CLASS DIFFERENCES, TUE 20MAY2014

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Loc: El Porto

Time: 0645-0815

Conditions: onshore, inconsistent, 2-3 FT, choppy

     Walking down 45^th Street, I stop at Highland Ave. and press the crosswalk button. It’s a slow overcast morning with a light trickle of cars swooshing by.

     A man on the other side of Highland is crossing the street towards me. Since the curb is small, and my surfboard seals off the clear path on the sidewalk, I take two steps back to let the man pass. He’s bald, wearing circle-framed reading glasses. One hand clutches the strap to his laptop bag, the other raises his Monster energy drink to his lips. I watch him approach with my smile cocked and ready to unload, but he doesn’t look at me. I know he knows I’m looking, but he’s looking straight forward to purposely avoid any interaction. Right there, I see the contrast between us.

     Instead of a laptop I have a surfboard. Instead of a tucked in buttoned shirt, I sport a three year old wetsuit that’s torn to shit. He walks away, still clutching his Monster.

     The surf had looked onshore from on top of the hill, and . . . it looks like it might be “okay” from down on the sand. The inside is consistent. A surfer sits on the inside, board perpendicular to his body. He has his arms over it, using it to help him float. He’s given up paddling forward. He’s stuck.

     I duckdive two waves and skirt around and right past him. He looks at me in bewilderment. I know that feeling. I’ve been there. He’s wondering: “Why can’t I make it out? How did that guy get so lucky to choose the right exact moment to paddle out?”

     No . . . all that guy needs is a good paddle, a decent duckdive, and some intestinal fortitude. Basically, he needs to pay his dues. He needs TIME.

     But the shape gets worse. Strong onshore and a lowering tide, this combo isn’t helping. I manage to get down the line, but you can forget about turns. Within an hour, the surf gets so choppy. If it was bad when I had first arrived, then the surf has been obliterated. It takes a while just to catch a closeout to shore.

     On the beach, I turn around for a last look. The sun has finally broken through the light cloud cover that had shone over the Manhattan homes, making the whitewash a brilliant white. Everywhere is choppy. If it had looked like this earlier, I wouldn’t have paddled out. I didn’t even get my one-turn quota.

     Walking back up the hill, there’s a black dude working out. He gets down in a three-point stance, sprints half way up the hill, and walks down backwards. As I approach, he looks at me with his mouth agape, chest heaving. “Good morning!” I say, as chipper as possible after my so-so session.

     The man struggles for breath. He doesn’t have to say anything. I know he’s tired. He manages to wrench away a smile from his pursed lips and says, “Good morning,” too. 

DOWNGRADES, MON 19MAY2014

Loc: El Porto

Time: 0630-0830

Conditions: light onshore, low tide, 2-3 FT+, inconsistent, slight overcast

     Today’s surf is supposed to be Fair to Good, but it got downgraded yesterday to Fair, and I can see why. I try my favorite local break first, and it looks like shit. The Guy Who Looks Good has prime parking. He turns around and sneers when he sees me, and then he rushes the beach.

     I step outside and get a closer look. Only one guy is out, and he’s only catching closeouts. From El Segundo, the wind had looked offshore, but there’s texture on the water. The wind feels like there’s some south in it. Lines are rolling in at about three feet, but they’re sectiony, no peeling shoulders.

     At Porto, I score free parking. I see the row of cars waiting to get in the lot. With first-light so early now, it’s ca travesty to have to wait until 0600 (in this case later) for the gate to open. Looking down 45^th, I can see that the shape is a little bit better, so I decide to stay here.

     Bri told me that when she had surfed here last week that some surfers got into it, the words “kook” and “cherry” were exchanged. The perp also mouthed off at Bri a little. She’s over Porto. I don’t blame her. I’ve always said that I’m over the attitude at Porto, but I always find myself here, at least as a last resort.

     I don’t expect a long session, but I go out anyway. All my 3/2 wetsuits are holy and torn. I anticipate the chilly water creeping up to my sack, and worse, the small of my back. I tell myself to invest in a new wetsuit.

     Despite the tide going lower, the waves are breaking high-tide style, kind of fat and mostly on the inside. One by one, the first shift trickles in. Most sit in front of the bathrooms. Another pack sits north between the tanks and the smoke stacks.

     My first couple waves are insignificant. I get a left, carve, but purposely stall on the tail before it closes out. I also get a kamikaze right. It’s fast and closing out, but I tag the lip just before it shuts down, purling in the process. It was good for a little bit of spray out the back.

     Even though things at Porto have been testy lately, everyone here is keeping his space, probably because I surf 45^th away from the die hards at the main peak.

     A wave approaches. Knowing that I had just got one, I turn to the guy next to me. He looks at me with eyes wide open. I nonchalantly look away and sit still, signaling that I’m not going for it. He takes it.

     I’m going for another wave, and a guy sitting deep on the peak looks at me and says, “Go!” So . . . it’s a good morning with good etiquette, the way surfing should be.

FIRST SURF IN TWO WEEKS, SUN 18MAY2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Crew: Bri & Klaude

Time: 0615-0900

Conditions: light onshore, low tide, 2-3 FT

     Some guys are good, so good that they don’t smile.

     There’s a guy in the lineup who looks familiar, and honestly, he’s a level above me. I’ve seen him land a front-side 360 air one morning, not high but legit, fins out and low-vertical rotation.

     I’m stoked just to be out. I throw him a head nod with a grin, but he doesn’t do the same back. I try to keep my distance, but I get a good wave, my wave of the day. It’s a left with shape. The low tide has the waves going a little racy. Instinctually (and luckily), while pumping down the line, I react to the curling lip. I get that one pump (that my brother had tried to educate me on) to get under the lip. I’m so caught off guard by my action that being in the barrel is a complete surprise. Crouched in a small cylinder of water, I have a perfect view of the exit and the white-wash swirl going over my head. And this is when I make a novice mistake. I do nothing. I simply crouch and pray that the line I’m drawing will do the rest, but I fall behind, get too deep, and eat shit.

     Resurfacing, I remember how my brother had told me how he likes to ride smaller boards because he has more room inside the barrel. He held out his hand, stiff like a Karate chop, and canted his hand slightly, rotating it over and over again. “Like this,” he said. “When you’re inside, you’re pretty much pumping.”

     And that’s what I just forgot to do in the tube. I need to get out of the “I’m not gonna make it” mentality. I should’ve been working. I should’ve been pumping.

     After my ride, I end up right next to The Guy Who’s Good. I’m so stoked, grinning from ear to ear. He tries to paddle past me without looking, but I still smile at him. I don’t look away until he nods and smiles back.