SAY “YES” TO WINDSWELL, WED 18JUN2014

Loc: 40^th Street

Time: 0545-0845

Crew: Dave T., Manny A., Gary C.

Conditions: glassy, clean, 1-3 FT.

     I got a text from Gary yesterday, giving me the heads up on a dawn patrol with the fellas. 0510, he said. That means an early wakeup this morning, so I’m up at 0430.

     I meet at the rendezvous site at 0510. Gary’s already here. He shows me the L.A. King’s design on the bottom of his C.I. New Flyer. Dave rolls up, and Gary flashes him his board too.

     This is a legit dawn patrol. Manny’s the last person to pull up and park. There are no other surfers in sight.

     When I’m fully changed, I realize that Gary and Dave are already gone. Wow. Serious frothers, right? Wasted no time.

     I trot down to 40^th Street with Manny while he tells me about his encounter with Sunny Garcia at Lowers a couple years ago. These WHC guys, they always have cool stories.

     At the shoreline, Gary and Dave are just about done warming up. Before us, clean two-footers roll into an empty lineup. As far north and south as I can see, we are the first surfers to break sand on the beach.

     Manny’s on a foam longboard. “No leash when you’re riding one of these,” he says. He paddles out first, immediately scoring two back-to-back waves. It’s odd seeing him on a fun board since he’s a ripper.

     Upon initial submersion into the ocean, I feel how warm the water is. I could’ve trunked it.

     Porto’s a playground at first, consistent with wave after wave. The four of us trade off, going in circles like a conveyor belt. My first left looks small, but upon popping up it’s racy and fun. I get a turn. My Motorboat Too thrives in these conditions.

     Gary gets a juicy set-wave right, throwing a small bucket out the back as he milks it all the way to shore. We have it to ourselves for about forty-five minutes before we get invaded by the post-dawn patrollers.

     After they leave, the surf hits a window of inconsistency. It almost looks like the lowering tide is making things more lully and small.

     Roy, another MB local, paddles out next to me. He usually surfs at my favorite spot, but he says that it’s bigger here. I tell him I’ve been at HB lately, and he says that he’s been at Zeroes.

     I thought that I was surfing pretty well this morning, but Roy goes to work right away, paddling into the tiniest waves but going the distance. After watching the Roy Show, I put myself to work and start moving around the lineup for better positioning. A peaky left stands up, and I’m in the perfect spot. It’s a three footer. I pump on the highline to make the section, and a longboarder is about to drop in on me. I decide to pull the get-off-of-my-wave card and hoot him off of the shoulder. He backs off. With a spilled section in front of me, I bottom-turn underneath it, climb the face, and get a good gouge on the shoulder, full weight on the tail. The feeling’s like being on a drug, the sensation I’ve been waiting for.

     Roy throws me a shaka on the way back out. “Lotsa spray,” he says. It means a lot hearing that from him.

     The lineup gets more crowded. Wagner is out here on a SUP. He’s usually standoffish with me, not smiling or saying hi, but today he paddles up to me and says, “Good morning.” I guess I caught him on a good day.

     Later in the session, he switches to his shortboard, and he’s just busting airs the whole time, a fucking highlight reel.

     The set waves are inconsistent, but they’re out there. When the clock strikes 0845, I gotta head in before I get a ticket.

     Hall & Oats’ “Private Eye” bumps on my stereo as I cruise back home through Main Street El Segundo. I’m laughing to myself, car-dancing to the music, and it’s only nine o’clock. What a difference a good session makes to start the day. 

SEARCHING FOR RICKY, SUN 15JUN2014

     

Loc: Rosecrans

Time: 0700-0845

Conditions: glassy, clean, 1-3 FT, crowded.

     I wake up at 0600. Checking my phone, I see that I missed a text from Rick. It reads: “Do you want to do Rosecrans w/ me?” And then it hits me. It’s fucking Father’s Day, a holiday that’s never meant much to me, but at the same time I feel awfully late for something important. I look at the text again, and I feel terrible for leaving him hanging.

     I shoot him a text back, jump out of bed, kiss Bri on the forehead, and tell her that I’m off to surf with Rick.

     The Porto lot isn’t too packed, and I’m not surprised since the South Bay isn’t getting much surf. I park at the south end of the lot, searching for Rick’s van in the process. I don’t see it.

     Running out to the water, I scan all the heads in the lineup, scanning for a bald-headed shredding goofy footer in a Hurley wetsuit. I walk all the way to the 34^th Street Tower. Maybe I missed him?

     I paddle out anyway. The tide is low, and the conditions are clean. Surfline had called for tiny conditions, but the Rosecrans area is working well. I catch a clean two footer, expecting it to moosh out from its softness, but it’s actually rippable. I get one turn before it closes out.

     Paddling through the Rosecrans lineup, the set waves are even better at three feet, but the crowd here is thicker. No sign of Rick. He could be all the way by 45^th Street, but I didn’t see his van in the lot, so I decide to just stay where I’m at.

     The session is better than expected, and I pick off some small lefts and rights, even scoring on a big right that allows me a decent backhand snap.

     Back at the car, I check my phone. Rick’s at Blue Butterfly. I tell him I’ll meet him there.

     When I see him, he says that he had started at Rosecrans, but he paddled over to 42^nd Street. Figures. But I’m not butt hurt that I missed him this morning. It’s Father’s Day, and I’m stoked to at least meet up with him. I offer to spring for coffee because of the occasion, but he insists that he buys me not only coffee but breakfast too. We fight over who’s gonna pay until the cashier gives us an annoying look, so I give in.

     My dad’s a deadbeat. I’ve said it before. The only thing taught me is to not be like him, so if the time ever comes for me to be a father, I know I’ll be a good one. Although, I don’t plan on it.

     I grew up looking up to my friends’ fathers, but none of them set good examples. When it comes to Rick, he was my squad leader in the National Guard. He had taught me how to surf after our deployment together back in 2001. He spoils the hell out of me, even though I try to refuse. Anyway, so I missed the session with him, but I’m so glad to be here right now, sharing a bagel sandwich and sipping a cup of coffee with him. I’ve never had much to celebrate for Father’s Day. Right now I have Rick. 

SUMMER INVASIONS, SAT 14JUN2014

Loc: Goldenwest

Time: 0900-1100

Crew: Bri

Conditions: Onshore, textured surface, mid-high tide, semi consistent, crowded, 2-3 FT+.

     Because of the drained tide yesterday, I make the call to sleep in a little and catch the tide on the push. We leave El Segundo at about 0730 and head to Huntington. I’m anticipating a decent session, but upon checking Bolsa Chica first, we see that the wind is howling onshore. Peaks are coming in consistently at two feet. They are still rideable, but the choppiness of it all forces us to seek the possibility of better surf. Plus, the parking lot is already packed!

     The cliffs look good, but we push further south to take advantage of my state parking pass. That is, we try. There’s a long line of cars just to get in. There’s some kind of event going on. I have no idea what. After ten minutes, we’ve barely even moved.

     A police officer is on foot walking from car to car. When he comes up to my window, he says, “The entrance one street down is empty. If you stay here it’ll take twenty minutes to get in. If you go over there, you’ll get in right away.”   

     So it’s a no brainer. I pull out of the line and drive down to the next entrance, and the fucking line is JUST AS LONG. Fucking pig. I got bamboozled. How is this faster? In frustration, I turn the car around and end up parking two blocks inland from Goldenwest.

     There’s a body-boarding competition going on. The announcer yells at a group of surfers who are drifting into the competition zone, and then he yells at the competitors who are drifting out of the zone. The beach is so crowded with dogs, walkers, bodyboarders, surfers. I hate crowds, but the tidal window is closing. We must paddle out now.

     Surprisingly, despite the wind, the conditions are decent, much better than yesterday. Some A-framers roll through. I pick off my first left but poorly set up my top turn. I ride out the wave, still fun but not using it to its full potential.

     I fight the current to maintain my spot while everyone else drifts north. My rides are awkward. One of those sessions when I’m not surfing well. Even though there are some big sets, they don’t hold shape as well. The medium-sized waves are a little racy, and I keep falling behind.

     Meanwhile, I can see Bri sitting with the main pack of drifters. Every time I spot her, she’s paddling back out to the lineup, returning from a ride.

     Even though the tide is coming up, there are still some random sets that stand up. Next to me, there’s an older surfer on a fish, and he’s giving advice to two other noobs who are surfing nearby. On my next left, Mr. Advice doesn’t even look behind him, and I have to surf in his wake, right on his ass. I could have called him off of the wave, but I try to pull that card as sparingly as possible. A surfer paddling out looks at me and shakes his head while saying, “That fucking guy had no clue, completely oblivious that you were behind him.”

     “What can you do?” I say. “No etiquette.”

     My sesh with Bri is turning into a solo sesh, so I let the current take me closer to her. Just as I reach the next peak over, a bump sprouts up in the distance. A longboarder yells, “Outer reef!” I’m sitting on the right of the peak, and I paddle as hard as I can to position myself for the left. I actually chase it down and take a steep but graceful drop. A chick on the shoulder backs out. I pump on the highline, passing the guy who had called for the wave to begin with. He gives me that look that says, “You fucker.” Yeah, I am the fucker, and I get two turns on that wave all the way to the inside. It’s my wave of the day, and I can’t believe that it came to me upon giving up my position when I had been fighting the current the whole time.

     Etiquette wise, maybe that was a bad move. He and the chick had been in their spot a little longer, but I couldn’t help myself. It was a good and rare set wave, a roguer in the high tide. Sometimes you just have to go. 

INTEL, FRI 13JUN2014

Loc: Huntington Beach

Time: 0630-0900

Weiner Sliders: Gary C. and Donny D.

Conditions: light onshore, textured surface, low tide, semi consistent, sectiony, 2-3FT.

     I had debated on going back to HB, but Gary sent me a text last night, saying that if I drove that he’d cover gas and food. The offer to chip in for gas helps. As much as I love scoring surf down south, I sure as hell hate the hurting it puts on my wallet. And as far as food, well, a Filipino eating machine like me can’t ever pass on a meal.

     I show up to Gar’s house a little early at 0509, and he’s already in his driveway hauling a boardbag in each hand. Years ago, Rick used to try to get me to join him and his buddies, the WHC, for surf sessions. I had my own crew, and still do, so at first I was reluctant. Over time, I realized what Rick’s true intention was. You progress faster when being around good surfers, and I can name off the whole WHC, and all of them rip, even in their fifties they’re schooling the youngsters.

     Gar gives me the whole DL about his Costa Rica trip, which will remain classified. I picture the reeling long lefts that he’s describing to me, and it makes me froth for my next surf trip overseas. As appealing as Costa sounds, my heart’s in East Java. It’s hard to beat two-minute lefts on a sand-bottom pointbreak. Meals on the economy are less than a buck, two bucks to dine like a dictator. Anyway, that’s another story.

     So Manny A. had given us intel on a spot that’s working in HB. Apparently, it was firing and empty yesterday, and I believe him, but as soon as Gar and I hit PCH we see that the wind is onshore. Scoring parking on the beach, we can see textured peaks, not as big as it was a couple of days ago. I think Gar knows what I’m thinking, and I’m sure he’s thinking the same thing I’m thinking, but we don’t kill the moment. We don’t rush, in hopes that the conditions will improve. Before I’m in my wetsuit, Gary’s already rushing the sand. I bust out my 6’3 JS, my Bali board. I haven’t ridden it since the winter of 2012 when it got dinged up pretty bad, and since its repair, I’ve been itching to get reacquainted with it.

     There are peaks coming in, and even though the water has a slight chop to it, there are some fast and steep shoulders that open up for a single turn or down-the-line pump action. Gary draws first blood, despite his elbow being worn out from so much surfing. I get a couple lefts, and catching waves is easy on the JS, but the length feels awkward. My Motorboat Too is a 5’9 and my Mini Driver is a 6’0, so the extra three inches just feels like too much. I try to at least climb the face before my waves closeout, and the nose just feels more purl-prone. After forty-five minutes, I run back to the car to switch boards. JS, I’ll have to figure out what to do with you. . .

     There are Germans in the water. I can’t understand what they’re yelling about, but they’re pointing outside and yelling what sounds like: “SHAAAAAA-HK! SHAAAAA-HK!” I look at what they’re pointing at. It’s a seal. Another surfer looks at me and raises his eyebrows. One of the Germans snakes me on a left. After the waves closes out, he resurfaces, raises his open palm, and says sorry. I hate getting snaked, but a post-snake apology really helps in diffusing the situation. But Gary, on the other hand, gets legit snaked by some grom in a neon-green wetsuit. It’s pretty bad.

     I don’t get any solid waves that line up nicely for a carve fest, but it’s still worth being down here, much better than what the South Bay has to offer for now.

     Back at the car, Gary whips out some Costco muffins. When I drop him off, he tells me that there’s one more in the bag that he’ll leave for me. Money for gas, muffins for my stomach, mission accomplished.