ALL GOOD THINGS…, SAT 28JUN2014

Loc: Rosecrans

Crew: Bri, Juan, Rick, Dave

Time: 0530-0745

Conditions: Overcast, light onshore, inconsistent, low tide, 2-3FT.

     Coming off of yesterday’s stoke, I had a feeling that today wouldn’t be as good. Juan is the first one in the lot when we pull in, followed by Dave and Rick. The goal is to be in the water no later than 0530. Rick decides to put some money in the money while I do not.

     There’s a northwest wind patting our faces, but down at the sand the conditions are still glassy. Also, they are smaller.

     The same Japanese dude that’s always out there first—surprise surprise—is out there again. Unlike yesterday, El Porto already has a small handful of surfers near 42^nd. The peaks are 2-3FT with shape better than Wednesday, but they just look dismal in comparison to yesterday.

     I’m still stoked, high stepping on my way out to shore, I have a feeling that the water is warm enough for my trunks and rashguard. When my feet touch the water, it is.     

     I draw first blood on an inside left, but after a tight cutback, it mooshes out and I lose the wave. The waves are fast this morning, especially upon hitting the inside, they stand up and race away. Some of them look a little tube-worthy, but I focus on pumping and trying to get distance.

     Yesterday Gary had said that he used to surf aggressively, but now he enjoys surfing with his friends and seeing them on good waves more. On this morning, I don’t get those long epic rides like yesterday, but I’m stoked for everybody else.

     I admire Rick and Juan for their paddling power. Juan’s on a standard short, and he still manages to paddle into the smallest waves, somehow riding them all the way to the inside when I think he’ll get caught behind. Rick too, but it’s no surprise to see him paddle hard, just when the wave is about to pass him, he gets that extra stroke to drop in.

     I get some okay waves, but Bri gets the most quality rides out of all of us. Even though today is smaller than yesterday, there are some freak sets at three-feet plus, some are walled and some have shape. One right in particular just stands up and shoulders off perfectly for rippable down-the-line shape. She looks late on the take off, but she pops up and takes it all the way in.

     At 0700, Juan is done. His back is starting to hurt, and he needs to save himself for his birthday session tomorrow at HB. “You should join us,” he says.

     Rick and Dave disappear into the crowd at 42^nd Street while Bri and I hold down a gap just south of Rosecrans.

     The wind turns onshore, making the water choppy. The racy but rippable waves are now replaced with crumbly peaks, knocked down early from the wind. It’s so inconsistent that I’m cold in my trunks from not catching anything.

     But other surfers are doing all right. When I look a couple spots away, guys are managing to crank out at least one turn. I guess sometimes you have those days. I had a good one yesterday, and I can’t always get good rides all the time.

     When we head up to the lot we find that Rick’s already gone. Dave is the last one back at the lot. Yet, people are just parking and suiting up. We caught a good window. At least at 0530 it was glassy. It’s nice to be done at 0800, and I hope that Juan’s birthday brings all of us some good waves in HB tomorrow. 

Bri's post-surf pancake special

YOU DON’T KNOW UNLESS YOU GO, FRI 27JUN2014

Chicken fried steak and eggs, a post-surf breakfast of champions. 

Loc: Undisclosed

Crew: Bri & Gary C.

Time: 0530-0745

Conditions: light overcast, glassy turned light onshore/sideshore, medium crowd, consistent, low tide, 3-4 FT+.

     Where I surf isn’t a secret, but this morning was so good, that I don’t want to do this spot an injustice by naming it, at least while the spree of good swell lasts.

#

     Gary’s already in the lot, no surprise. Even at 0515. No one else is here. You’d think that after a session as fun as yesterday’s that there would be double the crowd.

     Walking down the hill, the wind’s not in my face like it was yesterday morning. In the dark dawn, we can see that the water is glassy. Two surfers are out. A four-foot peak breaks on the outside. The left is walled but the right is lining up well.

     Gary runs out to shore where a swimmer is making his way in. Gary runs out to a surfboard that’s floating in the water and guide’s the swimmer towards it. He lost his board.

     The surf is more consistent than yesterday, and I have to duckdive rows of whitewash just to get out. It’s low tide, but the waves are breaking far out.

     We’re paddling out together, but Bri gets pushed south to the next lifeguard tower. Not an easy morning for big buoyant boards. Gary and I are side by side, but not for long. He takes his first wave, and right behind it is one of those four-foot rights that I had seen from the shore. The sky is still dark, and the face of the wave looks like a dull grayish green. Dropping into the wave, the smooth face builds before me. I can’t even describe the quality. It’s not breaking like Trestles or HB. It’s not even breaking the classic way that this place is supposed to break. All I can say is that it’s so damn rippable. After my first snap, I’m propelled down the line again, the shoulder getting smaller after each turn until I ride out of my third. Now I’m far away. The two surfers that had been initially holding down the spot are mere dots from where I am. So is Gary. Such a long ride requires such a long paddle back.

     And a lull? No. We had paddled out together, but it’s so consistent that we don’t see each other for another fifteen minutes. Immediately, not even back at my spot, I turn and go on another right. Two turns this time and another long ass paddle back. I don’t even know where Gary or Bri are.

     When we finally meet again, we can only give shit-eating grins and shake our heads. Really? Is it really this fucking good right now? And yet, only five of us are out. Yesterday there were so many people early, and the day that everyone chooses to sleep on it, it’s firing.

     The wind turns a little sideshore going into the second hour, but the lineup is still uncrowded. The guy who had lost his board paddles past me.

     “No leash, huh?” I say.

     “Shit,” he says. “I surfed yesterday evening, and it was crap. I didn’t think it would be this big and breaking this far out. I’ve already had to swim back for my board twice!”

     He takes the next wave, a left. The lefts aren’t holding shape as well, and he tries to kick out, but the lip rejects him. Down he goes, and off to the races goes his board, all the way to the inside, sending him for a nice cardiovascular swim.

     “I don’t even care if it gets crowded now,” says Gary. “I’ve already gotten so many waves!”

     We have so many waves to ourselves that we’re already drained, so drained that we start making mistakes, either due to the combo of overexcitement or surf-worn muscles.

     Gary’s hamstring keeps cramping up on him. He’s in the lineup grimacing, digging into his muscles and stretching his leg on top of his deck. He shows me his board. There’s a nasty pressure ding. He had put his elbow through it.

     And me? I underestimate the speed on some of the drops. I should be fading out, but I stay too close to the face, and I can’t steer out. I poorly ride two perfect bombs.

     At 0700, there’s a little crowd now. The same faces I had seen yesterday are here, but much later. What’s funny is that the surf looks completely different from what it had looked like an hour and a half ago. It’s still fun right now, but they’ll have no idea what it was like at first light. It was so much better.

     Even with the rising tide, there are some freak bombs close to five feet. Bri has inside position on one of them. I lose sight of her as the lip starts to curl over her. She’s late, she’s not gonna— but she does. She goes all the way past the next lifeguard tower. Gary takes a bomb right too, a ride so long that I only find him ten minutes later when he’s waving at me from nearly two towers down.

     I force some lefts even though they’re not breaking as well, and I practice some layback turns. I don’t want to call them layback snaps because I’m not fully committed on the “laying back” part. The lefts are closing out more, but the face are so big and pumpy that they’re a good set up for frontside carves. From pumpy speed and a good bottom turn, I climb the face, reach back with my inside arm, lean back slightly, and whip my tail into a tight arc in front of me, but I don’t ride out of it. Since the left is closing out, I choose to bail after the maneuver and get back outside.

     I do another layback again on a closeout left. I get good torque on the tail, but the base of the wave bottoms out, and I can’t stick the landing on my 5’9 Motorboat Too. “It’s the Indian, not the arrow,” so I can only blame my lack of balance, but I’d need more board to stick a critical landing like that.

     And that’s how pumping the surf is. I could have easily used another board today, something better for all this water moving around.

     The waves get a little soft by the time we leave, but the surf is still consistent and fun. Catching our last waves in, Gary and I can’t help but claim the session with a high five. How could we not? It’s not even 0800 yet, and we’re surfed out. Walking back up the hill, we pass a guy in a van who’s just pulling up now to surf.

     Gary treats Bri and me to breakfast. It’s one of those days where the surf was so good that a post-surf breakfast is mandatory. He says it’s for my graduation, but it’s more than that. We get to share our waves of the day over coffee and food, get to hear more stories about how he grew up with Rick and the rest of the WHC. It’s the afterburn from a good session that Bri and I still ride, eyes alight while listening attentively to Gary’s words while chewing on jelly-covered toast. Without a 0445 wake up, none of this would have been possible. 

He's not sad, just drained. El Maestro himself, Gary AKA Balls Deep, getting his huevos rancheros on. 

SOUTH BAY SURPRISE, THU 26JUN2014

Loc: Rosecrans

Crew: WHC

Time: 0545-0830

Conditions: Overcast, gray, light onshore, crowded, consistent 3FT+.

     Out of my whole body, my eyes hurt the most from all the sun I’ve gotten in the last three days. Second is the sinus headache that I currently have. Sore paddling muscles are manageable.

     Bri and I are supposed to be taking a day off to recover, but Gary had given me the local intel about the current windswell. The verdict is to dawn patrol this morning.

     We wake up late, and by late I mean 0445. I sit up, head to the bathroom, and brush my teeth. Bri follows behind me and squats on the toilet for a hot morning piss. I’m quite shocked to be honest, but not about the piss. I had expected her to sleep in, for her to say, “Tell the guys I said hi,” and for her to plop her head back down on her pillow, but no . . . she’s determined.

     We reach the “secret lot” at 0530, but there are a lot more cars here than the last time. Dave T. is suiting up. He says that everyone else is already down there, and then he takes off running. Brett AKA Whiffleboy is here, too. He says it was warm yesterday, so he’s trunking it. Then Rick pulls up.

     There’s something in the air and in everyone’s energy that has the makings for a good session. Was it really that good yesterday? I add an hour to the meter just in case.

     Even Rick takes off down the hill before me and Bri, and we had reached the lot first. Onshore wind palpates my face. Reaching the sand, there are already people sitting at 40^th Street and Rosecrans. The sky is turning a light purplish blue. Two-to-three foot peaks peel over choppy low-tide surf. We’ve been bamboozled.

     In the lineup, I see Gary pumping down the line on a right in his classic gorilla stance. His wave is fast and racy. No turns. I’m thankful that I had taken my holy Rip Curl wetsuit instead of trunking it.

     Bri and I paddle out. The water’s actually warm. Whiffleboy was right. But what about the onshore wind? There’s no way that the conditions are going to get better.

     After surfing Trestles, the consistent beach-break surf feels different. Peak after peak rolls in. I’m scrambling, trying to turn and go when I should be picky and waiting. Then through the choppy surf, a random four-footer breaks. Dave yells for me to go even though I’m too deep. I do and fall behind, but I’m impressed. There’s some decent size out here, much funner than the last windswell about a week ago. Then the place starts going off. Gary, Ricky, Jimmy, Dave all get good waves. I get a three-foot left. It’s racy but standing up because of the low tide. With speed, I set myself up for a good frontside snap and ride out the rest of the wave. Back at the lineup, Gary says he saw some water come out the back.

     Since the guys have to work, I’m willing to pass on waves. I call Rick into a bomb left that takes him all the way to shore. Dave is the top shredder of the morning, killing it on the backhand rights, at least two turns every wave.

     Around 0730 everyone has to get their last waves in and go to work. By now, Rosecrans is packed. Porto is packed. There are surfers everywhere. Things get a little testy. I take a good right and eye the section before me that I want to hit, and then a guy on a funboard drops in on me. He almost loses balance while trying to kick out, but he ruins my wave. I miss my section. Then on a bomb left, I pull a turn-and-go, and some guy is right in my drop line. He duckdives, but we’re close. I turn around and bail on the wave.

     “You could’ve made that,” the guy says after resurfacing.

     “No,” I say. “I was about to run you over.”

     I turn and paddle for the next one, but so does he. He’s on my inside. I back out, frustrated, but he backs out too for an attempt to let me have it. Too late. Now I’m pissed. How I love this place when it works and how I hate its crowds. What El Porto surfer doesn’t feel like this? I paddle south away from everyone to reflect and cool off. Was I being an asshole?

     About ten minutes later, I paddle back North to join Bri. Another bomb comes in, a solid four footer, and this is during the summer months when the South Bay should have nothing. And did I mention that the wind had died and the surf turned glassy? Bri is closer to the peak. It’s her wave. I tell her to go, but she’s already turning and going for it. I’m envious but at the same time, I’m so stoked for her. From behind the wave, I see that she’s not just going down the line. She’s using the face of the wave much more now, cruising and taking different lines. No wonder she had gotten up no problem this morning. She’s discovered TURNS. How can she stay out now?

     There’s a set-wave left, and I’m a little deep taking off. Watching the WHC has really inspired my surfing. Seeing Rick take a floater earlier and make a long section really motivates me to step up my game. I make the section, climb the face, and throw in as much ass as possible into a frontside man carve. It feels good, like how momentum and speed just allow you to get into your turns much harder. My transition out of the turn isn’t so pretty, as I poorly set myself up for turn number two, but I’m no Gary or Ricky; it’s gonna take time.

     It’s 0830 by the time Bri and I head back. There are still waves, but the incoming tide has softened things up a bit on the inside.

     I wanted to spend the rest of the day relaxing, especially after a long camping trip, but my fellow DRC member has had a death in the family. It’s my friend Cheryl. Her mom had recently passed away while she and her husband Silverton were on their honeymoon. She had extended the invite for the DRC to attend the viewing. At first I had felt uneasy about going because I didn’t know her mom well, but last night my brother Randy reminded me what being a good friend is all about. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t know her mom well, I know Cheryl, and she’s my friend.

     Uneasily, I approach the group of mourners and wait my turn to talk to Cheryl, and then she starts crying hard, her light face and freckles now red and flushed with tears. When I get to her, I give her a big hug. I know that there’s not much I can do, but I remind her that she was one of my friends who was at the airport when I came back from Iraq, and that I’m here for her now should she need anything. 

TWO YEAR ANNIVERSARY PT. III, WED 25JUN2014

Loc: Middles

Time: 0630-0930

Conditions: Overcast, gray, offshore, consistent, 3-4 FT+.

     Walking past Churches, the waves are peaky and have much better shape than yesterday. Mons Pubis looks good too, but there are already a dozen heads here.

     “It looks good here,” I say. “But I think we should surf Middles.” From where we are, Middles looks flat. Nothing is coming through. When a wave does break there, it looks tiny. I look back out at Mons. There are waves here.

     “Do you wanna surf here?” says Bri.

     I look back at Middles. “I have a feeling that we should surf over there.”

     We paddle out at an old DRC spot, the Battle Position. But the old BP we used to know has been reduced from a machine gun nest to a pile of rubble. A wooden cross looms over it.

     A bodyboarder slides down the face of a four-foot left in front of us. In a drop-knee stance, he hits the lip twice, throwing spray out the back each time. He’s good . . . and we’re paddling into his spot.

     Making my way out, Body Boarder eyes me, but he’s not smiling. I look back at him. Still no smile. I know why. He’s pissed. He’s had this spot with only a few other people, and here Bri and I are, crowding the lineup. I understand, so I keep my distance and sit at the bottom of the wave.

     Outside, an A-frame breaks, and I mean, it’s a classic Trestles A-frame. All glass, smooth, and down the line. Out of position, I’m forced to duckdive it. Another wave comes. I’m out of position again. The rest of the set steamrolls through, and it’s walled. Behind me, Bri is washed all the way near Mons Pubis. She’s tiny in the distance, trying to paddle back.

     A small lull ensues, and Body Boarder takes the first wave of the set. The next wave is even bigger. I turn and go on a steep right. The face is building and sectioning out. Body Boarder is eyeing me as he paddles over the wave. Setting myself up with a deep bottom turn, I climb the face and do my biggest backhand hack of the trip. I put all my weight into the snap as I hit the lip before it closes out, sliding down and recovering in good form. I know I’m no pro, but I feel like I’ve made a statement: I want waves just as much as he does.

     But even though Body Boarder is hogging, there are only four other guys at Middles. The gray skies must’ve made everyone lazy. So many waves come in that there’s enough for everyone.

     Bri takes off on a bomb right. A small toss of water comes out the back. I assume that she’s fallen, but then her face reemerges as she continues down the line. When she paddles back, she says that she’s pulled off her first official frontside turn.

     We surf for three hours until the wind turns onshore. Middles had worked the whole morning, BP to the edge of the cliffs bordering Lowers. Clean glassy peaks. I don’t know why, but Bri and I always score on the last day of our camping trips.

     The conditions turn sour with strong onshore wind and a marine layer that isn’t burning off. We decide to pack up and head to Zenko’s for AYCE sushi for lunch.

     On the way back to El Segundo, Bri buys me a frapuccino and offers to drive. It’s so rare for me to be a passenger in my own car. I feel like a kid without the pressure and responsibility of driving, able to sip away and look out of the window for a change.

     We unpack the wagon quickly. We’re such a good team together. Beached with bloodshot eyes, we’re happy to be home. 

TWO YEAR ANNIVERSARY PT. II, TUE 24JUN2014

Crackers in the dark

Loc: Churches to Middles and San Onofre

Crew: Bri and Sebastian

Conditions: Scorching hot, walled, 3-4 FT.

     I’m up at 0545. Late. I let Bri sleep in and take a step out the tent. The wind is offshore. Old Mans has scattered teepees all the way to the main point and beyond. I’m far away, so the surf has to be four feet and consistent, but there’s no way I’m surfing there. By 0600 there will be a surge of longboarders invading the lineup. I’d rather go to Churches or Middles where it’s less crowded.

     Bri’s still tired, so she says she’ll meet me in the water. Solo, I end up paddling out at the south end of Churches. It’s glassy, and peaks are coming in through the mid tide, but . . . the surf is racy. I catch a couple rights but can only pump before they closeout. Paddling, I sit at the top of the wave with the same results and then work my way all the way to north Churches.

     There are sets with size, but they are walled. This swell isn’t hitting right. It’s section on section again. I miss the classic, down—the-line, three-turn gems that I’ve scored at this place to many times.

     Frustrated, I go back to camp. Bri’s still in bed, so I take my time killing off some jam and crackers. I even drink some hot chocolate. Looking at my watch, I can’t believe that Bri’s still not up. I unzip the tent and find that it’s empty. Her board is gone.

#

     I spot her surfing the top of the wave at Churches. In a pack of people, she manages to get a down-the-line right, a wave that bests every ride I had earlier in the morning. When I paddle out, she says that we must have missed each other when I had walked back.

     We head over to Middles in hopes for better surf, but it’s even bigger and more walled here. I haven’t had much luck on my recent trips to this area, but I don’t get upset over it. Instead, we leave, head back to camp, and go to the PX to get some supplies.

     At 1300, it’s just as hot as yesterday, so I opt to paddle out at Old Man’s to cool off before Sebastian, who wants to learn how to surf, shows up.

     The surf looks good from my campsite, but when I reach the water, the waves are small and weak. I sit at the north end, where some bigger peaks sprout up, but they wall up so fast that I purl twice. Other than a few pumps and failed floater attempts, I don’t get many waves. 

     Sebastian’s running late, so I paddle out at Churches at about 1700. The waves are still walled. Forty-five minutes later, I return to the campsite unsatisfied. Bri’s helping Seba wax his 9’0 single fin that his brother had given to him. I swap boards and bust out the 6’10 Becker board.

     Back at Mon’s Pubis, the onshore wind has died out, and the high tide is making the waves hold more shape. Paddling out, I pass on a perfect A-frame and call Seba into it. He paddles for it, but I underestimate how fast his board can move. The wave breaks right on top of him.

     Seba’s cool with just chilling in the water with us. Bri does well on her NSP. I get my wave of the day on a two-turn left, getting the best frontside turns that I’ve ever gotten on the Becker board, not snappy but legit.

     Surfing until dark has its consequences. We find that Seba had locked his keys in his truck. He borrows tools from our neighbor and rips apart the lock on his passenger door to get inside.

     Dinner is an eight-pack of chili dogs. I worry that I won’t have enough food for all of us, but Seba leaves after two hot dogs, and I’m stuffed having to eat four all to myself.

     Cooking in the dark wasn’t as bad as I had anticipated. Bri made everything fast, and our one bundle of firewood lasts us late into the night again. Instead of heading to the drive-thru for milkshakes, we settle on splitting a Hershey’s bar. Even though the day had started off with bad surf sessions, in the end, Bri and I find that we have everything we need even though it’s not much. 

TWO YEAR ANNIVERSARY PT. I, MON 23JUN2014

Loc: Churches

Conditions: Scorching hot, 3-4 FT.

     After attending Klaude’s belated birthday party last night, we could only manage to wake up at 0600. However, we had pre packed my wagon the night before.

     Exiting Basilone Road, we took a peek at Lowers. The famed wave was working, but Middles was flat. It could’ve been a lull.

     We reached Churches. The tide was coming up. A pack of longboarders sat at the south end of the Point as a peaky three-footer broke through the swampy conditions. The wave was clean, a classic Churches wave. Then a similar wave broke a little further out. Suddenly, a set rolled in, creating scattered A-frame peaks throughout the whole break. I texted Rick to give him a report and changed right after.

     Our favorite spot, Mons Pubis, used to be empty, but now everyone knows about it. We paddled just north of the crowd to sit outside of them. Waves still swung wide, but the rights were a little walled and not lined up well. I picked off the random lefts, as I always do, and managed to connect a couple carves. Even though I’ve had some breakthroughs on my frontside turns, I decided to surf conservatively instead of forcing miracles. Once the wind turned onshore, we headed back to check in and set up camp.

     Bri treated me to Mexican brunch at La Tiendita. After that I was so full that a nap was mandatory. Underneath the shade of an umbrella and facing the ocean just feet away, I was burning hot. The sand, the air, the sun, the shade, everything was scorching. I’d doze off only to wake up in hangover-like discomfort. I found Bri in the tent, miserably lying on our inflatable mattress. I told her we needed to paddle out to cool off.

     We paddled out at Churches in trunks and rashguards. The initial shock upon submersion was freezing, but by the time I reached the lineup, I was warm. The water felt silky and smooth over my arms, like its consistency had been changed by its temperature.

     The tide was coming up again, and the consistent surf was reduced to small and weak lumps, but something odd happened. With the increasing tide, the swell actually got bigger. There were 3-4 FT peaks, but most of them were breaking section on section. I managed a few turns, but it was more of a going-down-the-line kind of session.

     We got out at 1800 after the tide got too high. After showering and getting resettled, we still had over an hour of daylight left to burn. It was the first time that we had been done surfing so early. We didn’t have to cook in the dark or even cook at all. Bri was down to just PB&J it for the night. After we scarfed our sandwiches down, we threw some saimin over the burner and shared it. Our one bundle of firewood lasted into the evening. In the past, we had packed more gear and cooked so much food, but this minimalistic approach made things so much easier. But we still had our Wenzel Instabed. In our sleeping bags, we sank in the middle towards each other over a huge cushion of air.

     So the forecast had been overrated, but everything had met summer expectations. On a quiet Monday, with only the few shrill screams of the kids a few campsites down, we fell asleep to the sound of the roaring ocean just yards away. 

WEAK WINDSWELL, SUN 22JUN2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 1000-1130

Crew: Bri

Conditions: onshore, crowded, sunny, warm, 1-2 FT.

     Figuring that a dawn patrol would be a waste for tiny conditions, Bri and I slept in and headed to the beach late. Too bad the whole South Bay community had the same idea.

     There was no street parking anywhere. The same cars zoomed past, all in the same chase for a space. An old lady was standing in an empty spot yelling into her cell phone, holding it for whomever she was talking to. I gave up and went to Porto. Lot closed. All the residential streets surrounding MB was chaos.

     We finally went to a parking area that I refer to as my “Secret Garden” and found a spot immediately. Only issue was the long walk.

     The beach was packed, a typical summer day with blazing hot sun, teenage ass, and bare-backed studs strutting their shiny buff chests. The only local I knew that was out was an old lady who rides a Costco foamie and wears a boonie hat. The rest of the crowd was day trippers, most of them in wetsuits.

     I had prepared for the small surf, rocking the hand-me-down 6’8 NSP that my friend Dais had let Bri borrow. Armed with a funboard, I braced the tiny onshore conditions.

     Surprisingly, I had a lot of fun. It’s nice to ride something different when the conditions call for it. The NSP made the small surf feel punchy. The speed upon sliding down the face made for fun rides. I tried walking the nose but couldn’t quite get my toes over. I’m a terrible cross stepper and don’t plan on ever mastering it. But even though people were in my way, I was able to turn the bulky board and steer the nose away from them.

     There was one kid learning how to surf. He tried paddling for every wave, flailing while his legs dragged off the sides of his deck. I took a right, and even though he saw that I was on it, he still went for it and wiped out right in front of me. I steered out of his way. He looked at me and smiled, not knowing that he had just committed a surf etiquette no-no. But I didn’t want to be a “regulator,” so I left a few waves after.

     Walking back up the hill later, the noob and his homeboy drove by in their truck. Their boards were in the back while they joked and laughed with red burnt faces. Their eyes were hidden by dark sunglasses. They had surfed like shit, but sitting in their seats, they sure looked like they knew how to rip. 

SAW A SHARK AND GOT OUT, SAT 21JUN2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0600-0800

Crew: Bri

Conditions: glassy, clean, 1-2 FT.

     There were rumors that the recent windswell was good, so I decided to stay local, especially since I had a camp trip scheduled the following week. As appealing as HB sounded, I didn’t want to burn the gas.

     Upon arriving at Manhattan Beach, there were small lines rolling in consistently, in front of the tower and to the north and south. I hoped that the lowering tide would make the waves stand up better as the morning went on.

     There were already surfers sitting on both sides of the tower. As small as the waves were, there were occasional sets almost three-feet. The fat peaks broke close to shore but lined up for a few pumps. I managed one left and went down the line.

     I waved at one of the locals who I know, an older guy named Jon who wears a Rastafarian rashguard. He shot me a shaka back. I meant to talk to him, but upon looking back, he was walking back onto the shore and looking behind him. Pretty soon four other guys who had been surfing with him also got out. Everyone had his eyes on the water, and I already had a feeling on what was up.

     It was one of those moments where I could’ve chosen to be a bitch and gotten out. Or, I could’ve been an idiot if my life was in danger, but I ignored the obvious warning.

     I paddled to the spot where they were all at, and then I caught another small left. Only two other guys had refused to get out. They were talking to each other, mumbling about how the other guys were bitches.

     Jon paddled back out, pointed next to him in the water, and said that there had been a shark right there. The other guys on the shore left.

     I was comfortable staying in the lineup knowing that there were a lot of other people out. A swimmer in the water was flagged down by some SUP guys who warned him about the shark. The swimmer swam closer to shore.

     I looked back at Jon. He was gone. Something had really spooked him.

     Later in the session, the waves didn’t improve much. I waited for the waves that never came.

     Out in front of me, the tip of a dorsal and tail fin poked out of the water, disturbing the surface as it wiggled past. An SUP guy raced after it and pulled out his GoPro to take pics of it. It was just a baby.