Loc: Huntington
Beach
Crew:
Cassady
Time: 0700-0945
Conditions:
3-4 FT, offshore, consistent, glassy, uncrowded, peaky.
“El
Gamble”
I had checked HB a couple of weeks ago, and
the sandbars were shit, but lately everyone has been saying that it’s fun
again. Cassady, my former college colleague, told me that it’s been fun. Since
I hadn’t seen him in a while, I asked where he recommends surfing and meeting
up.
#
I arrive at the northernmost parking lot on
PCH overlooking the Huntington Cliffs. It’s still dark out. There’s plenty of
parking. A few locals are here, which makes me anxious because I’m the new
sausage in town.
I creep up to the railing overlooking the
ocean. The sky is dark blue with menacing clouds. Beneath them, oil platforms
hover like mini cities or space stations. Looking at the surf, I can make out
some clean peaks. Looks fun. No one’s on it.
I shoot Cas a text at 0645. He replies
with, “You’re early!” The plan had been to meet at 0700, but he can find me in
the water. As far as fin setups, I go with yesterday’s combo of big side fins
and small-sized trailers. It only looks like it’s three feet though. No need
for big fins.
I’m not sure where the stairs are around
here, so I climb through the bars and go down a steep and well-beaten trail
down the cliff. While warming up on the sand, two shortboarders and a
longboarder rush the main peak.
“Slot
Machine”
I think about that stingray that had caught
me at Bolsa as I walk through the shallow water. They say to shuffle your feet
to avoid getting stung, but I haven’t really caught on to that.
The paddle out is easy, and I end up just
north of the main peak where three guys are. I hope waves will swing wide my
way. They all catch waves, so I move into their spot.
It’s classic Huntington conditions. The
surface is smooth and flat. When waves come, they’re so peaky that they tent up
out of the ocean. Shape . . . it’s here.
I paddle into my first left and decide to
pull in. I’m so used to closeout El Porto barrels that I don’t expect much.
Closeout barrels are the standard for me. As I bottom turn and hold a line in
the tube, I realize that I’m actually getting distance inside of it even though
it’s barely a four-foot wave. It outraces me, and as the cascade of water
throws out over my right shoulder, I try to penetrate through the front curtain
like the pros do. Halfway out, I’m brought down by the weight of the lip.
When I resurface, I think to myself, Not
bad. Almost made it out. On the way back to the top of the wave, I feel an
eruption of stoke coming on. I don’t want to jinx myself, but I have a feeling
that I have a good chance of getting barreled today.
Pigdogging on my backhand is another story.
I can’t drive for distance on my backhand. I suck..
I see Cassady on top of the hill with his
board in tow. He waves. I wave back. Outside, the ocean’s getting my attention,
too, with a rogue wave of its own. Motherfucker! I paddle out to beat it. Once
the longboarder on the shoulder doesn’t go, I swing around and try to catch it (I
don’t know it yet, but it’s the biggest wave I’ll catch all morning.). I paddle
into it with intent to bottom turn and pump down the face, but since I’m late,
I spend more time dropping straight down. Once I do bottom turn, I see that I’m
deep. The green room is lining up before me, long with an oval exit, but I’m so
deep that I get pinched.
I look back towards the shore. Cassady is
throwing up his arm, stoked. He saw that.
Back at the lineup, the longboarder says, “Nice
wave!”
“Thanks,” I say. I go on about how I was
too deep and couldn’t make it out. I always feel like there’s a need to explain
myself on failed barrels. Barrel insecurity. Small penis syndrome. Small balls.
Balls not big enough to have made it out. I tried though. I’d like to think I
always do.
Cas paddles up and says that I was late but
that I had bottom turned and was “in there.” I’m still my harshest critic.
Doesn’t count.
It is nice to see Cas again. I can’t
remember the last time we hung out. We’ve both put on a little post-grad man
weight but wear it well. He’s let the facial hair go a little with a V for Vendetta soul patch. We catch up,
talk about our girlfriends, boards, recent surf sessions, his work, my lack of
work. Meanwhile, more guys are paddling out, even corralling us at times, but
we’re so in our own world that we don’t care.
In between topics, we randomly turn and go
on waves. I paddle into a left that isn’t harrowing at all. It’s just a
standard wave but with that classic peaky HB shape. I pop up, slide down the
wave, and pull in really close to the face. The wall of water goes vertical
next to my head and shoulders. I hunker down tighter as the lip begins to curl
over my head. I’m not deep, but I’m slotted in the tube. Normally, the shoulder
ahead of me stretches to infinity, and I don’t make it out, but holding my line
on this wave, the shoulder backs off, and I ride cleanly out of it. I get two
pumps on the dissolving shoulder and step off of my board.
Now I’m beyond stoked. I’m a kid again. I
let out a gasping laughgasm. No one saw that barrel. That’s cool. Normally I
wouldn’t care. I’m bad with PDA, but fuck, let me be honest. I can’t contain
myself. I want the whole fucking beach to know that I just got barreled.
“Oh my God!” I say, paddling back towards
Cassady. Donny Duckbutter, you are the senior year prom queen. Smile on my face
like I just won a lifetime subscription to pornhub. Cassady’s the victim of my
post-barrel giddiness. I piss in his ear for a good while until his next wave.
A little later, I catch another left,
roughly the same size. I’m too far ahead of the pocket, so I’m not getting
barreled, but there’s a section standing up in front of me. I hold my line,
hunker down again, and that section stands up and throws out over me again.
Holy shit. Coming out of the tube, I almost run over a guy paddling out. I
ditch my board and check to see if he’s alright afterwards. He’s cool, and
before I had bailed, I was already out of the barrel, so it still counts.
Barrel number two.
To think, if I would have stayed in the
South Bay, none of this would have been possible. Over a year ago, I got my
first clean barrel ride at Brookhurst with my brother. It’s taken me this long
to get barreled again, not once but twice.
Poor Cas. He’s with a little kid in the
water. A grom, like the high schoolers I’m always bitching about. I’m so
pumped. I’m not even thinking about turns. Every wave is approached with a
J.O.B. mentality, cheeks puffed, paddling hard, kicking, determined.
When Cas leaves, something happens to the
surf. Even though the tide is going lower, it slows down a lot. Two gangly
teens with long hair sit on my left and right. Of all places. . . I try to turn
and go, but I start scratching out. My groove is off. Bad positioning. I
finally sit more inside and catch a walled left, but I get in there again.
Slotted, I’m driving in the tube clean with room. One of the Gangle Twins
paddles over the shoulder in front of me. I get pinched.
Back in the lineup he says, “Hey, I saw you
get that little barrel!”
I explain myself again. Maybe I should stop
doing that. It turns out the kid is cool, so I don’t mind them so much anymore.
Sometimes all it takes is some friendly conversation.
I’m still sucking on my backhand. The
rights are not happening for me. I don’t make it out of another barrel either,
but the shape here is so good that even the closeouts are fun.
I pull into this left and feel time expand
as the lip throws over and fully envelopes me. I really am in a room. The water
over my head is so clear that it’s like I’m in a blue test tube. The front door
shuts, and the world around me just bends, the crashing lip connects with the
backwash. When the wave shuts down, it the softest wipeout I’ve ever had.
My meter’s almost up, and I want to end the
session with a barrel so badly. I fade out a little too much on my last wave,
and by the time I pull in, I’m far ahead on the shoulder. I crouch and try to
force a tube, but I’ve already outrun the pocket.
The hill is soft dirt. My steps are wet and
muddy, but I don’t slip. I talk to the old guy who’s parked next to me about
the surf. It’s just good vibes. After a good sesh, sometimes you just have to
linger. I don’t want to leave yet. I change, chill, and take a couple pictures.
Other cars are waiting. I pull out my phone, post a pic, send some texts out,
Vox some friends. Two barrels.
On the drive home, I have so much stoke
afterburn that I can’t decide on what music I want to listen to. It’s overcast,
but I put my sunglasses on. I take them off. I put them on again. I wish
someone was here with me.
