down below, I can see the slice of ocean that is 45^th, between Chevron and the yuppie beach houses. A surfer on a right glides on a high-tide right towards the inside. The wind has died, giving the ocean glassy perfection. Clever, so clever to have waited for the right window.

     If I’m so clever, why am I struggling to catch my first wave? It turns out that half of the South Bay is clever too. It’s crowded, but the surf is pumping and consistent enough to spread everyone out.

     I miss my first good wave. It’s perfect and punchy, but my paddle is off, and I bury my nose in the water. It’s like hitting the e-brake, and the wave peels off away from me.

     On the next bomb, the face is so choppy that I lose balance. My wide fish works against me, its deck wide like a table top, and every bump on the surface sends me teetering.

     And then it happens. The wind turns onshore, making the walled waves even faster. Some guys are getting decent rides, the smaller ones on the inside are all right. But most of us are dodging the walls, or paddling into them just to go straight. Another surfer looks at me. He slaps the water in disgust from not catching a wave in a while.

     We’re all the same. I’ve been out for nearly two hours, and everyone else has been out here just as long, waiting for that quality ride. What errands or priorities are we all neglecting just to be here? If the surf was good, it wouldn’t be an issue, but right now it sucks. To prevent wasted time, we’re all out here, trying to form a shoulder onto the walls coming for us. And yet, nothing . . . not even one turn.

     My thesis is due on Friday, and I change back at my car on top of 45^th, upset that the window I had chosen was the wrong one. 

BAD LINES, SUN 16MAR2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0730-0930

Crew: Bri, Klaude, Khang

Conditions: 3 FT+, walled

     As I was saying, best to pull a long session while the surf is good instead of taking it for granted.

     At least the homies are out, both Klaude and Khang. But every wave is a damn closeout, no hope for a turn or a cutback.

     Khang has the wave of the day, but he straightens out because some chick is in his way.

     We wait for the wave of the day, for that “last one” that will make it all worth it, but it doesn’t come. 

GOOD LINES, SAT 15MAR2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 1000-1200

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, high tide, crowded

Board: Fish

     I haven’t been in the local lineup for a while, and Roy is right by me. “The last storm changed the beach breaks,” he says. “Everything is different from here to Venice.”

     Don Kadowaki is here too, and my other homie Tom.

     Meanwhile, the surf is decent but a little on the walled side. I’m stuck on my fish, meaning that I have so much fun surfing with it that I’m currently abandoning my other boards.

     The fish had seemed like a good idea, but the waves are surprisingly standing up. I pull into a left immediately on the drop, and it feels different on this board. There is so much volume that I enter the wave slowly, but the twin fin makes the board fast as I drive in the tube. Of course, I don’t make it out, but I at least cover a little distance.

     The first half of the session is filled with these fun, pull-in waves.

     In the middle of the session, the lifeguards clear the lineup in front of the tower so that a bunch of swimmers can swim out to the buoy and back, sending half of the surfers towards the brick house and the other half towards Marine.

     Even though the tide is rising, peaks are still coming in. I don’t pull off my best turns, but the waves are legit—they count.

     When Bri and I leave, the peaks are still coming in. Even up on top of the hill at my car, looking down, there are still peaks coming in.

     Why are we even leaving? Well, I do have my thesis due on Friday, but there are waves, and leaving right now means that I’m taking them for granted.

     Even though you might have priorities, sometimes you have to put them aside. The surf is never guaranteed to linger around for long. Sometimes it’s better to walk to the corner coffee shop for a snack and a drink and then hit the water all over again. Best to get it while it’s here. 

MISSING WINDOWS, FRI 14MAR2014

I had checked Porto first. Kind of crowded.

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 1000-1200

Conditions: 2-3 FT, high, uncrowded

Board: Fish

     I was a lazy bastard and slept in, ignoring the back-and-forth text messages that you get from your friends who are debating on driving out to surf or not.

     By 0930, after beginning my productive day with a jack-off session, I head out the door with my gear.

     With the high tide in the morning, maybe waiting for the tide to drop isn’t a bad call.

     When I get to Manhattan Beach, I get there just in time see the street cleaner leave the VIP spot, facing the surf, by the lifeguard tower.

     It’s a classic South Bay Friday. The water is a cerulean blue with only a few heads out. Only those with part time jobs, the unemployed, and retirees are out here right now.

     A few minutes after paddling out, I’m joined by Shan, who’s one of the guys with a flexible work schedule. He has his longboard while I stick to my Kainalu Surf Company fish. Yup, that’s right. That’s what it says on the bottom of my board, Kainalu Fish Company. Funny thing is, I can’t find jack shit about their boards online—save for one SUP.

     The wind was light onshore, but the water was still pretty clean. It was about mid tide and lowering, and the window of surf opened up as well. We were both exchanging waves. I got a memorable right that let me rip two backhand turns on it, but just as soon as the window had opened, the peaks started closing out. After that it was just frustrating. The wind picked up, and then the session was over.

     So what’s the lesson of this story? Go to bed early, sleep well, wake up early, eat a small breakfast, and DON’T MISS THE DAWN PATROL.