THE GOOD, THE BAD, THE AGGRO II, TUE 08APR2014 (Double)

Loc: EL PORTO, 45^th Street

Time: 0700-0845

Conditions: 1-3FT, high tide, inconsistent, swampy, sunny, offshore.

     I brought the wrong board. I had put my Motorboat Too in a different surf sock, but I forgot, so now I have my standard shortboard (Tokoro)—not ideal for today’s high-tide surf.

     Wagner is selling the surf, consistently catching back-to-back waves in front of the bathrooms. No one else milks the soft surf like him, going left on his backhand, snapping, cutting back, rebounding, all the way to the inside. I don’t even bother paddling over there.

     At 45^th Street, the surf is inconsistent. I could leave, but it’s part of that surf sickness that all surfers suffer from. We all have obligations, other things we should be doing. Personally, I should be scheduling an appointment with a recruiter to go over the options of my reenlistment. And how about the other bodies around me. We sit shoulder to shoulder, like the starving and oppressed waiting for one chicken bone. When the random wave comes, only one, two of us at most, will ride it. But still, everyone persists to be here. The lengths surfers go for a wave. I can relate.

     Surprisingly, I get one solid turn. It’s on a weak wave that reforms on the inside close to shore. Before it closes out, I get one bang off the lip. It feels good on a standard short versus my other boards, but for the rest of the session I don’t have enough volume to get into the waves.

     I’m in my car and driving away by 0900. The lowering tide hasn’t improved the surf much. I have a bad feeling that tomorrow won’t be much better.

EVENING SESSION

Loc: EL PORTO, 42^nd Street

Time: 1700-1830

Conditions: 2-3FT, sunny, onshore, warm, slightly walled, inconsistent, crowded.

     I should be at the gym, but how can I when it’s so gawd damn hot? Hot, cold, hot cold, SoCal, please make up your mind. Regardless of the small surf conditions, I have to be in the water right now. Unfortunately, every other surfer has the same idea.

     The left in front of the bathrooms is working, and there is already a crowd jockeying around there.

     I paddle out at 45^th and see Nyoman on his longboard, killing it on the left. I sit with him, expecting to be in good position just outside of the crowd. But more surfers invade the lineup. 45^th was desolate just ten minutes ago, and now, there’s only a barren gap where the channel is.

     To my south, I hear someone in the lineup yelling. I turn, and two surfers are face to face. One is screaming at the other, saying, “Don’t fuckin’ drop in on me!”

     To my north, a buff guy, who looks like a gorilla in a wetsuit, turns towards the shore and yells at another guy on the inside, saying, “Fuckin’ kook! You trying to kill somebody with your board?”

     This is two days in a row, three altercations. There’s some bad energy going on, something contagious. It’s usually not that bad here, and the surf is fucking SMALL.

     I can understand correcting someone in the lineup, but to the point of intimidating and bullying other surfers? We’re supposed to be adults, right? Why have such a big ego? I feel like the ugly side of surfing shows man’s regression into a primal state, like surfers have that “kook insult” chambered and ready to be fired off at some unlucky beginner. I guess it’s in our nature—we love to shit on one another. 

     If anything, I’m not annoyed by the beginners. I’m annoyed by the two SUP guys who keep patrolling the outside. They tag team the waves. One takes the first wave of the set, the other takes the second, leaving the rest of us to scramble for the scraps. They paddle back out to the outside and do it again . . . and again . . . and AGAIN. Now that’s bad etiquette. Greed.

     I actually get a right. One snap. I cutback but go too high and lose the wave before it mooshes out. And that’s it, my claim to fame for the day.

     San, Khang’s homeboy, paddles up to me to say hi. He paddles further south where he’s the victim of another aggro altercation.

     With the tide going up, the surf goes inconsistent. The onshore wind gets stronger, and the surf becomes choppy and swampy. And this is the best we can expect for the surf. People are willing to fight over this. . .

Since Bri's been out of town, I can't help but splurge a little. Ate at Waikiki Grill in El Segundo after surfing. Not bad for $8

THE GOOD, THE BAD, THE AGGRO, MON 07APR2014

Loc: EL PORTO, 45^th Street

Time: 0745-0930

Conditions: 2-4FT occasional 5, sunny, offshore, walled with tide drop.

     It’s 0700, and I’m looking down at the surf, not at Porto but at my other spot. There are only a few heads in the lineup, and even though the tide is still at mid level, and on its way down, the surf is small and weak. To make matters worse, I have to take a shit, but it doesn’t feel like it’s quite brewed through yet, so I hop in the wagon with the intention of going to Porto, and it’s that little “hop” that jars something loose in my anus, so I park down by the bathrooms, where there’s a yellow sign outside of the door that says Closed for Cleaning.

     I’m clenching. A big Mexican guy with a goatee comes out of the bathroom, looks at me, and says, “You can go in.”

#

     I’m in the lineup at El Porto, 45^th Street. From on top of the hill it didn’t look too crowded, but I’ve surfed here when it’s elbow-to-elbow, and there’s at least some space this morning.

     I’m on my Motorboat Too again, and I patrol the inside for little two-foot runners that offer me some pumps, small wrap arounds, and distance all the way to shore. Small but fun.

     Duckdiving the next set, I see this guy go right on a racy wave. He takes the highline, which makes sense—he can maybe get a speed drop and catch up with the section. After resurfacing from my next duckdive, I hear someone yelling from the outside. I didn’t hear what he said, but he’s facing the inside, yelling at the surfer who had taken the highline on a right, and this is where the El Porto daytime drama begins:

     The guy on the outside is heavy set and wide. If Barney Rubble was Fred Flintstone’s height, had brown hair, and surfed, this is how he would look.

     The surfer on the inside bobs in the whitewash, reaching for his leash. His skin is pale, hair golden. I’ve never seen him before. Now there’s an energy in the air, but a bad one, like its gone stale.

     Goldie paddles back to the lineup and mutters something softly.

     Rubble furiously faces him, splashing his arms with hard thrusting paddle strokes and says, “YOU’RE THAT FUCKING STUPID AREN’T YOU! YOU’RE A FUCKING KOOK! YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU’RE DOING! ALL YOU HAD TO DO WAS DROP DOWN A LITTLE, BUT NOOOO, YOU HAD TO ALMOST FUCKING RUN ME OVER!”

     It’s a beautiful, sunny, offshore day, and there’s a lull that makes the ocean so glassy as if it were a green lake. In this stillness you can hear a pin drop, but instead, as far as the faces I can see all around me, everyone is honing in on this tirade.

     “I SHOULD FUCKING BEAT YOUR ASS,” Rubble says before paddling away.

     “Yeah,” says Goldie. “Fine!”

     Rubble returns, shouting, just inches from Goldie’s face. He scoffs and says, “NAH-AHH. YOU DON’T WANT NONE OF THIS. YOU KNOW WHAT? I’M JUST GONNA SIT ON YOU THE WHOLE TIME.”

     In the distance, Wagner paddles for them. He goes in between them, holds up his open palm to give a pause for his words, motions towards Goldie and says, “You’re wrong.”

     After the next wave, Goldie disappears.

#

     Everyone in the lineup is quiet. I was closest to Goldie during the confrontation. I’m still unclear as to what he had done.

     Now I’m next to Rubble. I wonder if I ever doing anything in the lineup that bad to incite a reaction like such. I know there are times when I feel like pulling a “Rubble,” but what just took place was too much.

     I watch Rubble catch more waves. He’s on some kind of fun board or a high performance longboard with orange and yellow on it. Sitting on the outside, he turns to me, and starts pointing to where the wave is going to break. I had a feeling that I was in the right spot. I turn and go, and next thing you know, I’m flying down the line on my Motorboat Too, kissing the lip with check turns all the way to the inside. It’s one of the longest and funnest lefts that I’ve had in a while.

     Again, Rubble calls me into another wave. How odd . . . here’s the guy who just went ape shit, and now he’s sharing the surf cordially.

#

     At 0845 the surf picks up. On the way back out, a set appears, and the weak waves have turned round and dumpy. I duckdive and get scooped up and over while underwater, even hitting the bottom. The Sandwich Shack and the bathrooms are even going off, five-foot round sections, maybe not good enough for a clean barrel but good enough to drive inside of them with room. I pull into a left, but it closes out so fast.

     I go from being on the right board to the wrong one an hour after paddling out. I wouldn’t even use my Tokoro in these conditions; I need my Lost Mini Driver.

#

     Back up the hill, I’m still stoked for the session that I had, but I learned the cons of free parking that’s further from the surf. I wasn’t able to run in real quick and just switch. Wrong equipment today. And I still don’t know what to make about Mr. Rubble or Goldie. There are times when beginners make mistakes that not only endanger themselves but endanger others. Rubble could’ve said what he had to, but he didn’t have to do it the way he did. Yet, sometimes those aggro guys have great etiquette, so long as you don’t burn them?

     Eh. I put my board down, getting ready for a hot rinse from my water jug, and that’s when I feel something stuck to the bottom of my foot. Motherfucker. It’s a huge glob of tar. 

LOW ROCKER ON SMALL WAVES, SUN 06APR2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0700-1000

Crew: Tom, Calvin, Klaude.

Conditions: 1-3 FT, sunny, weak, offshore.

     I had planned to surf Porto at first light this morning, but I hit the snooze button a couple of times, finally getting out of bed at hearing Shan’s text. Gary had also sent me a text, saying that Manhattan Beach is chest high and fun.

     I’ve already broken the cardinal codes of being a good dawn patroller. I had gone to sleep at 0145 this morning, and now I’m skipping breakfast.

     Driving past Porto, the waves are small. It doesn’t look like my original call to surf here would have given me much of an advantage, and if I’m going to surf tiny waves, I may as well surf with the homies.

     The sun isn’t over the hill yet, but everything is bright. There’s no residue of a dawn patrol remaining anywhere. I hate this feeling of being late. I love driving towards the ocean in the dark, and I’ve robbed myself of it.

     There is still free parking on Highland. Looking down the hill, the surf looks just a hair poorer than Porto, but it still looks doable. I have to choose between my standard shortboard (Tokoro) or my Motorboat Too. Since the tide is dropping, I expect the surf to stand up more, so I grab the Tokoro.

     The lineup has changed at this spot. The locals used to surf in front of the Brick House or the lifeguard tower, but now they sit hella north, just in front of 32^nd Street. The lineup in front of the tower and south of it is filled with new faces.

     The surf is weaker than expected. I’m sluggish on my Tokoro. Too much rocker and not enough power from the wave equals gutless rides. I go back up the hill and swap boards.

     Now Shan is out here. So is Tom. Calvin, the prodigal surfer, has been out because of a shoulder injury, but he’s here too.

     Despite the small surf, I’m amazed at how much a low rocker helps. I paddle into little two footers, and they stand up towards the inside. The shape of the waves don’t offer good carving sections, but I’m at least able to milk the waves for distance with a lot of floater attempts on the closeout sections. But it still is a little frustrating. The set waves look good coming in, but they wall up and closeout fast.

     Klaude shows up at about 0800, just as the surf is thinning out just a little bit. We have a spot to ourselves for a while.

     My wave of the day is a three-foot closeout. Immediately off the bottom turn, I see the section wall up. I climb the face and do one of my most vertical drives up and through the lip that I’ve ever done. As the wave breaks, it pushes me back down the avalanche of water. The base of the wave is bumpy when I land, and it feels good. If I can stick this landing, I will actually pull off a decent closeout maneuver, but I get bucked off my board by the whitewash and fall.

     Towards the end of the session, I’m making the best out of the two footers. I call Klaude into a right. I miss his ride, but he tells me that the Neckbeard that he had borrowed from Dais is working well. He’s gonna buy it from him.

     Good waves are scarce, but I still manage to milk the small waves. Who would have thought that this would have been possible on a little 5’9 shortboard? The Motorboat Too is pulling through right now.  

     Afterwards, Klaude and I do breakfast at Blue Butterfly in El Segundo. For under ten bucks, we both get smoked salmon bagel sandwiches and a cup of coffee each.

     I hope the surf is better tomorrow. Just a little more size will do plenty.