FRI 03OCT2014

Loc: El Porto (42^nd Street)

Crew: Rick, Bri

Time: 0645-0845

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, offshore, swampy, crowded.

     It’s been a while since I’ve done the hustle down 45^th Street into the Porto lot. Crossing the street, the pavement is cool underneath my feet. Purple hues spread out over the water, the sky a dark blue. Black dots already litter the lineup. The sand is well groomed, a blank canvas before the invasion of surf-stoked footprints. Bri’s waving me down as she walks down the steps from the lot. I wave back.

     The tide is much higher than yesterday, the surf much smaller. Backwashed lines break in wampy fashion, like the way water swishes when you’re carrying it in a bucket, trying not to spill. The wash catches Rick on a left, and he has an awkward wipeout. He flags me down and paddles back to 42^nd. He has to work hard against the current.

     “I almost didn’t want to paddle out,” says Bri.

     “I wouldn’t blame you,” I say, but . . . I don’t see the same gnarl here that 26^th Street had. We paddle out. Rosecrans is bigger. I see a guy pull in and make it out. It’s barreling there.

     I had put on my ear plugs to prepare for today’s beatings. A line rolls in. I turn and go, but my timing’s off, so I end up purling. I’m better than that.

     Again at Rosecrans, a guy’s going left on his backhand with a frothy cylinder right behind him. He pig dogs and places his arm in the wave’s face to dump some speed. He gets partial cover before straightening out to shore. I respect that. He’s comfortable, knows how to be ahead of the hollow section to avoid getting gobbled from being too deep. I’m not quite there yet.

     Rick goes right and gets two backhand snaps. He’s one of the few guys that have gotten a wave with an open face for turns.

     With better timing, I pull into some closeouts. The earplugs help, but I get some long hold downs. If another wave were about to break on me, I’d be fucked. I’m no Shane Dorian, that’s for sure.

     Bri’s the only girl out. Three other girls paddle out on Costco Foamies, but only one makes it out. She sits way outside not going for anything. Those three don’t count. Meanwhile, on the NSP, Bri has a hard time finding a quality wave, but she’s going for it. The guys around me watch her as she takes waves to shore. They haven’t caught shit yet, and here’s NSP girl clowning. That’s good shit.

     My wave of the day is, surprise surprise, a left. There’s an open face that I pump down, leading me into a section that’s standing up. I stick with my line, keep pumping, and then pull in. At least I get some barrel vantage for a second before it closes out on me.

     I think about how I need to be surfing better in hollow conditions, pumping in the barrel, and how this winter may mostly be like this, at least if it’s ground swell. No turns. I’m gonna have to get more mentally prepared to just draw a line and pull in.

     When Rick and Bri leave, the surf gets more inconsistent with the tide topping out. Yet, new faces emerge around me. Everyone’s on it. I catch a closeout in and head to the showers. A guy’s holding his longboard, teaching a chick who’s with him how to rinse a surfboard while he holds the shower button. “Now rinse you and your wetsuit off,” says Teacher.

     Chick in a wetsuit rinses off, keeping a hand on the button. I walk up and say, “Go ahead, I got it,” as I hold the button for her.

     She looks at me with a twisted grimace. “No, it’s okay. You go ahead,” she says.

     Motherfucker. What’s wrong with people that can’t accept genuine decency? I didn’t even have my pervert hat on. I would have done it for anyone here.

     I rinse off and head up to hill where I had scored free parking earlier. A lady pulls up and asks if I’m leaving. Her windows are closed. We can’t hear each other. I pull at the neckline of my wetsuit and slowly say the word, “Changing.” She drives away. I take my sweet as time, playing music, gazing out at the water. 

KNIFE TO A GUNFIGHT, THU 02OCT2014

I need bigger fins since I've lost my girlish figure.

Loc: Manhattan Beach (26^th Street)

Crew: Klaude

Time: 0715-00945

Conditions: 5 FT+, offshore, consistent, round.

     I’m on the sand with my Motorboat Too pitched, nose first, into the sand and my Zippifish at my feet. Don K. walks up to me with Davey, the local aerialist, and asks about the MB Too. “Those are the large fins?” he says.

     I acknowledge. Those are the AM2 Futures that Khang had let me borrow a while back, a reminder that I need to see if it’s cool that I still have them.

     Davey shoots me a shaka. They both walk a little south and paddle out away from the high school kids. I figure it’s crowded, so I opt to use the Zippi for the first part of the session in order to have an advantage over the crowd.

     When I paddle out by Davey and Don, Don catches a left. When he comes back, a left is coming. He motions for it, looks at me, and says, “Go!” You have to go when Don’s calling you into it.

     I scratch out, embarrassed. I want to make up for it, so I eye the next wave coming in. Don tries to go. I should back out, but he stops paddling. Now I really have to go. The wave has a tapered shoulder for promising shape. A guy hoots me from the inside, yelling, “Yeahhhhh!” As I’m popping up, the wave doubles in size. The bottom sucks out from under me. I’m hung up. The Zippi’s too fat, and I’m not good at surfing this monstrosity in punchy surf. I slide down to the base of the wave as the lip starts to curl, but my board just doesn’t bite into the line; I eat shit.

     I resurface with the Hooter still inside, saying something to me and smiling. Fuck. Embarrassed part two. I paddle back out. Don can’t even look at me. There goes my local status for the morning. Idiot! I catch a small one in and switch boards.

     Klaude’s on the shore warming up. The waves are getting even bigger. Guys are saying that throughout the lineup. These high school kids . . . they’re tearing it up. There’s a right in front of the brickhouse that actually has shape for turns. I watch the same groms, the same older dudes, not even the 26^th Street O.G.’s, getting good rides. They pull in, most not making it out, but some hooting as they do. Barrel.

     My timing’s off. There’s backwash making the drop more critical, too. I haven’t caught shit.

     Klaude and I manhug in the water. He’s going through the motions of life right now, and he looks kind of down, but I can still tell that there’s a fire in his eyes for today’s conditions. While I continue to struggle, Klaude’s going for just about everything. He sits with the main pack. I paddle away back in front of the tower.

     At Marine, I see a guy get barreled on a left, claiming it as he straightens out in the flats. He lets out a long howl like a wolf. I hear him from all the way over there.

     I’m human, so I’m jealous. I’m also frustrated. Could use more board today. Lost Mini Driver would have been nice. Round pin tail, quad fins, speed. It’s not a day for turns. Shan paddles out, too. Other surfers scramble around us, getting good rides. Every time I turn to see Klaude, he’s on the inside, just finishing a wave.

     Then something in me clicks. I have to catch something, anything; I can’t just sit here waveless.

     I paddle away from Shan and meet the line on the horizon. I turn and go, paddling into a closeout. The lip swirls over my head before I penetrate out the back. The next wave crashes right on top of me in the impact zone, but my MB Too is so small that I take minimum beatings.

     Commitment. I change my mindset. I know I’m going. Closeout or not. I meet the next peak. Being more aggressive, my positioning is much better. I slide down the face and draw a swooping line right into the hollow pocket. The lips swirls over my head again. My natural instinct is to bail, but I hold my line, which means that I freeze from inexperience. Crouched and paralyzed, I get shacked for three seconds. I can’t believe I’m in the tube. It doesn’t happen enough. I focus down at my board, my rail biting into vertical marbleized liquid, and then everything goes dark. You’d think obliteration would be bad, but I’m all right. Paddling back, I’m frothing. I shoot a wide grin at Shan, shaking my head. “I was in there,” I say.

     Now every barrel I see is pure entertainment. I want guys to make it out. I’m envious, but it makes me want one for myself even more. I go through the mental trials, tell myself that I’ve been to East Java and ate shit on slabs over sharp reef. I can handle this.

     Klaude gives me the signal that he’s going for one more. I shoot him the same signal back. It’s time to go.

     On the outside, a set wave approaches. I paddle out to meet it, but I’m too deep. The guys on the shoulder freeze up and don’t make a move for it. Down the line, surfers yell, “GO-O-O-O!” They’re probably yelling at the guys on the shoulder, not at me, but it might as well be me, as I’m the only one left who can get it. I don’t know how many good waves I’ve let get away and the regret I had felt afterwards. This is supposed to be my break.

     I turn and go. I expect to be too deep and get pitched, but I’m making the late drop straight into the barrel. The water starts throwing out over me as I set my rail. The rest of the section builds before me, but I’m tripped up, and I eat shit. Darkness.

     Embarrassed part three. I resurface. The guys around me are rubbernecking it to find out what happened to the Chino who had gone for that wave. I paddle up to Shan.

     “I almost had it,” I say.

     Davey paddles up to me and says, “If that part of the wave right in front of you wasn’t white, you would’ve made it. The rest of the wave opened up after that.”

     “I don’t even know what happened,” I say.

     He starts to paddle away, turns his head, and says, “That was sick, though.”

     “Thanks. I tried.”

     I should have caught my last wave in, but now I want another one just like that failed barrel. I have to redeem myself. Unfortunately, the surf gets a little smaller into the late morning, and it gets inconsistent. I try some backhand pigdogging, but the rights are even fast and more racy, at least in front of the tower.

    

Home

Back at my car, a guy’s double parked, waiting for me to leave. I change, pack up, and go. 

Kind of hard to be bummed with a view like this.

THE CHANGE, WED 01OCT2014

Loc: Huntington Beach (Brookhurst)

Crew: Randy

Time: 0800-1000

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, onshore, consistent, choppy.

     South wind pats our faces as we step out of the wagon. It’s onshore early. We walk out towards the beach for a look. This is supposed to be my brother’s last session here in a while. The patchy clouds mask the sun’s rays, keeping the atmosphere a dismal grey. An older guy is walking towards us. I rehearse my morning greeting in my mind, but the guy beats me to the bunch.

     “You guys checking it out?” he says, and after answering with a word, the guy starts talking about his hip surgery, his son who does airs and works for Rip Curl HB, and then he starts to look familiar.

     “Excuse me,” I say. “Is your name Michael?”

     “Yeah. Michael J.”

     I tell him that I surfed with him a long time ago during his surgery, and how he could only knee board at that time.

     He offers up his fist for a pound and says he’ll check the surf with us.

     The peaks are coming in more scattered, but the wind is making everything choppy.

     “You know,” says Michael J, “I was by Dog Beach yesterday around ten, and it was perfect. The wind changed, I paddled up to a pack, and I was ‘the guy!’”

     Randy and I decide to go for it. Michael J bids us farewell. An entourage of surfers parks next to us. One of them has dreads. They’re talking about a surf movie that they’re in.

     “Dude, can I borrow some wax?” asks Dreads.

     I think about how some guy at Jalama had given me a bar of wax in the lineup and how Klaude had just did the same for someone else at Trestles.

     “Sure,” I say, offering up my bar.

     He thanks me repeatedly.

     “It’s just wax,” I say.

     “Yeah, it’s just wax until you don’t have any.”

     The pros paddle out at the best peak, so Randy and I walk further south towards tower 3.

     My Motorboat Too feels so small after surfing the Zippi, but I can appreciate how duckdiving it is so much easier. We sit in a small gap between a string of surfers. We both get waves, but their faces have so much chop that the rides are more technical than enjoyable. The faces have steps in them, so I have to shift lines to get distance on them.

     The current’s not too bad, and there are waves, but I’m disappointed. This is my brother’s last sesh here for a while, and I wonder what nature is trying to tell us. Is this a message? Is this nature’s way of saying that we can’t expect a good session just because it’s his last day and that he should be staying instead to be here when the waves are good? I don’t know. But at 0900, the wind changes. The waves are still choppy, but they’ve cleaned up a little. I see my brother go for air attempts and rotations for finishing maneuvers. He’s throwing buckets out on the lefts. Meanwhile, I’m having a hard time, either scratching out or backing out at the last second because I’m too deep.

     “It’s really peaky right now,” says Randy. “You can get around them.”

     I take his advice and just go, wisely picking good lines to maximize my rides. Some of the waves are so racy that I lack control. I try an air but end up with extended legs and fins still in the water. Amateur. But I do get one good ear-biting forehand carve and a couple backhand snaps, but I still didn’t surf so well.

     Randy knows this spot. This used to be his home break, and he’s milking as much as he can out of it until next year.

     Afterwards, we head to IHOP for omelets and pancakes. We’re stuffed. I take him to do some last minute shopping, drop him off, and by 1945 I have him back at the airport.

     I hate to see him leave, but I know he has to go. He has business to tend to. I tell him that I’ve had so much fuckin’ fun with him and that I love him, and then I give him a hug. I’m gonna miss him. 

DISTANCE, TUE 30SEPT2014

Minimal crowd in the early afternoon, still glassy with waves breaking through the high tide. Who says you have to travel far from home for vacation?

Loc: Churches

Crew: Randy

Time: 0800-1045

Conditions: 1-3 FT, glassy, consistent, empty.

     On the way to Huntington Beach, a car pulls up next to me at a traffic light in Seal Beach. He’s rolling down his window. It’s still dark out, so I have to look closely to see who it is.

     “Matt!” says the driver.

     Ahhh. It’s Hideki.

     “North of the pier!” he yells before driving away.

     The pier. Randy and I hadn’t planned on surfing there.

     “You can go check him out and say hi,” he says.

     I debate. I see his car make a right at the pier parking lot, so I make a right as well.

     “His hair is long now,” says Randy.

     I explain how Hideki surfs consistently, how the pier is his spot, and that he’s usually at least five deep with his Filipino crew.

     We all step out and shoot the shit. I tell him we’re going to Brookhurst but that we’ll come back if it’s better here.

#

     The Brook. Randy’s wearing his long sleeve flannel. I’m shaking in my T-Shirt. Slightly overcast with gusty offshore wind, the ocean looks cold. There’s a bout of morning sickness on the inside. The peaks are sectiony and running away. Guys surf River Jetties, but the surf is disorganized.

     “What do you think?” I ask Randy. He’s quiet. I don’t blame him. We’re both thinking the same thing, but none of us wants to say it. I open up my Surfline App, but my internet is slow. “Let’s go back in the car.”

     The plan is to do AYCE sushi in Oceanside today after surf. It would be convenient to surf further south. The O-side cams look a little smaller than here. Trestles looks tiny, but I just can’t help the thought of that place. I’d love to change things up and show Randy my favorite spot. When I suggest it, there isn’t a hint of hesitation in his voice.

     There’s some distance involved in this drive, but it’s only 0730. We’ve got time. I expect traffic, but we don’t encounter any. We’re talking the whole way, and before I know it, I’m parking right in front of the Churches’ break.

     It’s not as small as the forecast had said. There are two-foot peaks. Then a set rolls in. Scattered peaks everywhere, some three feet. Only a handful of guys are out.

     The only bad thing today is that we don’t have the NSP. Bri’s surfed this morning, so I got the 6’10 Becker and, of course, the Zippi.

     I can’t help but be stoked paddling out, here. It’s that same feeling I had as a kid, inviting a friend over to play at my house for the first time, wanting to show him everything inside my house. Randy and I have never surfed here together. The sun is high without a cloud in the sky. The air, the smell, the way the water floats over the cobblestone reef, I’ve forgotten how much I love this place, and on a Tuesday! There’s barely anyone here.

     When we paddle out, the ocean goes flat. We’re at the top of Churches. An SUP guy and another longboarder sit at the top of the wave. Randy tries to go, but SUP guy gets it. He tries again. Longboarder guy gets it. Suddenly, I feel bad. Will Randy be able to get waves here without the NSP?

     Maybe he’s not aware that the small inside waves are fun, so I go on a campaign, catching every little wave that comes my way. Randy gets a few, but the waves are too soft and bog out.

     When the SUP guy leaves, Randy and I sit at the main peak. Just like that, lefts start coming in. They look small, but upon popping up, the section stretches out into an open-faced wall that holds shape. I pump down the line fast, setting myself up for frontside snaps. On the racy waves, I practice my floaters. Now I’m having a blast. The issue must be the boards.

     “Randy, I wanna see how the lefts feel on the Becker,” I say.

     He smirks and smiles. He knows what I’m up to. We switch. The Becker doesn’t feel as buoyant, but its length still makes paddling into waves easy. I pump down the line on the racy lefts again, feeling how the Becker is much snappier with its shortboard design. Meanwhile, Randy’s going for more waves now, but he seems even less stoked now.

     “I’m sliding out,” he says.

     “Which board would you rather ride?”

     “That one,” he says, motioning towards the Becker. “I’m just not used to this style of fins.”

     So there you have it. That’s me being a control freak, trying to control my brother’s fun.

     Only a few people are left. It’s 1000, and we have the spot to ourselves. Instead of worrying about Randy, I go to town on my Zippi. I get two frontside snaps on my left of the day, ending the ride with a small shuffle up to the nose of the board, and then walking it back. It just felt so fast and fluid. Highlight material for my mind.

     We’re out of the water at 1045. The campsites behind us are vacant. We change at the tables underneath the hot sun. Just like yesterday, there’s no wind.

     Now the next predicament is deciding on where to eat for sushi. There’s Hana Sushi in Oceanside that my brother hasn’t been to in years. It’s out of the way. There’s also Zenko in Mission Viejo. It would be on the way home. Being that he’ll be leaving tomorrow, I opt to change things up and head to O-side.

     “It’s about twenty miles,” I say.

     “You sure?”

     It’s a long drive, but again, we’re bullshitting the whole way. Next thing you know, we’re seated at the sushi bar, staring at cuts of unagi and hamachi. We eat for two hours.

     Back at San Onofre, we hit up Sonic and order two Sonic Blasts. Mediums, and they’re huge. So we chill out at Churches again, sitting at a picnic table in the shade, watching the waves breaking through the high tide. It’s still glassy with only a light breeze. I’m surprised that my brother finishes his milkshake before I do.

Randy, enjoying his first Sonic experience. To think he had wanted to order "the mini"!

     After dropping him off in HB to spend time with his son, I’m back home by 1730 without encountering much traffic.

     I had covered a great deal of distance today. So if time flies when you’re having fun, I guess you must fly over any distance when you’re having fun, too. 

GIRLPOWER, MON 29SEPT2014

Blue Crush of the South Bay

Loc: 32nd Street

Crew: Randy

Time: 0745-1015

Conditions: 1-3 FT, glassy, peaky, consistent, chicks.

     I’m late. Work this weekend has me tired. I’m supposed to have picked up Randy by now. Groggy, I drive down to my garage and load up our gear. If it was just my gear, this would be faster, but I have to load my brother’s stuff, too. Normally, this wouldn’t be an issue, but today it’s painstaking.

     “You seem tired,” says Randy, when I pick him up.

     I yawn. I tell him about weekend duty, how I had slept on a cot. It sucked. It’s a morning that I could have easily slept in, but I’m on surf auto pilot.

     There should be parking for a Monday, but we’re late. Maybe the joggers, the Manhattan MILFS, the guys who do weird exercises in the park or on The Strand, those who are part of the early morning masses have already taken over.

     When I find free parking, Randy says, “Oh, you know where to look.”

     Funny how this is something that locals take for granted. Am I a local? I don’t know, but I sure as shit know where to look for free parking.

     Without expecting much swell, and since the forecast has everything at one-to-three feet anyway, we whip out the funboards, El Zippi and the NSP.

     Walking down 32^nd Street to get to the water, we see a lightly sprinkled lineup. 26^th has some heads, but even Rosecrans looks scarce to our north. Three chicks are longboarding, two SUP guys hover around them like flies on shit. Yeah. No surprise.

     However, it’s a pristine morning. No wind. No texture on the water. The ocean’s like sheet glass, and the peaks, barely at three feet, stick up and out of the water, well defined, like small hollow lines.

     Riding the Zippi is like cheating. It’s just too easy to get into waves on this thing. The water’s warm, so popping up in my wetsuit jacket and shorts, I’m flying down the face of a two-foot wave.

     Again, like days past, guys are on shortboards, the wrong boards, unable to rack up much of a wave count. Then Randy gets in the water and starts clowning me on the NSP. Not only is he getting backhand snaps on it, but I watch him step up the nose, hunker down, and pull into small barrels. He doesn’t make it out, but . . . no one here rides funboards like that. No one.

     The sausages leave the chicks, and they’re over at the next peak exchanging waves. One hoots the other into a wave, and she’s standing on the tail of her board, coasting on a sluggish one footer, yet yelling, “Woohooh!” They catch more waves. All morning long, “Woohooh!”

     One gets in my brother’s way, I hear her apologize in her high-pitch giddy voice. How could you get mad at girl power, especially on a two-foot day?

     A couple other chicks paddle out, longboard and scantily clad in tiny bikinis. I had no idea that 32^nd Street is the Blue Crush zone of the South Bay.

     Even with the rising tide, waves are still breaking but not standing up as much. Luckily, our boards keep us in the game.

     At 0945, my arms are tired. I look at Randy. He’s sitting twenty feet away from me. Something’s changed in him. He’s not the restless charger that he used to be, the guy who’d sneer at two-foot surf. Nah . . . he’s like Gandhi, sitting on the 6’8 NSP, pondering at the horizon. About what? I don’t know.

     “A couple more?” I say.

     He squints his eyes and twitches his head, the wet bunches of his hair pointy as a porcupine. “Really?” he says.

     Ha. And that’s when it hits me. He doesn’t wanna leave.

     We surf for another half hour, still trading off on waves. We both move around a lot. I guess that’s one minor aspect of how our surfing is similar; we don’t have to sit next to each other the whole time. Towards the end, we end up feet away. The surf turns inconsistent, so we call it.

     “It’s another nice day,” he says.

     The late-morning sun’s blazing over the beige sand, making it bright. The strand, the Manhattan homes, the pier, the leaves on the trees are still. Everything is in place, right where it belongs. 

THE FIRST NORTHWEST, FRI 26SEPT2014

Loc: 26^th Street

Crew: Randy and Klaude

Time: 0700-1015

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, light onshore, north current, fast.

     Four boards . . . I bring four boards to go surfing: Motorboat Too, 6’10 Becker, Zippi, and Randy’s Tokoro. We walk to the strand for a surf check, and it’s definitely a little bit bigger, but the shape is questionable. The onshore wind knocks the waves down. The shoulders section off and closeout fast. I don’t know what board to ride, all I know is that I don’t want another day of sitting in the lineup with the wrong board not catching shit. We head back to the wagon. Motorboat Too and Becker. I grab them both.

     Pitching the MB Too into the sand, I paddle out on the Becker. Bri’s already out. She catches a closeout right. The inside is consistent, but I make it out unscathed. The current’s already sucked me south, but I have so much board that holding position is easy.

     My first wave is a right. With a quad setup to get down the line, I’m going too fast to set up for a turn and accidentally kick out. Fuck. Meanwhile, Bri catches another right. A guy sitting next to me rubbernecks it as he watches her go down the line. She dismounts in the impact zone but still confident and smiling without a worry. And why would she worry?

     I paddle into a right but don’t realize I’m too deep. I get into the wave late and purl hard, flinging my body forward. 6’10 is a lot of board to be sucked under with. Resurfacing, I take another one on the head. I struggle to get back onto my board and paddle out. The next wave rips the board from my grip. Fuck.

     Winded, I make it back out to the safe zone. Bri paddles up to me, talking, but I can’t quite understand. She’s saying something about having front row seats, probably to “The Eating Shit Show,” starring Donny Duckbutter.

     Again, Bri paddles into waves with ease. She’s almost smirking, but I can’t tell because she’s not looking right at me. It’s not until later that I realize that she looks that way because she’s surfing better than I am . . . and she knows it.

     She goes to work, and Klaude paddles out, immediately replacing her. He’s trunking it, no rashguard.

     “Going for it,” I say. 

     “I forgot my towel,” he says. “I’m gonna have to change later. Haven’t figured that one out yet.” He hoots at the next set on the horizon, four foot plus. The first wave’s walled. He goes on the second one.

     I catch a small left, pulling off two floaters and taking advantage of its stability. On the next wave, I get two backhand snaps. They feel good, a little sluggish but good.

     “That board’s too big for you,” says Klaude, as he paddles past.

     Fuckin’ A. As the tide fills in, the onshore wind dies out, and the peaks become a little cleaner. I head back in and swap out boards.

     Randy’s all over the place, first paddling south, then north, and then south again when he gets invaded by groms.

     Klaude leaves. I chance a set-wave right. Kurt, old local vet, hoots me into it. I get hung up on the top and drop in late. Some ripper kid who looks like a John John Florence knockoff is on the inside. I stick the landing, but the open face has left me behind. Ron Ron Florence gives me a look like, What are you doing? He’s right. I’m surfing like shit.

     The good thing is that my MB Too is so easy to duckdive. Even in the impact zone, I’m punching through waves with ease. I catch another right and get two sloppy backhand hacks. The waves go a little softer with the tide, but there’s still size. Decent conditions for my board. I try to set myself up for some power carves on my frontside, but I don’t stick any of them.

     On a right, I manage to bottom turn and get a late hack under the lip. “Late,” as in my timing was behind and the turn was forced, but it was a turn nonetheless. My wave of the day is a backhand hack that I get a 180 rotation on but kick out purposely because the wave is closing, kind of like a suicide hack where you can just go for it since there’s nowhere to go. I guess the next level of my surfing would be to actually follow through on those and land them.

     By 1000, the tide gets too high. I wave Randy in like I had done yesterday. It’s time to go.

     He says he was frustrated from the crowd following him everywhere he went. “But it was fun,” he says. “How’d you do on your Becker?”

     I downplay it a little. Truth is, I probably should have been on my Motorboat Too from the get go. My Mini Driver’s damaged. That would’ve been the perfect board at first light. “Better than yesterday,” I say. It’s a content ride home. 

AND THERE ARE THE DAYS WHEN . . ., THU 25SEPT2014

Loc: 26^th Street

Crew: Randy, Klaude, Dais

Time: 0630-0930

Conditions: 1-3 FT, glassy, crowded.

     And then there are the days when you make the wrong choice. After surfing the fun boards, Randy and I decide to gamble on our shortboards, since there’s a little pulse in the forecast. Looking off towards the El Porto Jetty on the way to the beach, we see that the surf is small, but of course . . . we don’t mention it.

     At 26^th Street, there’s no avoiding the obvious. The tide’s a little low, and there’s potential for size, but they section out over the sand.

     I’m optimistic on my Motorboat Too, able to paddle into the small ones late and get a pump or two before they close out. Randy takes off north towards 33^rd and stays there the whole session.

     Klaude comes out. We manhug in the water. On his Channel Islands Neckbeard, he’s doing all right. He catches a left all the way to shore, eclipsing every ride that I’ve caught in distance. I’m jealous.

     When he paddles back, he says, “You wanna ride it?”

     “No,” I say, even though I mean yes, but I don’t want him to be stuck with my gear.

     Dais paddles up to us on his Average Joe and immediately gets a long ride, too.

     I try. I fall behind sections or pump to no avail. I need more board.

     Meanwhile, Dais and Klaude are holding hands, exchanging boards, trading off waves. In the distance, Randy’s surrounded by longboarders and SUP guys.

     Klaude leaves. Shan shows up. I still haven’t reached my one-turn quota. Yet, even though I can’t catch shit, the water’s beautiful. It’s so clean that the water has a clear bluish green tint, the sand as visible as tropical reef. It’s actually a good day, but my equipment . . . bad choice.

     I have to waive Randy down when it’s time to go. The look on his face is serious. I can’t tell if he’s been scoring or not. When he exits the water, he looks off in frustration.

     It’s a quiet drive home. “Damn,” says Randy. “Wasted session.”

     “I know,” I say. “I just thought . . .”

     “We kind of had a feeling,” he says.

     The rest of the drive is silence. Our thoughts do the talking. 

THE FISHER QUEEN, TUE 23SEPT2014

Maturing enough to get back to basics: small can be fun, too. 

Loc: El Porto

Crew: Randy

Time: 0630-0830

Conditions: 1-2 FT+, glassy, inconsistent, crowded.

     My dumb ass had told my friends about how fun yesterday’s surf was, but as my brother and I change in the Porto lot, the waves are a little smaller. That “little” meaning a lot since it’s barely three feet. There are more surfers out. They sit motionless, an indication of this morning’s inconsistency. Fuck.

     Randy’s on the 6’8 NSP and I’m on the Zippi again. Now I’m the one who’s scratching out. The peak I had had to myself yesterday is crowded. Why? Why today when it’s smaller? Probably because a couple people spread the word? I didn’t tell too many people.

     Randy escapes the crowd and paddles over towards 40^th. Even he scratches out on some waves, but he looks good on the ones he gets, stylish with fingers spread as he twists his torso at the end of his frontside turns, forcing some spray off the tail.

     Most of my waves are gutless, not much for turns but for goofing off, walking towards the tip of the board to drain as much out of the wave as possible.

     We get lulls. Around 0800 we end up next to each other again. He catches a backhand right, bottom turns, and throws a bucket out the back on the NSP. Bri can’t turn her board like that. Neither can I.

     It’s a slow morning, but it’s interspersed with a couple of good rides. I got to redeem myself for the cutback I had missed yesterday. There was a point in the turn where I’d usually redirect my board, but I followed through and got a bank off of the pocket. It was nice. More waves like that, hopefully.

     Our attitude in the parking lot is half ass. Yeah, it wasn’t that great of a session, easily snarked at, but it wasn’t that bad either. There was a little crowd, the waves were small, but we still caught waves. Not a wave buffet but still surf worthy. At least we had the right equipment. 

THE FISHER KING, MON 22SEPT2014

Loc: El Porto

Crew: Bri

Time: 0630-0830

Conditions: 1-3 FT, glassy, consistent w/shape.

     Since there’s a line to enter the lot, I bust a bitch and head back to Highland Avenue to look for free parking. You’d think that the Manhattan Beach meter patrol would have opened the gate by 0600, but think again.

     After scoring free parking on Rosecrans, I grab the blue Zippifish and head towards the beach. The sky is still dark with purple hues emerging east over the horizon. The few scattered clouds are edged in dark pink. The sidewalk is sticky under my feet, the film from gum, dirt, and oil. There’s something about Rosecrans, the sidewalk and the gunky pavement that just spells “filth.”

     But dawn patrols can be worth the wake. Stepping over the bike path is like stepping into unmarked territory, the dividing line between those who are blessed with the stoke of surfing and those who will never know it. There aren’t even any bikers out yet. Onshore wind kisses my forehead, a cool morning, but I’m still ready to trunk it.

     Only three heads are out in front of 42^nd, the parking lot barely a quarter full. Spotting Bri, I head towards her. The sand is soft and cold, a precursor for the winter ahead. I warm up hastily and make my paddle out. She doesn’t see me at first until she’s paddling for a wave. It’s barely three feet out, but the waves are consistent, and the onshore wind is making them a little rampy. When the peaks break, they line up and stretch out, but a big board is good, enough rail and volume to get down the line. It’s one of those days when your choice of equipment is spot on, no regrets, no wish for more or less board; you have enough.

     One of the 42^nd Street locals sits on his shortboard in his red wetsuit. Usually he’s on top of the waves here, going on any one he pleases, but today he’s scratching out. Not enough board. He turns his head when Bri and I go for waves. When we’re done, he looks away. He has that anti-stoke shun, and I know it too well myself: when everyone else around you is scoring. But we’re not being greedy. He’s just on the wrong board.

     When Bri leaves for work, the tide fills in a little bit more. The sun comes out, already blazing even though it’s just over the horizon. Suddenly, my choice in wearing a wetsuit jacket is a bad one. I catch one in, pull it off, and paddle back out.

     The second shift is just in time to catch the glassy window when the wind dies. The surf had looked terrible when I first showed up. Surfline didn’t do much for advertisement either, but I should thank them. They kept the crowds low, a perfect day to sleep in, so they thought. But the peaks are consistent, cleaner, and lining up much better than earlier. And even though I’m glad that the lineup’s empty, I do my best to sell the surf to those in the parking lot, paddling into the smallest waves, catching a lot of short rides, playing with the deck of the board up to the nose, falling on backwards rides.

     Most of the second shifters are on the wrong boards, too. I pass up the first wave of a set to a surfer on my inside. The second one’s even better. Everything’s lining up just right for this session.

     My wave of the day is a random three footer. The peak stands up as it breaks and walls up a little. I get up fast high on the line and pump down it for speed. A longboarder’s on the shoulder, but he kicks out when he sees me coming. Even though the fish is fat, I push hard on my back foot and force a carving arc, redirecting down the line to finish off the wave. 

     I still get more rides, even blowing a layback snap attempt. I don’t ride out of it, but it’s fun just to get that motion of twisting your body and breaking a big board like that loose.

     After a wave, I bob on the inside next to my board. It’s 0830. I’ve been out for two hours and caught more waves than I had expected. My departure’s not planned, but I know I should go. No need to push it. I’ve had enough. The session couldn’t have gone any better. Sometimes it’s hard to leave the surf on a good note, so I leave with my stokometer redlined.

     Thinking back to my best wave, my only regret is that I didn’t continue the frontside wrap into a cutback and rebound off of the lip. I shortchange some of my turns like this. It’s more to work on. And that layback, one day I hope to pull that off clean. If I’ll be able to do it on a fish I’ll be able to do it on anything shorter.

     I’m glad that this wasn’t a session where I’m straining for a good wave, sometimes stubbornly waiting an extra hour for the wave that never comes, but now I can leave. I change. I move on with my day. Without an errand done yet, I still feel like I’ve accomplished so much.