THE PIER, WED 29OCT2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach Pier

Time: 0745-0900

Conditions: 2 FT, offshore, small, inconsistent.

     I had told fellow surf blogger, Goofy Kook, that I’d make an effort to check him out by the pier. Makes sense after yesterday’s orgy at 26^th Street. Plus, the surf has dramatically dropped in size. In the past, I wouldn’t have even paddled out on a day like this, but I have decent small-wave equipment. This morning, it’s my checkerboard Kainalu fish.

     Scoring parking near Highland and Marine, I head down to the sand and draw a beeline for the pier. With a later start this morning, the sky’s already bright, and the sand’s a blazing beige.

     There are heads at 26^th Street. Surprisingly, the breaks between there and the pier are desolate. There are a few longboarders and one SUP guy.

     At the pier, there’s a longboarder sitting deep next to the pilings, two beginners just wide of him.

     The last time I had surfed the pier was my first lesson with Rick A. He took me here. I remember how the water was so green, and I was so “green” that I couldn’t even sit on my fucking board. That was all of lesson one, just sitting on the damn thing.

     I paddle out and look around. No surf signs in the parking lot. I don’t see GK.

     The longboarder sitting on the pier catches a long right, so I swoop in to see if I can get one, too. Even though it’s flat, I’m in awe as I paddle up to this structure. The shift in the tide makes the pier look like it’s moving backwards; I catch a short moment of vertigo. I sit and wait, but nothing breaks here. After ten minutes, I paddle more north.

     There’s a guy on the inside teaching a chick how to surf on a Costco foamie. As a wave approaches, he pushes her outside so she can get out of the impact zone.

     “I don’t think—” she says, before the wave breaks on her, churning her back up in a tangled mess of hair. Soon afterwards, they’re walking back on shore, boards in tow.

     A different longboarder catches a rogue wave. He bends his back knee hard on the bottom turn while throwing his limps up as if he were clutching ape-hanger handle bars. He snaps his board into the line he wants to draw, and when he does it, he really uses his hips and shoulders, never losing balance or being awkward. Style. I appreciate good surfing on any craft. Looking smooth and good in the transitions isn’t easy.

     My wave of the day is a left. I catch one of the tiny bombs, pump down the line, get a small floater, and end it with a layback turn. I don’t right out of it smoothly, but I hop towards the nose to force my board into the rolling whitewash for a legit finish.

     The smooth-styling longboarder’s on the inside, holding his board, making sure we don’t hit each other. I smile and put my palm out. He smiles back, jumps on his board, and goes out again. 

THE WORD, TUE 28OCT2014

Loc: MB, 26^th Street

Time: 0700-0900

Conditions: 3-4 FT, offshore, fast, sectiony.

     The word must’ve gotten out that it was fun yesterday. My beloved brick house peak is now overrun, and it’s not just the usual suspects. Guys who I’ve seen surf way further north, from 34^th Street to Rosecrans, are here, too. Fuckin’ A.

     I try to battle it out but get frustrated and head towards the tower. Vietnam Vet Mike is out here, and he’s able to glide into waves on his longboard. I’m either pulling out for guys or out of position.

#

     Thinking back to this session, I don’t remember one memorable ride. I remember thinking about how much I need to change things up and surf a different break. 

THE MARTYR, MON 27OCT2014

Loc: MB, 26^th Street

Time: 0700-0900

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

     I expect the swell to have backed off, since it’s short-to-mid period. Paying more attention to fins and doing some personal research(thanks to surfscience.com), I switch out the large SA-2 side fins for the slightly smaller Matt Biola GMB composites. I also switch to the smaller Q-R trail fins. With smaller surf, today should be more of a carving session. No need to have too much grip and drive.

     The high schoolers are sitting in front of the 26^th Street tower. One of them is surfing the right. It stands up towards the inside for a fast whitewash ride. I figure I’ll paddle out just north of them in front of the brick house to get a nice gap away from them.

     It should be more crowded this morning, but maybe yesterday’s walls have kept people away. There’s always the high-tide window much later, so it could be empty for any reason.

     There’s this local guy who’s probably in his mid twenties. I don’t know him, but he knows some of the O.G.’s here. We’ve never talked. I see him catch a left, and he pauses and watches the lip fold over in front of him. He tosses his head in frustration and jumps ship. I know the feeling. He’s probably thinking, I should have just pulled in. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve done the same.

     The horizon’s doing its usual 0700 fiery blaze. The water on the inside is a combo of fizzing champaign with smooth unmolested pools of peach, almost as if there were clouds in the water, too.

     A thirty yard gap keeps the kids away, and I’m surprised to have waves to myself here.

     My first wave is a right. As I bottom turn, I look behind me and watch the lip curl over. Fuck. Should have pulled in. Always feels sketchy on my backhand. The next right doesn’t go round, so I set up for one clean power hack before it closes out.

     After sitting out back a little while longer, bigger sets start coming in. The swell’s backed off but only by a hair. I take off on a bomb right and bottom turn to set myself up. The face is jacking up with uncomfortable size. This is where my inexperience shines. My brain’s shooting off signals to bail in self preservation, but I grab rail and stick close to the curling face. I pull in right on the highline, slotting myself just under the lip. There’s marbleized foam in the wave’s face, the pink sky, and groms paddling over the shoulder, sleek as seals. I always doubt that I’ll make it out. I’m too deep. Everything goes black from there, and then I’m sucked under.

     And this is pretty much my barrel experience. I never make it out, just once at Brookhurst/HB over a year ago. Other than that, my middle name is Obliteration. Bali, East Java, Porto, everywhere I’ve surfed. Always almost, close but no cock. “It’ll just happen for you,” was what my brother had told me.

     I’ll tell you that it’s cool, it’s okay, and I want to believe it. There’s training value in rides like these. They’re not all for nothing. Keep telling myself that.

     Sitting back outside, I honestly do feel stoked though. It was close. Mastership through repetition. I’m not hurt, and it was kind of fun.

     From here, I flip the switch. Martyrdom it is, suicide barrels, Allah Akbar. I push my earplugs in tight. No turns. On the next right, I hunker down and wait for it to go round, but it doesn’t. Now that’s also inexperience—reading the wave incorrectly and wasting an open-face maneuver.

     I get a left that’s just as throaty as the right. On my frontside, I’m driving along the soupy face in a tight little cavern, but I get body slammed again.

     The surf is consistent where I’m at. The groms aren’t getting many waves. They paddle towards me to keep position but they don’t paddle through the gap between us. I may not be getting barreled, but the kids are actually giving me room this morning.

     When the session’s over, I’m back at my car unscrewing my fins. Wrong choice. Should’ve kept the same setup as yesterday, but that doesn’t mean that I would have done any better. Put any guy who’s good out today, and he/she would have gotten tubed.

     Listening to some jazz on the radio on the ride back home, I still feel good about today’s session. You don’t always have to make it out to feel fulfilled. 

DUMP RIDERS, SUN 26OCT2014

Loc: MB, 26^th Street

Crew: Klaude

Time: first light

Conditions: 5-6 FT+, offshore, consistent, sectiony and walled.

“Forecast”

     I’m no surf expert, but I’ve been trying to pay more attention to how long period and short-to-mid period swells work. After yesterday’s tiny session, it’s hard to believe the forecast that today is supposed to be 4-7 feet. Being that this swell is short to mid, I wonder if it’s actually going to have that much size.

“In the Dark”

     Everyone and his dead grandma will probably be on it, so that’s why I’m parked at 0630 when it’s still dark out. I walk to the pull up bars on the strand and take a seat. Surprisingly, no surfers are out patrolling it yet. There was free parking when I pulled up. Other than a few power walkers and one guy who’s doing push ups, I’m the only potential water walker out here.

     I can’t see what the waves are doing, but I can make out some dark lines. When each one breaks, crashing whitewash races along the water. Palos Verdes is my backup call, but it doesn’t look too big out here. Maybe five feet. Manageable. One giveaway that it’s not too big is that the waves lack bass, that pounding vibration that you would feel through the sand and in your gut on a big day. It’s not huge and round.

     I send a couple texts out and head back to the wagon to suit up.

“In the Light”

     More guys are on the strand watching it now. Only three guys have paddled out. A longboarder stands next to me at 26^th Street tower. I may have been a little wrong about the size. It’s still not round and thumping, but it’s a little bigger than I had thought.

     The guy looks at me, shoots me a half grin, and shrugs.

     A blazing pink horizon peeks over the houses behind me. Even the water looks pink. Offshore texture, little cross-hatched triangles flutter along the water’s surface. The waves coming in look soft but with size. Unfortunately, they’re a little sectiony. I understand why no one’s out. It’s gonna be a mission to find a good one with shape.

     Did I say I’m no surfing expert? I sure ain’t, but one thing that I’ve learned is the lesson of Respect. You gotta respect the ocean, even on a manageable day like this.

     Because the swell’s coming in nice and consistent with size, it’s a long paddle out. I think I’ve surfed for about a week straight, so about halfway out and my delts are on fire. I haven’t taken any on the head yet, but there’s that warning beacon in the back of my head: Beware the Line. By line, I mean how sometimes you think you’ve made it out, and then there’s that fucking monster out the back, and no matter how hard you try, you’re not gonna make it to the chopper. But I do. I turn around. I’ve barely drifted. It’s manageable.

“Selling”

     I see heads in the parking lot, dudes on the strand. Guys are watching, debating. The locals aren’t out yet. That’s a bad sign. Especially if Don K., the King of 26^th Street, isn’t out yet, then there will be a better window later. That’s what a lot of the older vets do here. Patient in the parking lot with binos, it’s an exclusive club. They might as well paint their names on the parking stalls. Whoever’s in the lineup is a guinea pig. Worth it or not, our surfing will tell.

     I’m not a fan of getting worked on the inside. You ever catch a bad wave out of frustration, and then once you come up for air, the real set comes? Yeah. No thanks. I think I’ll be picky instead.

     I let the walled and sectiony ones pass. My first wave looks like it has a shoulder. Paddling into it, I appreciate the power that it has from its size, and I don’t mean power like gnarly barrels or anything. What I mean is, I don’t have to scratch hard to get into this wave. It’s automatic. One, two, three strokes, and I’m up with fluidity and ease, but it’s too bad that the wave just stands up and runs away. Closeout. My next right is smaller, and I get two weak backhand check snaps. Even though there’s size, they fatten up on the inside. More closeouts. I do kickout snaps before they dump.

     My wave of the day is a two turn left. I practice a layback turn and actually ride out of it. That’s something to take home.

“The Green Light”

     The South Bay, at least Manhattan Beach, can be fickle. Sometimes it holds shape, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it holds shape at six feet, and sometimes it closes out at four feet. Depends. It always depends on something.

     I’m not sure when the gun went off to officially start the race, but now everyone’s out here. The only problem is, as consistent as it is, shape is still an issue. So now there’s a sea of bobbing heads, all waiting for that magic shoulder. I can already tell it’s gonna be one of those days when you just paddle in for the hell of it, closeout or not.

     Since the waves aren’t round and heavy, it’s so easy to go for glory. I turn and go on an overhead wave, and right before I slide into it, I see Klaude paddling up right next to me. He has his tongue out. It wags rapidly as he shakes his head. The mating call of the Neanderthal. Classic Klaude. I slide down the face, make the drop, and ride into the flats.

“DUMP RIDER”

     Back in the day, my friends and I would joke about how the waves here are so dumpy, and that’s how the Dump Rider Crew began. It must’ve been a year of bad sandbars at that time, no shape. We still had fun on those days, and today is a nice throwback to that.

     While most are picky, Klaude and I just say, “Fuck it,” and go for everything. Down the line? Not gonna happen. Not today. Yet, while everyone’s still stagnant, only moving around to dodge the closeouts, it feels good to be making the rounds—paddle in, popup, closeout, paddle back out, get another one.

     Eh, nothing to brag about, but it’s better than sitting still.

“Perspective”

     From the sand, I see a guy pumping down the line on an inside right. Two turns. Not sure if it’s the tide, but the waves are starting to look peakier. There are more people out, more on the sand racing towards the water. Ha . . . guess it was worth the wait.