WHEN YOU WAKE UP LATE, SAT 05APR2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0800-1000

Crew: Bri, Klaude, Tom, Toru, every other usual local.

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, sunny, crowded, scattered peaks.

     Since the surf was tiny in the South Bay yesterday, I had already been contemplating on surfing HB on Saturday morning. A phone call from Tom had pushed me over the edge, asking if anyone was going down south. “I’ll go,” I had said. And that was the plan. Meet at Goldenwest at first light.

     At 0530 I wake up with a raging piss-boner. After I pee, I lie back down. I don’t even remember hitting the snooze button on my alarm that is set for 0600, but all I know is that the next moment I open my eyes, my whole apartment is lit up by the sun. It’s 0700.

     I hate flaking. I pride myself in being a man of my word. I open up my Surfline App just to see what the surf is doing, and wouldn’t you know . . . Huntington Beach looks like ass. Of course, I already have numerous texts from Rick that El Porto is good this morning.

     Tom calls on cue, telling me that he’s about to park and that he’ll meet me in the water near Goldenwest. I check Surfline’s local report, and it confirms that the local conditions are good. None the less, I’m ready to make the drive south, to commit to meeting with a friend, and that’s when the phone ring. The surf is shit, says Tom. He’s coming back to the South Bay.

     Passing the tanks at Porto, I see well defined peaks rolling in, at least in the three foot range. It doesn’t even look that crowded yet, and north of 45^th is still desolate. I have half the mind to surf here, but I’m hoping that my favorite spot further south is doing it too.

     Bri and I score free parking, and the surf here is . . . just a little bit smaller, but it’s doable.

     I partly curse myself. One, I should’ve been up at first light to catch this good window of surf from the start, but if I had woken up early, I would’ve been at HB right now, surfing crumbs. So all in all, waking up late actually worked out—a blessing in disguise.

     There’s a pack of surfers in front of a spot I like to call the Brick House, so Bri and I sit further south where the crowd is thinner. The peaks are scattered and sectiony, but there are some decent shoulders to be had. It’s two-to-three feet and consistent, and for it I have my Motorboat Too.

     Bri catches waves easily, going down the line, all the way to shore. I catch a right, feeling how much speed this board has. I force a top turn, throw out some water, and catch a small floater at the end section. The next wave is a left, a set wave, and I paddle in a little late, forcing a guy on the shoulder to back out for me, but I lose balance on the pop up—too late—and wipeout.

     It’s fun riding this board, but I’m only now feeling and realizing what the proper use of this board is. It’s really meant for slow gutless surf, or it’s better equipped for point break waves. I do okay with it on my backhand, but forehand turns are hard.

     On a left, I pump to the shoulder, and crank out a flaring carve, that I usually pull off on my Mini Driver, but it doesn’t feel right on this board, more like I’m just pushing the tail and pivoting the board with no style. I need more time to figure this board out, and I may have to take better account of what conditions to ride it in.

     Just outside of the main pack, closer to Bri and me, we spot Tom, Klaude, and Toru. Tom says that HB was terrible. Now, surrounded by our friends, we commence to having a fun session together. I don’t get many significant waves. The water’s still clean for the most part, but a lot of the bigger waves are closeouts. Meanwhile, at the Brick House, Miles and Bruce put on a clinic on their longboards.

     All around us are different faces, groups of guys we’ve never seen before, and they’re crowding the lineup.

     “I like it here,” says one to his friend.

     “Yeah,” his friend replies. “It’s a different vibe here.”

     I know localism is bad, but my natural instinct is to be annoyed at hearing this. I don’t want any new surfers here. We have enough as it is. But this isn’t my beach or my ocean. We have to share. This is surfing. That’s just the way it is. 

     South of us, a SUP guy is yelling, “Fuuuck! Come on!” at the top of his lungs. Looks like some surfers were in his way. Now that I don’t like. Especially from an SUP guy. I mean, you’re already standing on a big ass board with a paddle, hogging all the fucking waves. Do you have to yell at the guys on the inside, who you’ve already taken waves from the whole morning?

     Tom leaves. Klaude disappears. The inside is super consistent, forcing multiple duckdives just to get back out. The crowd doesn’t thin, so when the onshores start kicking in, Bri and I leave.

     On the way home, all I can think about is that lone peak that I had seen at Porto while driving out to surf. I avoid Porto because of the crowds, but if my other spot is crowded too, I may as well surf Porto. I think tomorrow I’ll be going there. 

WIPEOUT ARTIST, THU 03APR2014

Loc: El Porto

Time: 0645-0915

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, offshore, sunny, crowded.

     Since the mild rain and massive onshore winds, most people have been out of the water since Monday, which means that Porto’s going to be crowded as soon as Surfline gives it the “green” rating.

     I had planned on surfing HB, but the forecast for Thursday kept downgrading and then finally upgraded before I had decided to surf Porto. Also, my friend from school, Cassady, will be surfing here as well.

     There are many things that a surfer must take into consideration. One, is going to bed early, but last night I couldn’t help myself. I’m on spring break, and I work this weekend too, so I can’t help but veg out and blast fools on the PS3, playing COD Ghosts. Two, is not eating too late, but when Bri had gotten home last night, she brought me her leftovers from the Mexican restaurant that she and her friends went to. It was a lot of food.

     So with four hours of sleep, my alarm goes off at 0530. I take a steamy morning piss, boil some water for some hot chocolate, and then Bri and I are out the door.

     The meter maids are a little late at opening the lot this morning. There’s a line of cars already hooking around 45^th and back down Highland. I score free parking and walk down for a look.

     Even though it’s dark out, I see that there are dark blue peaks coming in, scattered along the whole beach. I have no doubt that this will be a good session.

     Cassady parks his truck just as I’m walking to the sand. He waves, and I wave back. In the lineup, there’s a longboarder who just popped up on a left. Even though the wave’s barely three feet, the lip is standing, and the surfer holds a good speedline until the wave closes out. That surfer is Bri. I’m impressed at her progression. Most novices would end up going straight with the low-tide speed.

     I’m on my Mini Driver. I meant to sample the Tokoro today, but I didn’t feel like checking the wax job and screwing the fins on it. I haven’t ridden that board consistently since Indo last year.

     The waves are breaking really well, almost HB style on a small punchy day, when the waves jack up at the sandbar, giving a fast racy shoulder to play with. The crowd’s not even thick. The parking lot’s only half full.

     I paddle into a right, getting a relaxed snap on my first maneuver and a small top turn to end it. It’s an excellent way to start the session.

     When Cassady paddles out to Bri and I, he says that he’s never surfed Porto before.

     “It’s actually a decent day,” I say. I try to point out the different breaks from north to south, but there’s an infiltration of new faces. Surfers paddle out to the lineup like it’s an allied invasion in reverse. The current is pulling south, so Bri and Cas drift a little more towards the bathrooms, while I fight the current not only to maintain my place but to escape the crowd.

     The water’s the coldest it’s been in a while. My teeth are chattering.

     “I’m gonna get one more,” says Bri. “I wish I had my 5 mil.”

     Cas leaves shortly after, and I can’t blame him. Nyoman, the local Indonesian, catches a left right in front of 45^th, ducking his head for a quick cover up before hooting out loud and kicking out. There are waves like this breaking this morning, but there aren’t enough for everyone.

     The tide picks up, making the surf a little inconsistent. I’m frustrated, so I keep busy by moving around, jockeying for position.

     Paddling into the punchy waves, I’ve lost my form. I’m slipping off of my board on the pop up. I’m too slow getting up, and the sections already running away. I fade out when I should be pulling in. Not much I can do but resurface and paddle back out with a straight face.

     Two giggling chicks paddle out into the lineup, which causes a lot of heads to turn. I know one of the guys. His name is Noey, and he had also surfed the same breaks in Indo that I had. He points to one of the girls and says, “She just got back from Bali!” He gets her attention and points to me. “Java.”

     The girl turns to me and smiles.

     “You must be cold,” I say.

     Yet . . . I having traveled to Indo don’t mean shit. Or . . . what I mean to say is, I feel weird being introduced that way, like we’re some part of an elite crowd or something. Noey’s going back there for the whole summer. It’s not like Bali is remote anymore. Saying that you’ve been there is almost like saying that you’ve been to TJ, just a TJ with better and more crowded waves. After all, the chick he just introduced me to had snaked me on a wave earlier, so how much does surf traveling really improve you as a surfer? The answer is, it doesn’t. The improvement begins within you, whether it’s progression or etiquette, whether you’re the lone soul surfer sitting at the Grand Avenue lot or trying to get discovered at Lowers.

     I manage one more backhand snap on a walled right. I should end the session here, but I paddle back out. I’m hoping for the surf to just magically turn on, but it doesn’t. However, one rogue left sprouts up on the outside. I paddle out towards the shoulder to ensure that I can catch it. As I pop up, I see that the shoulder is lining up beautifully towards the inside, but what do I see? Three Costco-foamie surfers right in my line. One of them looks at me and freezes. He halts his paddle towards the lineup, gets off of his board, turns it over, and dives underwater. I have no choice but to straighten out.

     To think that I had just read a Surfer Mag article about localism. I want to go off on this guy, but I don’t. “Act like you’ve been there before,” I tell myself. He was in a bad position, a beginner. He doesn’t know any better.

     Robbed of my wave of the day, I go home and fight the temptation not to jack off. It’s an ongoing battle. . . Oh, and I almost shit my pants, and I’m in need of a nap. So moral of the story for dawn patrols: Go to bed early and don’t eat to late.

LEVELED, MON 31MAR2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0700-0915

Conditions: 2-3 FT, offshore, slightly overcast, gutless.

     I step out my car after I park to look down the hill. The surf looks sectiony at mid tide, but it’s consistent. Broken up lines are rolling in. The surf always looks bigger when you’re looking down at it, but it’s looking like 3-4 feet and standing up, so my Lost Mini Driver’s today’s board choice.

     In the lineup, I’m surrounded by local groms. Some are even body boarding it. A kid takes a right in front of the brick house, pumping hard, moving fast as a blur. He disappears behind the wave for his explosive attempt. Suddenly, he boosts in the air for a 360 rotation but doesn’t stick the landing.

     “Whoa!” yell the groms who are next to me.

     It’s an overcast morning. To think that Surfline had given today’s forecast a “poor” rating. The wind’s offshore, but the waves still aren’t coming in in nice defined peaks. I take a right-hand shoulder, which is at the end of a wall, and crank out one solid backhand turn. After that, the wave closes out. I expect the surf to get better once the tide fills in.

     After the kids leave, the tide fills in, and it levels out the ocean’s surface, taking away the sectiony conditions, but now there’s another problem. Earlier, the waves were sectiony and slightly vertical, but now the surf has turned gutless. I curse myself for not taking out the Motorboat Too. After catching a closeout, I go back up the hill to swap boards.

     Now the first shift has cleared out, and in comes a few dedicated locals to surf the second half of the morning.

     One of them turns to me, shaking his head, and says, “It’s weak!”

     Shan’s out here too now. He’s on his fish, but even he’s having some problems getting into waves.

     On my Motorboat, I don’t feel any significant edge. I fall off of it a lot, like I’m forcing it to do more than the conditions are allowing me to do. I get a left and pump down the line. While trying to cutback, I dig my nose and inside rail into the face and wipe out. This happens a couple of times.

     I finally tell myself to slow down a little, which leads to a couple long rides but nothing spectacular.

     By 0900 the wind shifts, but the surf also picks up. Out of nowhere, a long set of waves stampedes in. Most of us are stuck inside. Uncle Miles gets the bomb of the morning, scoring a right on his longboard.

     Back up on the hill changing, I’m still glad I had paddled out. It didn’t turn into a three-hour session, where I’m stubbornly waiting for the wave of the week. I surfed for over two hours, got a couple of decent rides, and now I can begin my day. And Surfline was off. Maybe that’s why it was so empty. No one thought it was going to be offshore, but it was, and there were a few good waves out there. Thanks to poor surf forecasting. Thanks to Surfline.

Post-surf patrol at El Porto

C.I. MOTORBOAT TOO 2.0, SUN 30MAR2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0800-0945

Crew: Bri, Klaude, Cheryl

Conditions: 3-4 FT, sunny, onshore, scattered, fast.

     After dinging the Kainalu Fish yesterday, I went straight home and stripped all of its wax off. Whenever I take a broken board to Rick, it’s the one only thing that he requests of me . . . that and at least two hours of man time, which involves a couple of beers, looking at swell pics on Surfline, or going through his photo album that has pics from his Baja surf trips back in the eighties.

     Once that was done, I had to go through my quiver and choose the best substitute for the next day of surf. I was expecting for the high tide to make things swampy again, so I stripped the wax off of my Motorboat Too and put a fresh coat on. It’s only 5’9, and I had bought it at a time when I couldn’t appreciate what that board was really made for. Pulling it out of its Creatures’ board sock, the board looked tiny. Would I really be able to catch waves on this little leaf?

#

     Even though it’s dark outside and not even 0600, I get a text from Rick saying that the surf is 3-4 feet but with light onshore wind. I stagger out of bed and take a peek out the curtains. Sure enough, the trees are swaying. I tell myself that there’s supposed to be a bump in swell, that the onshore wind might ruin the shape a little but not completely blow it out.

     As my car climbs Imperial Avenue onto Airport Hill, I see the American flag flapping hard in the wind towards the east. Son of a bitch. It’s howling.

     The scene at Manhattan Beach is morose. There is free parking everywhere. A guy who has the V.I.P spot, right in front of the water, reverses out and goes home. The sky is clear, but the ocean is a mess. The wind is blowing consistent three-foot crumbling lines onto shore. Not one soul is out.

     Bri and I try Porto next and spot Rick’s van. We figure that he’s out there surfing somewhere.

     Wagner is on the inside, killing the rampy waves, busting airs. There are a few heads at the main peaks, but the shape is so junky.

     If I hadn’t had a crappy session yesterday, I would paddle out, but Bri and I already pulled an onshore session on Friday evening, and I’m not in the mood for another one.

     Some of the DRC, my dying surf club, had said that they’d paddle out at our local break, so I shoot them all a text to let them know about the wind.

     So it’s back the apartment. Bri and I are driving east on Grand Avenue, when we notice that the flags have stopped flapping. “I think the wind just died,” I say.

     “Flip a bitch,” says Bri.

     Again, we’re back where we had started. The surface conditions have cleaned up a little.   

     “At least the sun makes it look better,” says Bri.

     Klaude and I Vox back and forth. He’s at Venice, looking at two-foot crap. “I’ll go if you go,” he says, and that’s where he hooks me. Two surf bros having each other’s backs. Looking out at the choppy conditions, I predict a shitty and frustrating session, but having a battle buddy with you makes a huge difference. Bri and I watch it for another ten minutes before I reply to Klaude. Suddenly, there’s a tap on my back. Klaude’s already here. And not just Klaude, but Cheryl and Shan also show up.

#

     It’s Motorboat Too time, and paddling out on this thing feels so weird. It teeters side to side on each stroke. The inside is consistent, and it pierces down into the water easily when I duckdive it. It’s gonna be a shitty session, but who cares? I have the homies with me. I’m not expecting to catch shit.

     But . . . the conditions clean up just a little bit more. The tide hits this window where it makes the peaks hold shape better. The onshore wind creates these scattered wind peaks that actually have push. My first wave scoops me up so fast. I’m surprised that my timing’s not as off as I had expected, and I do my first shortboard cutback in a while. The wave mooshes out immediately, so I don’t get to rebound off the lip, but I’m so stoked that I can actually ride this board.

     Refamiliarizing myself with my Motorboat Too, I can feel how the flat rocker gives me speed. I haven’t ridden with a thruster setup in a while, but I’m managing the looseness of the board as well.

     Klaude catches wave’s on his C.I. Neck Beard, and Bri is selling the surf on her NSP. She backs out on some waves, which is understandable because of how fast they are breaking, but she manages to position herself for some down-the-line bombs. Out of everyone, she gets the most waves.

     A five-foot right pops up, and local vet, Uncle Miles, pulls off a critical drop at the peak. I hoot him on, yelling, “Mi-ii-ii-les!”

     Compared to yesterday, there is only a fraction of surfers out today, and we have most of the break to ourselves.

     Cheryl doesn’t surf much nowadays, and I don’t blame her. Not everyone has the time to surf, nor can everyone instill the passion and love for the art inside of himself. Back in the day, at the height of her surfing, she was charging. Maybe not “ripping,” but she would go for the bombs. Today, she’s apprehensive, paddling for waves that obviously won’t break.

     Only a half hour after paddling out, she looks at me and says, “I think I’m going in early,” and leaves.

     Another DRC member, Christina, was supposed to come out, but she’s a no show.

     Despite the casualties, I have the funnest session I’ve had in a while, even with the estranged Shan. The rest of us left in the water exchange the most genuine surf-stoked smiles. We go for waves late, wiping out. We get caught inside, taking sets on the head, but it’s all fun. The rides are short but rippable, and we almost didn’t paddle out. Bri and I could be at home right now, sitting on our couch, watching the weather on the news, but we’re here. Thanks to a friend who pulled the trigger and said, “I’ll go if you go.”

#

          My wave of the day is a right. Uncle Miles scratches out on the first wave of a two-wave set. The second one behind it is much bigger. I’m furthest out the back, in prime position to paddle out to meet it. I don’t know who, but someone yells, “Go!” It feels like a late take off. It’s a juicy wave, just like the one Uncle Miles had earlier. The timing on my paddle and pop up is perfection. The lip wants to roll me forward, but I’m up, sliding down the fast face while it’s still open. Perhaps my Mini Driver would have worked better in these conditions, for the waves aren’t as mooshy as expected. The board’s low rocker send my flying down the face fast—I almost lose it. Somehow, I muscle through the speed and climb the face, pivoting hard on the tail. I whip my nose back down to six o’clock. It’s the first shortboard backhand snap that I’ve had in a while, and to pull it off with so much speed feels so critical and clutch. I regain composure down the line and crank out a second turn.

     To say that I’m beyond stoked is an understatement. At 170 lbs., the most out of shape that I’ve been since my last trip to Indo, I can’t believe that I’m surfing so well on this board.

     It sucks that I had dinged my Kainalu Fish yesterday, but if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be on my Motorboat Too. My fish won’t be forsaken, but I think I’ll leave it up in the rafters before bringing it to Rick. I’ll let it hang there for a while, so, you know, it will be all dried up in the inside and stuff. . .