SHITTY WAVES WITH FRIENDS (SWV), SAT 25OCT2014

Loc: 18^th Street Tower

Crew: Bri, Klaude

Time: 0800-0930

Conditions: 2 FT+, light onshore, consistent, swampy.

     Because of the high school surf contest at 26^th Street, local surfers must breech the surrounding breaks. For us, it meant south of the contest.

     Being that there’s no parking because of the event, Klaude recommends that we park in his “secret garden.” Plenty of parking with good beach access.

     Seeing the ocean, the onshore wind’s already putting some texture on it. There are patches of light clouds that hide the sun in intervals. The pier looks crowded, but there is only a small group of surfers in front of us.

     A 26^th Street regular is ripping right in front of us, easily selling the conditions. The waves are barely three feet, but he’s getting down the line. His shortboard looks fluid under his feet. Goofy foot, he gets a small frontside air. On his next wave he gets a carving 360 but doesn’t stick the maneuver.

     Me, I got my Kainalu fish, and I don’t regret it. I’m not as good as homeboy, and I think volume’s gonna help as the tide creeps up further.

     The three of us paddle out, Klaude on his orange Zippi. The surf is a little disorganized but not unruly. Occasional three-foot walls roll in and some of them have a little bit of shape.

     I open up my session with a backhand right. Klaude’s on the inside. I muster out two backhand checks on the face, but they’re not snappy. Paddling back out, this board feels so unfamiliar. Just as long as the Zippi but shaped so differently with a much more aggressive swallow tail and rocker. It’s also a little thinner. As I duckdive, I have a feeling that I like the blue Zippi more. Of course, I push those feelings down. This is my board. I bought it. I own it. Loyalty.

     Bri and Klaude do okay. It’s not really a good day. I had expected the swell to die, so I kind of expected this.

     Meanwhile, the ripper dude is still killing it, and the chick he’s with is not doing so bad either. She’s shortboarding and looks like she’s about to blow a right, but she makes the drop. From the lineup, I can tell that it has good shape. She pumps, does a drawn out cutback, and gets a small toss of water out the back.

     Bri looks at her and says, “She’s making me look like shit.”

     Klaude laughs and says, “Yeah. Step yo game up!”

     I have a good wipeout on a left that I’m late for, but that’s okay. I get some other decent rides. There’s a floater that I pull off but don’t realize that I’m over shallow water. Luckily, no dings. I also catch some rights that give me some decent nose riding time. Sometimes I just love styling out, walking the deck, and crouching down with my arms thrown forward in a nose pose. I throw in a couple gangster leans even though we’re surfing crummy breach break.

     “Shitty waves with friends,” says Klaude. “There’s more tide here than a laundry mat.”

     He’s right. The surf slows down. More people are coming out. He makes the call to catch the “next one” in.

     Bri suggests we go to Mandy’s for breakfast. Later she tells me that she had told Klaude that she’d convince me, but I would have said yes regardless.

     When we reach Mandy’s in El Segundo, a bunch of El Porto locals are already chowing down at the outside seating by Havana Cuban Sandwiches. Brett’s there, another local surf blogger, along with Mark AKA Surfing Santa. Looks like everyone’s done by this hour.

     I order a new dish, corn beef hash and eggs. It’s good. 

COMBOS, FRI 24OCT2014

Loc: 26^th Street

Crew: Bri, Tom Y.

Time: 0645-0830

Conditions: 3-4FT , glassy, consistent, cool.

     Free parking on Friday is a bitch, but I only have to make a couple of rounds before scoring on the east side of Highland and Marine. Fuckin’ A. This takes so much pressure off of me. It’s 0630, still dark out, and I can take my sweet ass time. Not that I need it. It’s trunks and a wetsuit jacket today. Gotta take advantage of the warm water despite the fact that the air is much cooler in the morning now. According to my car thermometer, it was 62 degrees yesterday. This morning it reads 64. Feels much colder though.

     I cut through the million dollar homes and cross the strand just north of Marine. Dark blue hues turn lighter by the second over the horizon. Dots of surfers are already out there, mostly groms. Bri’s crossing the strand as I make my way past the tower. We paddle out in front of the brickhouse.

     Initially, the water feels cool, but within minutes I’m acclimated. If it was “all time” yesterday, it’s hard to tell right now. The swell has definitely backed off at least a foot. The tide hasn’t improved much either, for it’s still high in the morning. Brickhouse Break is swampy. Though some outsiders break, it’s still hard to get into them. The bigger waves wall up. It takes a while. As the orange blaze grows brighter over the hill, more surfers come out. It’s fucking crowded. Could be a weekend sesh, longboarders, SUPsters, shortboarders, vets, kids, new faces. Fuck. I catch a solid four-foot left but sink my board on the pop up and dig a rail. I’m on the Motorboat Too. The repair job on my Mini Driver from my repair guy didn’t hold. I get one backhand snap on a walled right. It’s sloppy. I’m suffering from a lack of waves and a lack of foam.

     Bri gets more waves than I do. Before I know it, she’s pulled her hour of surfing and needs to go. 0730 marks the time that I should start making my way towards the tower. The kiddies should be heading off to school, and the lineup should thin out.

     I spot Tom Y. just north of the tower. We catch up a little. Ohana vet Jon is out, too, confirming how good yesterday was. Don K. is right in front of the tower with the other grizzly vets. I’m glad there’s a gap separating us from them.

     After a few poorly ridden waves, I finally get a rippable left. I mean, it’s perfect for 26^th Street. Popping up, I see the open face build before me. I begin pumping and setting up for a frontside wrap around cutback. This board feels so loose on the rebound. I don’t rebound powerfully but I do it with ease. I pump again and set up for a layback carve. The first half of the maneuver feels good, but coming out of it, I stall and lose the wave, like I put too much weight on the tail. I can only assume that these mistakes happen when trying new things. I’ll get that balance and weight distribution down eventually. However, it feels so good to connect a different variety of turns on a wave. I’m almost there. I don’t have too many tricks in the bag, but it’s nice to be able to link up a combination of moves.

     Tom and I trade off. I make more mistakes here and there, but the surf itself is working. Even with the high tide, the good waves are lining up.

     I catch a racy right and end up in the pack of vets. I can’t catch shit around them, so I paddle back towards Tom. After the next wave, I look back at the lineup and call the session. I’m done. I’m actually cold, my muscles are sore, and I’m just plain tired. I’ve surfed every day this week.

     Khang’s pulling into the parking lot as I make my way up the hill. I give him the report and head to my car. On Highland Avenue, I see Shan’s 4 Runner. He looks at me with an expression that says, “You’re leaving?” I barely have enough time to return a glance that says, “Yeah, dude. Where were you?”

     It’s high tide anyway. Not a bad time to leave, even though there are more waves to be ridden.

     No cars arrive to wait on me while I change. I’m free to change in peace. 

LINGERING, THU 23OCT2014

Loc: Rosecrans

Crew: Khang

Time: 0800-0930

Conditions: 4FT +, walled, glassy, sunny.

     The plan was to meet at 26^th Street at first light, but there’s no fucking parking there. Plus, we woke up late. So we’re parked at Rosecrans and Highland while we touchdown on the sand in front of Rosecrans. The swell was supposed to back off but it’s lingering, four-to-five feet, walled, and still pushing through the high tide. A few of the lines are tapered at the end, mostly rights, so we say “fuck it” and find a gap to sit at.

     I haven’t seen Khang in weeks. Once since his trip to Mexico and this is the first time since he had gone to Costa Rica.

     I ask how he’s been.

     “Still sick,” he says, “from the partying. I’m about at ninety percent now.”

     A right comes, and it actually has a racy open face. I get one little snaparoosky before it shuts down.

     Khang goes on some, too, but it’s touch and go, mostly closeouts.

     There are rights at 40^th Street, but it’s packed. North of the Rosecrans tower, the rights work a little better, but a lot of people are sitting there, even a few faces from 26^th that were forced to surf here, too.

     I get another right but go over the nose after the turn.

     Khang has to leave for work. As we say our goodbyes, I get a left all the way to shore. I try to end my wave with a layback snap on the oncoming section, but I don’t stick it.

     After Khang leaves, I don’t catch shit. The surf changes. More people are sitting around me. I catch a closeout and call it a morning.

     Later that day, I get a call from Klaude saying that where he surfed was all time today. I’m so jealous, but I’m happy for him, too. I think I’ll be surfing there tomorrow. 

LINES LIKE DICK VEINS, WED 22OCT2014

On the way

Loc: The Cove

Crew: Bri

Time: 0745-0930

Conditions: overhead, consistent, unruly.

     Bri and I get to 26^th Street Manhattan Beach when it’s still dark out and, surprise surprise, it’s walled. The high school groms rush it. I can’t see much, but I can tell there isn’t shape. Fuck this. After yesterday, I need some shoulders.

     Bri takes off to PV. I trail behind her, stopping off at Torrance Beach for a gander. It’s light out now. There’s size here, too. I watch a guy pull in on a right and get a quick barrel before kicking out. There are a few guys with him. The paddle out is short. I could surf here, but I’m anxious about new spots.

     Bri Voxes me, saying that it’s smaller and that she hasn’t seen any good lefts come in. I’m bummed because I left the fish at home. Fuck it. I pull up and park. Bri’s already dressed, so she heads down right before I do. I race after her down the trail. The Cove is in the backdrop. First, I notice how much whitewash is churning on the inside, longboarders scattered and disoriented like ants washed away by a garden hose. Outside of the cove, I see huge lines coming in. An A-frame breaks, producing a big long left. Behind the wave are more lines pushing in. They look like giant dinosaur earthworms beneath smooth skin, like giant dick veins underneath a thin membrane. Looks like I didn’t need the fish after all. Suddenly, I wish I had a bigger dick.

     Bri paddles out first while I warm up. There’s so much water moving on the inside that I have to jump over a wave just to get through the rocks.

     The first incoming rows of water are weak. Little by little as I make my way out, I have to start going under them. When I reach the halfway point, the rows of whitewash are long and stampeding. Every time I duckdive one I get pulled back. Way up ahead, I see Bri going over a wave. How the fuck did she get out so fast? I’m barely past little reef. My board feels leafy and light over the churning surface. I think about the long paddles that I’ve done before, but that doesn’t matter now. All that matters is how my rear delts are on fire.

     When I make it further out, perfect inside waves start breaking. I could easily turn and go, but I don’t. I’ve learned my lessons in the past: Get to the lineup first, rest, and then go for one. I got all morning.

     I forgot to mention how the hill was packed with parked cars, which is funny because the lineup looks empty. Where the hell is everyone?

     Bri paddles for a wave. I yell, “Go, go, go!” but she scratches out. The second waveone of the set comes. She paddles into it and pops up. I watch the wave as it pushes forward. I don’t see her going down the line. When it’s gone, I get a glimpse of her NSP in the water, but no Bri. Another wave comes, and I lose sight of it.

     I’m mad worried. Mad because I wish she’d hurry up and appear so I know she’s okay. Worried because I’m hoping she’s all right. No waves are breaking where I am during her disappearance. They are all outside sets, so I maneuver around the lineup to duckdive them and stay in place. I feel sorry for those who are caught inside, but Bri has to be there.

     In the meanwhile, Ryan H. from Porto is out. He’s telling me how today’s bigger than yesterday. “There weren’t cleanup sets like this,” he says. “I caught this crazy right, and there was so much speed that I just face planted.”

     I tell him about Carlsbad and last Monday at PV, but I can’t really commit to the conversation. Where the fuck is Bri?

     Finally, I fucking see her. She skirted the north side of the cove to make it out. I throw up my arms.

     She shakes her head and says that her leash got caught on a rock and that she had to unvelcro it to get free.

     Scary. I don’t know. I just lost my mom in August, and I worry about Bri. I don’t want to lose anyone else.

     Another set comes. We’re in the impact zone. I duckdive, get sucked back, but still resurface with my board in hand.

     Bri gets shaken up again. She looks at me, motions towards the shore, and says, “I’m going in.”

     Another longboarder nearby is swimming towards shore. Broken leash. It’s one of those mornings.

     The longboarders up top are getting waves, but they’re kicking out early. The ones who ride them too far end up getting caught. It’s inevitable. A double-edged sword. More foam to paddle out faster or less foam to avoid beatings?

     There’s an SUP guy. He catches two waves in a row. He rides the last one in too far. After that, I don’t see him anymore.

     “Here’s a right!” yells Ryan.

     I turn and go. The take off is steep, but aside from that it mooshes out fast. I do a backhand snap and kick out. Same thing on my next right.

     The challenge is where to sit. Impatient, I move inside a little, and that’s when that great wall from way outside pops up. Some of them still offer a corner, but I find myself deep many times.

     With proper positioning, I get my first left, but I have to paddle in a little late. The waves aren’t critical like round barreling crit, but it’s just the size. The waves are well overhead, so purling means brutal beatings. When I pop up, the drop is long and damn near vertical. I’m taking precious care to make sure that my rear foot’s on the tail, keeping the nose out. Once I bottom turn, I’m precise on where I pump. There’s so much face that the objective isn’t to get a power carve but not to fall and to get down the line.

     After kicking out, there’s no avoiding payment. Here come the dick veins.

     My second wave is just a straight drop with the lip crashing right next to me into an explosion of whitewash. I know I’ll never forget this wave because I’m literally caught inside and stuck paddling for what seems like at least twenty minutes on the PV treadmill.

     I’m not the type of guy who paddles hard to get to the lineup. I paddle like I run—one pace unless I’m paddling into a wave. Just breathe, conserve your breath, conserve your energy, is what I usually say to myself. It’s not working today though. I see guys catching waves and kicking out not too far ahead of me. They’re right in the safe zone where they can make it back out in time. I’m just inside of them. Impact zone.     

     Let me be honest. I ditch my board twice, I’m so torched. I lack the energy to get deep. This is a major fail. I know it is.

     I stop short before making it to the safe zone, a premature rest break. There’s finally a lull. I’m all right.

     I’m next to Ryan and a couple of other guys. I paddle out a little further to make sure I’m safe and able to rest without being surprise attacked. Just then, another dick vein appears in the distance, its shoulder tapered. Sometimes these are hard to time. It’s like, you know its gonna break, you’re in position, and you have so much time, almost too much time, that you can easily give the wave too much respect or not enough.

     As it stands up, I’m deeper than everyone else. I should let Ryan have it, but I can’t help myself. I must. I turn and go. He looks right as I’m popping up. He backs out. It’s the most vertical drop that I’ve had all morning. A bomb. Sand and dirt is all churned up from all the activity that the water is brown, and it’s reflecting off of the sun as I drop down. I pump down its huge face, getting rhythm, making sure that my footing’s right. I have so much speed that I do a cutback high up on the face without losing momentum and rebound off the whitewash. As I kick out, I see Ross from 26^th Street riding the oncoming section towards me.

     I could go in. I’ve caught my fair share of rides. My arms are dust at this point, but . . . I paddle back out one more time. Each duckdive, I tell myself that it’s worth it.

     My last wave is a closeout, but I ride that fucker as long as I can to avoid a long ass paddle in. It takes me a little past half way.

     The tide’s so high, and the waves so big, that there is no shore. The waves are breaking all the way up on the dirt, covering the rocks. I’m slipping and sliding trying to walk out of that motherfucker. Behind me, I see an SUP guy getting knocked off of his board repeatedly, trying to make it out.

     Making my way back up the path, guys are coming down, asking me how it is. All I can say is that I hope they brought their paddling arms.

     On top of the hill by the cars, surfers are watching it, phones and coffee cups in hand. Grown ass men. Some of them turn around and leave. It’s crazy. Bri paddled out and caught a wave. These guys don’t even want none.

     I get on the phone and start sending out texts. Well overhead PV. I button up the wagon and blast some jazz music. Instead of taking the coastal route, I take PCH in hopes that traffic will be minor, but I hit just about every traffic light.

     Dry in my car with the sun blazing over my lap, I can’t believe that I had spent so much of my morning under water. 

FIRST TIME CARLSBAD, TUE 21OCT2014

Loc: South Carlsbad State Beach

Crew: Klaude

Time: 0900-1130

Conditions: 4-5 FT, consistent, warm, walled.

     Klaude works his ass off. I guess that’s the life of an accountant. Since Rich Man’s Tax Season is over, his boss gives him a day off. We had the option to surf anywhere. Since I’m an unemployed piece of shit who can surf at a moment’s notice, it’s only fair to give Klaude the call for this rare day trip. His friend Pat has friends at a campsite in Carlsbad. So the journey begins.

     I’m up at 0515 on the dot. I hesitate for a moment but sit up on my futon immediately. Time to brush my teeth and get up, especially if I want to take my time with breakfast and getting my gear in order. Cereal, coffee, and my wagon’s packed. I get the Vox from Klaude at 0557. He’s on his way.

     So we have a late start from the original 0600 plan. I share the AA preaching that my best friend gave me about going with the flow and not rushing things. I’m easy. No fuss, no muss.

     We’ve never surfed Carlsbad before, so we don’t really know what to expect. We pass our beloved Church Beach on the 5. Klaude leans towards the window and recons the surf there. It’s a lake.

     Upon entering the campsite, I take a wrong turn and have to bust a bitch, which puts us back at the State Entrance Booth. There’s already a long line of people waiting to pay their fees, but the woman at the booth as to address us first since we’re in a car.

     “It’s $15 if you’re staying for the day,” she says.

     “Fuck,” says Klaude. “We should’ve kept going.”

     We tell her that we’re just here to check the surf, so she lets us pass.

     We find Pat at campsite 60. His friend Chad has a mansion on wheels there. The site is on a cliff overlooking the beach, and down below us are glassy, scattered, clean, consistent peaks. Fuck. We need to be out there, pronto, but Pat tells us that we need to pay for the day pass.

     Klaude spots the $15 at the booth. Just as we’re leaving, the guy whose next says, in a thick Euro accent, “Can I r-r-ide back with you? Your site is close to me.” I can tell that he’s German.

     His name is Yantz, and as we drive back to the campsite, he explains how German vacations work. They get like a month for vacation or something like that.

     “I need to work in Germany,” says Klaude.

     “Yah, but we do not get the ridiculous holidays like you do,” says Yantz. He hops out of the wagon, thanking us for the ride.

     Klaude and I meet the other guys at the campsite, firefighters, and listening to their conversation it turns out that they’re a bunch of dirty men, just how I like it.

     The surf down below is still going off, clean and open. I think about bringing my Lost Mini Driver that’s just been repaired. Pat grabs his Average Joe, a small-wave board. I ask Klaude what he thinks. He says it looks soft. So does Chad. I grab the Kainalu Fish instead.

     Changing is a bitch. I keep forgetting shit in the wagon every time I lock it. I put my wetsuit jacket on backwards. Klaude laughs his ass off and tells me to take my time.

     We see Yantz’s RV. There are women inside. We wave at them as we pass. There are stairs to get down to the break, and it looks much bigger than it had from up top. I really don’t know what to compare it to. I can tell that the sandbars here are good because the waves are coming in long lines with shoulders at the end of them. Despite the swell size and high tide, it’s handling this swell well.

     Pat’s homey Pete is going frontside right, cranking out some carves. Pat goes next. I scratch out on two waves in a row. I’m super anxious. So many waves and I haven’t caught one yet.

     An outsider rolls in. I’m too deep, but Pat calls me into the wave. I turn the fish, paddle hard, and pop up just as it’s breaking. I’m so worried that I’m gonna blow this wave in front of everyone, but I hold on and drop in with speed. I cutback into the pocket. The fish has a lot of foam, so it throws out a little bit of spray without even trying. I pump past a couple of sections and kick out before it closes out.

     I’m stoked. Not bad for a first ride. More sets come in, and the surf is slowly getting bigger. Fuck. I should have used my shortboard. There’s a lot of power behind the waves, and punching through them is a bitch on every duckdive. Sitting next to Klaude, I turn and go on an inside left. I haven’t ridden this board in a while, so my turns are awkward, but I catch the wave all the way to shore. Paddling back out is a bitch, so I catch one more and head back up the stairs to swap boards.

     Now I have my Lost Mini Driver in tow. I haven’t ridden this thing since me and my brother’s first surf session when he had visited back in September. Since I lost a side fin, I’m using the quad setup from my Becker board.

     I run into Yantz while heading back. “You gonna go for a swim?” I ask.

     “No. We go to do some shopping and then we come back for a swim.” He has his whole family in tow in his RV. I tell him I’ll catch him later.

     “You got the magic board?” says Pat, as I’m making my way back out to the lineup.

     “We’ll see,” I say. The surf is still clean, but now a lot of walls are coming in. I paddle. We all paddle and move around. There’s a crowd in front of the stairs, but I don’t want to battle it out there.

     I finally paddle into a left, but the wave just sections out. I pull in, and the wave just closes out right on me.

     “I saw that,” says Klaude. “That was weird. It was like your fins didn’t catch.”

     The onshore wind starts to pick up. With the tide dropping, the wave buffet that we had all initially witnessed is now a closeout fest. One by one, our party leaves. Klaude’s the last one to leave before I do.

     In frustration, I paddle to duke it out with the pack. Some of the rights look decent, but guys at the top get them first. I catch a left, but my board feels so slow. I pump and bog out like I have no drive. On a right, I try to pull off a backhand snap, and my board feels too loose, like there’s no power behind the turn. My last wave is another lackluster snap. These fins suck. I can’t believe I’ve been using them on the Becker this whole time.

     Back at the campsite, everyone’s already drinking and in daycation mode. Klaude hands me some FCS SA-2 fins, and I slap those onto my board. I pull a turkey sandwich out the cooler and watch the surf beneath us, hoping that conditions will improve later.

#

SECOND SESH

     It’s almost two o’clock when we can’t take it anymore. We’ve been watching guys get some manageable rights. The surf looks doable. We all change and head back down the hill.

     “It’s Trunktober!” yells Pat in the empty lineup. He and Klaude go on about how odd it is for the water to be this warm in late October. Pat and Pete get a couple of rights as soon as we get out, but the surf . . . man. It’s still kind of walled. Amazing how things always look smaller and cleaner from a higher vantage point. Within the first twenty minutes, Pat and Chad are gone. Up the stairs and back to camp. Closeout after closeout, we paddle back out and have to deal with the duckdives. I’m on the fish. Seemed like a good idea earlier, but it’s a bad call. Pete’s gone. Klaude’s waiting for me on shore. I catch a closer in, almost purling.

     Walking back up the stairs, we see a couple in the water, playing in thigh deep water. The dude has banana hammocks on, and that’s when I realize that it’s Yantz. Only a Euro would be wearing that gay shit. He waves. We wave back. He starts making his way towards us, but he’s far away.

     “Fuck,” I say. “I really don’t want to talk to him. Not with that thing on.” I look at him with my periphery. Yantz is packing some serious bratwurst.

     “You’re the one who talked to him,” says Klaude.

     “Hurry,” I say, walking faster to the stairs. I look down when we’re halfway up. Yantz throws us a shaka, shaking his hands and wiggling his fingers in the process.

#

THIRD SESSION

     Firemen. I think they’re just as perverted as cops if not worse, but that’s why I feel in my element. I’m a filthy pirate myself, so it’s all good.

     They have a set of binos, and they whip them out to look at the young teenage ass running on the sand below. That’s when we find out that Yantz is swimming with his daughter, not his wife.

     “The trick is to NOT look away when they catch you watching them with the binos,” says one of the guys. “They’ll eventually look away, thinking that you must be watching something else.”

     The conditions aren’t improving, and we have to resolve with the fact that this place is not holding the swell anymore. None the less, we’re all having a good time. I’m stoked to be here with Klaude. Pat’s homies are just as cool as he is.

     Klaude and I watch noobs get worked, trying to paddle out. Two surfers meet on the shore and high five. The guys yell out, “KISSSSSS! KISSSSS!” The kids look up. Laughter erupts.

     It’s about five o’clock. I grab my Lost Mini Driver and paddle out with zero expectations. At this point, it’s just about getting wet.

     Pat, Klaude, and I do what we can, but . . . it’s still closing out. Pat though, he gets a floater on his Average Joe. Later, he tosses water out the back on right. I don’t know how he’s doing it. All my waves are closeouts. It looks like there’s shape, but it walls up.

     Klaude and Pat keep catching rights. With the added current, they end up drifting further south.

     There’s a crowd in front of the stairs just like this morning. I go there. The shape is just a hair better, good enough to get down the line on.

     I scratch out on about three waves until I finally get a left. It barely lets me in, and once I’m on it, I can’t fucking believe it. The whole time I’m thinking, please don’t blow it. I pump hard and make it past a section, check turn, slide back down the face, and pump again to keep up with the wave. I straighten out before it closes out and point my nose to shore. Fuck it. No legit turns, but it had shape. It counts. Best wave since this morning. Session complete.

     Up top, Klaude and Pat aren’t there yet. I begin to pack. When they get back it’s almost dark. Chad starts the bonfire, and we say our goodbyes just as the fire’s crackling.

     Being honest, the surf only had a small window when it was good, but today wasn’t about catching waves. Klaude barely gets days off. We could have gone to somewhere that was holding shape, but we got to hang with Pat and his pervert firefighter buddies. We also got to experience a new surf spot.

     We stop at Duke’s for Taco Tuesdays and fill ourselves up while watching the first half of the Laker game. We listen to it on the radio the whole ride back to El Segundo, not even noticing the distance that we’ve covered.

RELIEF, MON 20OCT2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0730-0930

Conditions: 4-5 FT, consistent, warm.

     Having just gotten back from a dirtbike trip at Copper City, I’m frothing to get wet again. Changing at the top of the hill, I look down and see that there’s shape despite the high tide. Finally. I exhale hard but pleasingly with a smile, relieved. Toru pulls up next to me, grinning from ear to ear. There’s a car behind him, so I tell him that I’ll see him in the lineup.

     I’m warming up on the sand watching a reeling right that’s working just north of the tower. Don K. is killing it, pumping and carefully drawing the right lines to extend his ride further. Other guys who I’ve never seen before are sitting in the same spot. Another one takes off. Three good rights in a row.

     My Lost Mini Driver was done being repaired over the weekend, so I’ll be picking it up after this session. Wish I had it now. My Motorboat Too is too small. The fish? No way. Not today.

     One of the local guys takes off on a right as I back out for him. I see him get legit coverup on the drop. Critical. I give him props on the way back. I take off on the next bomb right. Its face is huge. I get one backhand snap but climb the face again and kick out before it shuts down.

     There are good waves all morning, but it’s one of those sessions where I’m not on any of them. Either that or I’m just not surfing well. Maybe need more board? I don’t know. I’m sucking.

     I drive to Long Beach to see Alain B. from AB Surfboard Repair. He’s super animated but definitely knows his shit. He tells me about the sandbars at Bolsa Chica, and he’s spot on to what I had seen last Thursday. My repairs are so clean, well worth the cost. He even cleans up the other minor dings and cracks on my Kainalu Fish, and that’s aside from the broken nose that I brought it in for.

     At night, I wax both of those boards. My Mini Driver looks so new. Oh, how much I’ve missed you. Finally, my quiver’s complete once more. 

GOT SANDBARS?, FRI 17OCT2014

Loc: PV

Time: 0730-0900

Conditions: 3 FT, inconsistent, glassy, warm.

     Tuesday, Wednesday I had dawn patrolled my local beach breaks, and they were all walled. Sure, there were probably some corners here and there, but I’ve been surfing long enough to know a walled day when I see one. In an effort to balance my life more towards publication than surfing, I took those mornings in stride and went to the library to write. Thursday I saw that it was still walled, so I ventured to Bolsa Chica. There were waves, but they were all breaking on shore. What the fuck. What happened to the sandbars? I drove all the way to Brookhurst, and the tide was killing the surf. Cruising down PCH, south of the pier was walled. The other beach breaks between the pier and Goldenwest seemed okay but not worthy enough to pull over for.

     I went back to Bolsa again, trying to squint out some rideable waves. Other than the Jetty towards Seapoint, most surfers were on the sand just watching. One guy was out at Tower 23, the guinea pig who’s supposed to sell it for us. He didn’t. Nothing but closeouts.

#

     Fast forward to Friday. I’m at 26^th Street Manhattan Beach, looking at walls again. Good things supposed to come to those who wait. I’ve waited all week. The sandbars are not holding. It’s frustrating. Back to PV I go.

     The reason why I didn’t go there mid week was because I knew it would be packed. Word had to have gotten out about how Monday was good, and I didn’t want to deal with a crowd, but here I am now, hunting for shape.

     I know the Fish is going to work today. It has to. The forecast is much smaller for today. With a fat morning tide, I walk to the water’s edge and jump on my board earlier than usual, and then I hear and feel one of my keels hit a rock. Don’t think about that now, I tell myself.

     The paddle out is easy. I keep an eye on the horizon. Surfers are stagnant on their boards. It’s smaller and much more inconsistent than Monday.

     “How was it yesterday?” says one longboarder to another.

     “Tuesday was good. Wednesday was small.”

     I should have come here Tuesday, too. Fuck.

     There’s this redheaded grom on a flimsy shortboard right next to me. He sits at the bottom of the wave, desperate for something that will stand up. He can’t compete at the top with the longboarders, and with the high tide he has to paddle in late. I manage some rides, able to practice my laybacks. Still too much pressure on the tail, hitting the brakes on myself and bogging out.

     I get a good right and crank out one big backhand hack. Feels good.

     Later into the session, only the top of the wave is working. Waves are swinging wide, but the longboarders are getting them first. I try everything, even paddle much deeper than them, but I put myself out of position. Longboarder after longboarder, they get the bombs. It’s their day, and I don’t feel comfortable sitting elbow to elbow with them. I don’t think I’ll ever be that kind of surfer.

     I had been in such a rush when I arrived that I didn’t bring my flip flops. It’s a sharp walk back, having to keep an eye on each step, avoiding jagged shards of rock. Back at the car, I take a look at the keel that had hit the rock. It’s a little scratched on the edge, but it’s not bad. I feel the board. The base of the keel pushed into the board and cracked the glassing. Fuckin’ A. Board repair here I come.

     If someone asked me what serenity is to me, it would not be this. 

TO FISH OR NOT TO FISH?, MON 13OCT2014

Loc: PV

Crew: Bri

Time: 0730-0930

Conditions: 4 FT+, consistent, glassy, warm.

     From the top of the cliff, the waves look small. I should have known. While Manhattan Beach is a great wall of closeouts, this place is tiny. Fuckin’ A. Though it’s a pristine morning, the sun still below the hills. Soft smooth lines creep into The Cove. I grab the fish. Might as well paddle out.

     Bri and I stash our sandals and make our way to the jagged paddle out. The main pack’s out there at the top of the wave. The air is cool under the cliff’s shadow, but as soon as I hit the water, I feel that it’s warm. Wetsuit jacket and shorts, it’s the right call.

     The inside is always soupy. Nothing breaks here. Halfway towards the lineup, I get a glimpse of a set breaking. It’s a little bigger than I thought. I look to my right, landmarking where I am. I’m just past Little Reef. There’s still a ways to go.

     Duckdiving, the fish feels huge and overbouyant. Outside, a huge wall stands up. I know I’m in the impact zone. Motherfucker. I have the WRONG BOARD.

     The primary swell is supposed to be backing off, but it’s still working. There must be a lot of west in it. Bri and I sit wide of the main pack more towards the center of the cove. It’s less consistent than the top of the wave, but when the cleanup sets roll in, we have the shoulders.

     I get my first left, and it’s a solid five feet. Solid, but clean and racy, a fast peeling shoulder that’s down the line and tapered. I pop up on my huge fish with ease—the fish that’s great when it’s small—and I find that I have way too much board. Like an abused dog with the gate open, the Zippi just fucking TAKES OFF. Holy shit. So much speed on this twin fin. I’m flying down the line. I try to top turn and nearly face plant. I pump further down the line and bring it back for a wrap. I pull off the cutback but do so awkwardly.

     And that’s how the whole morning goes. Perfect waves but too much board. I have to be conservative on the turns. Can’t be too aggressive or I’ll lose it. It’s not a depression session by any means. I’d rather surf conditions like this than a day that’s too small. The Zippi excels in other areas. When I’m behind a section, I climb the face and pull off floaters, touching the cloud and dropping back in with grace. Still, I imagine how much fun I would be having if I had brought a shortboard, the Becker, maybe even the Motorboat Too.

     Bri leaves for work, taking the waves with her. The surf turns a little inconsistent. I sneak up towards the main pack and find it hard to compete.

     I still got more than my fair share of waves. Driving home, I have Jazz music on blast with the windows down, cruising through Hermosa on the way back to El Segundo. If someone asked me what serenity means to me, it would be this. 

THE LEFT (PT. I), 12OCT2014

Loc: Trestles

Crew: Bri

Time: morning

Conditions: 2-3 FT, consistent.

     It’s been a while since I’ve caught Trestles with good shape and firing four feet plus. When we arrive, Churches looks like a lake. Once a set arrives, we see that the surf is subpar to the forecast, but it is still rideable.

     With the small conditions, I leave the Motorboat Too in the car and opt for the Zippi. There’s a left that my friends and I have discovered here that, for some reason, usually remains uncrowded. On this very morning, it doesn’t look that great.

     I opt to trunk it with a wetsuit jacket and get surprised with how warm the water still is. Upon paddling out, a set appears. I duckdive the first wave and have the right mind to turn and go on the next, but I wait until I make it all the way outside.

     Even though the surf is smaller than expected, it’s consistently three feet and rippable. Occasionally, there are some waves a little bigger.

     There’s something about the way that the waves break here. It’s a perfect setup to experiment with your equipment and your surfing. Down the line open faces with varying sections along the ride. I practice my layback snaps. They’re more like layback carves, but I have problems riding out of them without hitting the brakes, a similar hindrance I had when learning how to do frontside snaps. So the whole morning, this is my mission. I don’t walk the board much. Aside from my practice, I get a couple of roundhouse cutbacks.

     Today’s goal is to surf our brains out so we can splurge on AYCE sushi afterwards. The whole session, only three guys end up sitting by us before moseying off to other peaks.

     Instead of splurging at Sonics, we pick on the snacks that we had packed from home.

#

THE LEFT (PART II), 12OCT2014

Loc: Trestles

Crew: Bri

Time: afternoon

Conditions: 2-3 FT, onshore, inconsistent, sectiony.

     Our spot’s not so pretty for the second go out. Onshore wind has the waves much crumblier and more lined up. Thank goodness I have the fish. Aside from practicing laybacks, I get some long racy sections that allow me to pull off deep swooping pumps. Yet, the water is textured and triangled. The top of the wave at Churches is choppy. After an initial flurry of waves, the lulls get long. Sushi opens at 1700. We surf as hard as we can to make sure we will have an appetite.

THE MOOSH, SAT 11OCT2014

Loc: Brookhurst

Crew: Bri

Time: morning

Conditions: 1-3 FT, crowded, high tide, inconsistent.

     We both needed a day to sleep in, so we took our time getting up and heading out. In an effort to mix things up, we headed to HB to catch some south swell.

     It was a little overcast upon parking, but we could already see whitewash exploding over the sandline, showing the swell’s potential. Cresting over the sand, we see that there are heads out. Normally this place is empty, but since it’s a weekend . . . sure. People. Uncharacteristically, there are funboarders and longboarders. A set breaks outside, super soft from the tide. Mooshy but rideable.

     We head back to the car, and I bust out the 6’0 Zippi. When we paddle out, we duckdive a set. Positioning is hard. Peaks are semi scattered. I move around the lineup, missing the good waves every time or get outpositioned. Afterwards, there’s a long lull. Waves look like they’re going to break, but they roll all the way inside and turn into shorepound. Little by little, all the longboarders move way inside.

     A decent window opens up where there are more waves, but after getting an initial turn, the rest of the wave mooshes out. We try. I have the right board, but it’s not enough.

     It sucks to drive this far to get mediocre surf, but it happens. It’s part of being a surfer, getting skunked like this. And it probably was good earlier. If we hadn’t slept in, we would’ve caught a better window.  

     The good thing is that there’s $3.50 chicken pho before getting off of the freeway. It makes up for the session.