Loc:
Churches
Crew: Bri
Time:
0630-0930
Conditions:
1-3 FT, glassy, hot, uncrowded.
We packed light. No tent, no extra bullshit
that we wouldn’t need. Since its Rick’s campsite, we can forego some of the
usual luxuries, so Bri and I had spent the night in our wagon.
The next morning, I’m awoken from my car
shaking. A figure walks past my bumper. It's Rick, already suited up and
heading towards his E-Z UP. It’s 0545, still dark out.
The weather seal shucks apart as I pry my
door open. Lying from a hunched position, I dismount like a Russian Tanker out
of a BDRM, but one who’s stiff from a shitty night of sleep. Should’ve brought
the tent.
Rick heads out to Lowers. I tell him that
I’ll join him by Middles if it’s good.
Bri gets up. She changes. I opt to wear my
long-sleeve wetsuit jacket and trunks. For board selection, I grab Christina’s
Zippifish, AKA CeCe Peniston. Might as well if the swell is dropping throughout
the weekend. After all, I’m not expecting much. I’d be happy with decent
two-foot shape, and I got the right board for it.
Barefoot, Bri and I walk lightfooted over
the sharp gravel. The sky expands a light blue reach from behind the
mountainous horizon. Each step, the sky grows lighter and lighter.
There’s no wind. The water’s glassy, and
Churches looks small and weak. Reaching the north end of Churches, Middles
looks like a lake, while, of course, Lowers has some waves rolling through, but
it looks small there, too.
Our famed spot, Mons Pubis, North Churches,
or as Rick likes to call it, “Upper Churches,” lies before us. The peaks are
small but coming in scattered and consistent. Longboarders sit a little to the
south, as always, trying to own the right.
“Might as well paddle out here,” I say.
It’s an indecisive call. Bri and I pussyfoot back and forth, a breath’s
hesitation away from walking back to the bottom of Churches or even gambling on
Middles. Instead, we paddle out right in front.
To think . . . it had looked like shit from
shore. The oncoming waves look so clean and shouldery during my paddle out that
I hastily turn and go on an insider, sloppily catching a one-foot shoulder. On
my way out again, I turn and go on one more. But what’s the rush? I slow myself
down and paddle outside and recollect myself.
The water’s cold. I forgot to mention that
I had also left the wetsuits behind. Dumb idea. Or was it?
Once the sun peaks over the horizon, the
sun on my cheek is intense. Acclimated, my wetsuit jacket is hotter than ever.
The only dumb idea is that I didn’t use my short-sleeve rashy this morning.
And there’s the crowd, most of them regular
footers and wanting the right. It almost looks flat from where we’re sitting,
but peaks start to swing wide, and I’m talking clean peaks. Once again, lefts .
. . no one wants the lefts here. Every time I’m here, it’s rare for other surfers
to hog the left like we do. Two-to-three foot peaks start rolling in, and we
have them to ourselves.
It’s all about the Zippifish, CeCe
Peniston. My God she’s working. So easy. I can’t stress enough how having the
right board makes a difference.
There’s a Japanese grom surfing next to me
on a standard short. Two other groms come out, too. They suffer from the Hurley
Pro Syndrome. They want to rip. They want to do airs, but today’s not the day
for it. They can only get into the set waves, but the in between waves are all
mine, all Bri’s. And no, I’m damn sure not ripping but enjoying the gentle
glide that these waves are offering. The massive volume on this 6’0 has me
popping up so early and well above the surface that I have ample time to set up
my small-wave ride. It’s like driving an SUV on the freeway, able to see with
such a greater vantage point. I pump when I can, set up good top turns and get
back into the pocket. As my waves taper off towards the inside, I walk the nose
and lean back to hold my line, experimenting with some noseriding.
Meanwhile, shuttles transporting VIPs go to
and from along the Trestles’ path. Little golf carts riddled with surf stickers
drive past, too. Maybe pros? I don’t know. They’re checking the surf. Lay day
for sure.
When our spot gets invaded, Bri moves
further north and sits inside. I try to battle it out, but I have a hard time
against the longboarders and good positioning. Every time I look back, Bri is
coming back from a ride.
Other surfers gravitate towards her. So do
I. We both catch the insiders. The invasion doesn’t last long. The other
surfers keep glancing at the perfect rights peeling where the main pack is.
Impatient, they leave. You can have it,
is probably what they’re thinking, and that’s fine with us.
Bri and I trade off on waves for three
hours straight, unmolested. Barely having to kick out for anyone. I get the
most wave repetitions I’ve ever had on this fish, even successfully hanging
five on the nose on one ride.
Rick joins us on the way back to camp. “It
looks better here,” he says. After a wave, he says he’s going back.
Jordan comes out at about 0900. Late train.
Where was she this whole time?
“I’m tired,” says Bri.
I’m silent in my reply. I know that the
onshores will come later. I tell her that we’ll regret it if we don’t push it,
especially if the conditions turn to shit later, but by 0930 my surfing gets
sloppy. I begin falling on waves, making stupid mistakes. It’s more challenge
than rewarding at this point. On empty stomachs and in need of hydration, we
exit the water at 0930.
Three hours, pretty much having a break all
to ourselves with quality rides. Even a good day in the South Bay barely has
shape this good, and we just scored this all on an in-between swell, a swell
not good enough to run the contest in and a swell thankfully given a dismal 2-3
foot “Fair” forecast on Surfline. But Surfline was accurate wasn’t it? Oh well.
I guess I just forgot how damn good 2-3 feet can be. A weekend of surf well
downplayed that keeps that crowds down. Only if people knew the potential of
fun out here. We’re lucky they don’t.
#
THE
IN-BETWEEN SWELLS PT.2, SAT 13SEPT2014
Loc:
Churches
Crew: Solo
Time:
1700-1900
Conditions:
2-3 FT, howling onshore, consistent, uncrowded.
The Most
Interesting Kook Alive:
At the campsite, the wind is terrible. As
expected, and like yesterday, it’s howling onshore. Rick says he’s not paddling
out again. I grab my boardshorts.
“You paddling out?” asks Bri.
She knows the answer. I’m here. I have to.
“I’ll take pictures,” she says.
The older less-tolerant Donny D. would have
made her suit up, but she can make her own decisions. I’ve learned that forcing
people into your standards makes an unhappy surfer, and unhappy surfing leads
to bad surfing, and bad surfing leads to the dark side. Sorry . . . had to go
there. . . .
We walk to the bottom of Churches where I
paddle out, just in front of the group campsite. There’s a set, but the wind is
knocking the waves down so hard that the shoulders are crumbled into fast
two-footers. They still look rideable but just choppy and miserable.
I paddle out and catch a dismal right,
falling on a turn. Not picture worthy at all. I keep crawling towards the top
of the wave, pausing here and there in hopes for a wave. I catch another right
that doesn’t materialize into anything. Even though I’m on the Zippi, it’s hard
to milk the waves on my backhand.
Even though my waves are shit, surfers at
the bottom of the wave paddle towards me and sit in my spot.
Bri trails me with every stroke I make
towards the top of the wave. In frustration, I paddle away much deeper than the
crowd so I can get some elbow room, and just then, a peak comes my way. I’m so
deep that no one else sees that this wave actually has a left-hand shoulder. I
pop up, and the section before me stands. The onshore wind makes the wave a
little rampy. I get two swooping pumps and end the ride with a floater.
Floaters are so easy on the fish, just so much volume to hold your balance and
stick the landing, it’s almost unfair.
And no one else even suspects that there’s
a left here. Bri sits down and whips out her phone. I eye a sign in the sand
right behind her, ensuring that I don’t lose position.
So on this onshore evening, I’m scoring.
Who knew? Top of the wave at Churches is infamous for its rights, but I’m
getting all lefts, and there are actually shoulders. Immediately upon popping
up, I’m faced with rippable sections, either down the line or open carve-ready
canvasses. It’s repetition city all over again.
Frontside snaps. Floaters. I attack the
closeout sections, climbing their faces and trying to get my tail up and out
there as much as possible. My wave of the day, even better than the morning, is
a legit wraparound cutback that I pull off. Even with all that volume, I
rebound off the lip and get down the line again to the open face.
Meanwhile, Bri’s on the shore. I can only
imagine. Yeah, she should’ve paddled out. But yet, these waves aren’t of the
highest quality. She’d have to work. This left is the only spot that’s working
well as far as I can see.
Bri leaves. I sell the spot. Inevitably,
people start noticing. A guy paddles over and sits right on me. I’m unhappy,
but I have to share. Can I blame him? I scratch for the next wave, but he
outpositions me. He goes. It’s a closeout. The one behind it is better, and I
get it.
Sitting together again, I break the ice and
say, “There’s actually a decent left here.”
“Shhh,” he says, smiling. “I know. I seen
you get one, so I paddled over.”
So we trade off on waves, chatting in
between, but it’s my spot. I still get the better waves.
Another surfer paddles up to me, a Marine I
had chatted with yesterday. He smiles and waves as he approaches. He has
military bulk in his neck and chest, but his arms are thin and sinewy like
spaghetti noodles.
His name is Mack, Active Marine, works on
helicopters. He asks me back-to-back questions: Where’s the best place to
paddle out here, when does it work best, what’s the best board to ride? I’m by
no means any surf authority, but I dump all my surf knowledge that I know about
this place on him.
“So what’s going on this weekend?” I ask.
“It’s Saturday. Gonna get with your battle buddies, hit a club, bar, chicks?”
He shakes his head. “I have a girlfriend.
She goes to Georgia Tech.”
Long distance. I’ve been there. Active Army
Germany, I once had a girlfriend waiting. That was stupid.
“So you’re not going out this weekend?”
“No,” he says. “It’s always about driving.
Guys wanna drink, but they don’t wanna drive, so might as well just drink in
the barracks.”
I was once a young dick, a barracks rat. I
wanna tell him that he’s stationed at an awesome location and that the drive to
SD or north OC, even L.A., is nothing.
I contemplate getting out. The conditions
are worsening, my left is not as consistent as earlier. Less people are in the
water now, and I’d like to rejoin my tribe at the campsite before it’s dark.
A surfer paddles over from way outside. He
smiles, but he’s tired.
“You made it,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, smiling underneath his
baldhead, still lying on his board with lethargic paddles. “Finally.”
I say bye to Mack. Walking out of the lot
and into the Churches’ parking lot, I’m stopped by Mr. Lethargic. He’s with a
buddy, both Marines, obvious because of their haircuts. Crew Cut asks for my
opinion about his fin setup.
“I bought twin fins because I want to buy a
fish eventually, but it doesn’t feel right on my board,” he says.
It’s a thick hybrid Fire Wire board, wood.
It kind of has a standard shortboard shape. Squash tail. The twin fins look too
far apart. Right there, I kick down my limited knowledge on twin fins and what
might work best for his board, which offers a quad-fin setup. I recommend to
ride it as a quad or thruster but not a twin.
“What are you? 220?” I ask.
His eyes open wide. “Yeah, like 215.”
I recommend large fins.
They ask. I tell. I’m really no expert, but
they listen intently, hanging onto every word I say.
Leaving the lot, I’m stopped by Mack again.
Damn. I’ve never been so popular.
