VETERANS DAY SESH, TUE 11NOV2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Crew: Bri, Klaude

Time: 0700-0900

Conditions: 2-4 FT, overcast, cool, glassy, crowded.

     The lineup was empty this time yesterday, but right now there’s nowhere to park. Luckily, my second option for parking has one space open. Score. Since I made a poor choice yesterday of only taking one board, I walk to the beach with my fish and shortboard in tow.

     SUP guys paddle in front of the lifeguard tower like sharks in a mating frenzy. 33^rd has a crowd and so does the brick house, which is just north of the tower. Bri and I shoot for a small gap in between the SUP’ers and the edge of the crowd.

     It’s a cool overcast morning that drapes a dull metallic gray over the ocean. Peaks are coming through in long lines with corners at the end of them. They’re almost invisible from the glassiness, so timing is kind of a bitch because you can’t really see the wave until the face stands up and begins to bend.

     Seems that everyone is off of work today. New faces mix in with old faces. Roy paddles up to me and wishes me a Happy Veterans Day. I say thanks and tell him about my frustrating sesh at Lowers.

     “Did you surf yesterday?” I ask.

     “I was at Porto,” he says. “Shapes been good over there. A little bigger, too.”

     Ross and Mitch are out, and so is Longboard Robert.

     “Where’s [Stocky] Jon?” I say.

     Rob doesn’t know. A set wave comes through and clobbers him in the impact zone. Even though the surf doesn’t look big, it’s doing the same thing that it did yesterday. The surf is standing up better around mid tide, improving throughout the morning.

     I get one snap on a right before the wave runs away from me. I’m sloppy. I catch a left all the way to the inside, pulling off a cutback. Still awkward. Ahh! Maybe I still have some Churches and Trestles residue leftover. Even though the surf was small over the weekend, the shape was impeccable. Or maybe I just suck.

     Bri’s doing well on her NSP. Every time I spot her, she’s either just getting off of a wave, on the inside paddling back, or paddling into one.

     As much as I’d like to think I’m a standout at this spot, I know I’m not. Why? Because Davey and Roy are trading off on waves at the left just south of the tower. While I struggle to finish off my waves with legit maneuvers, they make every wave they catch look good regardless of quality. Over and over again, smooth with balance in check, they get down the line, cutback, set themselves up high on the line, and pump down for maneuvers two and three.

     Toru paddles out.

     “You off today?” I say.

     “Yeah. Now I can actually stay longer.”

     Klaude paddles out, too. We talk about the Lakers. First win! He has a hat, a free giveaway at the game, waiting in his car for me. He goes right, and some longboarder, who fucking sees him, still bags him anyway. I watch Klaude trail him all the way to the inside. He shakes his head on the way back.

     But it’s Veterans Day, a holiday. Of course it’s packed. I had also gotten bagged earlier by another fucking longboarder, too.

     The waves are a little racy, and the crowds aren’t helping much either. I practice pulling in and actually get some drive distance in the tube. I’m feeling much more comfortable doing this, and getting that little distance also feels rewarding, like I could have a whole session with just these closeout barrels and still have a good time.

     Taking off deep on some lefts, I draw high lines. For the waves that don’t throw out, I’m surprised to make it all the way to the open faces. Some groms on the shoulder paddle in and kick out, still ruining the shape.

     My wave of the day is a bomb right. I know it’s gonna closeout, but today’s size isn’t harrowing, so I paddle into it, dropping straight down. By the time I bottom turn and grab rail, the lip starts throwing out over me. I stall, arm in the wave, and get a quick barrel perspective. The wave fully engulfs me, turning my world black, white, and then light blue.

     I hear “Whooooohoooo!” from the lineup. A couple more follow. I look back. Roy is on the inside, grinning at me. I shoot him a peace sign and paddle back to the lineup.

     “Nice drop,” says Mitch.

     I explain that it’s just a closeout. Sometimes you gotta go on those for fun, but it had unexpectedly opened up better than expected.

     My turns suffer the whole session. I get a couple more lackluster rides and get out. I’ve been wondering about my board quiver lately.

     Bri and I take our time changing at the car. Klaude pulls up and gives me the Laker hat. He doesn’t have the day off. Life’s not easy as an accountant.

     We head to Denny’s for breakfast. Veterans get a free Grand Slam Breakfast.

     “I need to ride something shorter,” says Bri. “I can’t do the turns that I want on my NSP.”

     I squish my cheeks up with my palms as I rest my elbows on the table. She says I look old. In the past, I would’ve rode Bri hard about which board she should ride.

     “As long as you’re having fun,” I say. 

NO PLACE, MON 10NOV2014

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0700-0845

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, overcast, cool, glassy, consistent.

     I should get up when my alarm clock goes off, but I sleep in for another hour. After the weekend camp out, my body’s toast. I look at the surf cams and the report. 1-3 poor to fair. It’s small. Totally not worth it.

     However, after surfing Lowers’ asshole crowd yesterday, I have the longing to surf local and catch waves with familiar faces. I miss my break.

#

     The surf looks small from on top of the hill. I don’t even see any surfers out. The tide’s gonna be on it, but fuck it. One good wave is all I need. I got the right equipment, too. With my Zippi in sick bay, I bust out the Kainalu Fish.

     I debate on bringing my shortboard down, too, but I tell myself to be reasonable. It’s small. Swampy. Save my strength.

     I paddle out just south of the tower. Immediately, a small left sprouts up. Some shortboarder in a two-tone wetsuit, black and green, tries to dart over to catch my wave, but he’s not deep enough. I go down the line and get some decent distance before it closes out.

     Resurfacing, Two Tone scratches out on a wave and yells, “Fuu-uuck!”

     Wow. No shit. That upset? Over a day like this? I wonder if he’s pissed that I got that wave, but when I had paddled out, no one was there. I shot for a gap. End of story.

     But there’s something about Two Tone, he’s surfing this break like he’s in the Vans Triple Crown or something. Yeah, he rips, but it’s like fuck . . . calm down. After his waves, he looks around the lineup, checking to see if anyone’s watching.

     Meanwhile, I’m just here to cruise. The lineup’s still empty, I’m fighting the south current, and I’m just catching my small waves.

     My first good wave is a left. I get a decent wrap around cutback, rebound, and continue down the line. As I kickout, Two Tone’s watching me. Fucking gazer.

     After that left, I sit further north at another peak, but now I’m kind of mad at myself. I gave up my spot to avoid Mr. Rapey Eyes. Just then, Locals Stocky Jon and Longboard Robert paddle out.

     “It’s actually better than it looks,” says Jon.

     And then the surf changes. Even though the tide’s up, some outside sets start breaking in the 3FT+ range.

     I go left and pull into a closeout barrel, a small one in the shallows. I expect it to just envelope me, but it stays open for a little bit, giving me its swirling perspective. Fuck. I could have set myself up better and made it out if I had known it was gonna do that.

     The surf’s not tiny anymore. I should have brought my shortboard down.

     Robert’s on my outside on a left. I paddle into it but still tell him to go. Party wave. Fuck it. He backs out. Later, he tells me that he still didn’t want to snake me even though I had given him the okay. I swear I can’t find this kind of etiquette anywhere else.

     The homie Toru comes out to surf his twenty minute heat. Every time he paddles out, he has to leave right away, but he’s the coolest guy ever.

     Even though I’m on the wrong board, I’m having a lot of fun. My turns aren’t that snappy, but I’m connecting two on the good waves, still walking the deck on others.

     I catch a wave to shore. Standing in ankle-deep water, I struggle with the decision to leave. There are other things I need to do today, but the surf is still good. If I paddle back out, that’s another hour, easy.

#

     Back up on the hill, I watch the surf while I change. Peaks are still coming in. The morning report may have been accurate at first light, but it’s better now. Way better. If I wasn’t such an addict, I wouldn’t have troubled myself to at least come and look at it. I’m glad I did.

     I flirt with the idea of taking a pic, but some lady drives up and asks if I’m leaving. “Ten minutes,” I say, but she double parks and still sits on me.

     After drying off, I throw on my shorts and leave. 

RICK’S BIRTHDAY WEEKEND PT.VI (double), SUN 09NOV2014

A shot of Middles during an afternoon bike ride

Loc: Lowers

Crew: Rick, Gary

Time: 1230-1415

Conditions: 2-4 FT, sunny, cool, onshore, consistent, crowded.

     When I got back to camp after my first session, Bri told me that Nate and Dan had said that they didn’t see me. They packed up and left right after.

     Rick, Juan, and Gary came back from DMJ and said that the surf was too swampy there. Those guys exaggerate sometimes, but there wasn’t a hint of it in their report. I saw it on their faces. Pure skunk.

     Chilling in the afternoon, Bri and I borrowed Gary’s bikes. We cruised around the campgrounds, looked at Old Mans, which was tiny, and then cruised towards Lowers.

     We ran into Lorie, South Bay 26^th Street local, on the way there. She said that Kurt’s surfing right now, and since she had injured her arm, she just finished walking all the way to San Clemente.

     “There’s only six guys at Lowers,” she said.

     Bri and I rode our bikes there, and fuckin’ A. A set rolled in, the left unridden. Some kid busted two airs on the right, sticking them both.

Onshore Lowers with only seven guys out.

     I recognized one of the guys who I had seen earlier when I left.

     “It’s good,” he said. “Barely anyone out.”

     Bri and I rode back and gave the report to the guys. Juan grabbed his camera. We all suited up.

“FUCK LOWERS”

     Bri paddles out at Middles while the rest of us go to Lowers. The crowd of six has grown into fifteen, including us.  The morning sesh had been glassy, but the atmosphere has changed. Now we have glare, onshore wind, current, and a different crowd, not necessarily better either.

     I feel bad for Rick and Gary. They try to go on waves, and each time, motherfucking kids are calling them off of it.

     I stick to my inside routine. Fuck that, I’m thinking. I’m not dealing with that crowd. Like this morning, I’m getting inside lefts, but the shape is worse now. My single shot turns are lame. Even the groms on the inside are surfing way better than I. I’m like a grown ass man going through the kiddie slide at McDonald’s, it just doesn’t look right.

     “Hey!” some kid yells. Gary’s in front of him on the left. It’s a legit Lowers’ wave from the top. Eyes forward, Gary pumps down the line. The kid eats shit. If you wanna surf Lowers, you have to surf like a dick. When dealing with assholes, become an asshole yourself. San Clemente at its finest.

Rick called off on a left by some chick showing her cheeks. Photo by Juan A.

     I see Gary get a second legit ride. Shortly after, he bails.

     Rick’s still out. I ditch my inside game. Watching Gary, I want a real one, too, now.

     It takes a while, but Rick disappears behind a left. He got it because two guys stalemated next to him, fucked each other, and lost the peak. Funny how simple communication could have avoided that, but I’m stoked for Rick.

     “Hell yeah,” I say under my breath.

     As far as the rest of my session, it’s not even worth writing. Fuck. More people come out. I even sit furthest out, in the middle, where I’m supposed to have the best fucking chance for a wave, and it’s just too fucking crowded. I see the same fucking faces come back and forth. I get snaked once. The second time, some fucking kid with a face like a midget bags me on the right. I’m behind him the whole way. There’s no sense in talking. It’s either murder him or nott. Ah! I just fucking hate everyone here right now.

     Some French guy paddles into my leash on accident on the take off. Another wave lost. Hearing him speak French just raises my blood pressure. I can’t believe I paddled out for this. I had an okay session earlier. I’m suffering from this slot machine syndrome. I can’t leave. I have to keep feeding the machine, wasting my money, waiting for it to hit. When I finally do get a right, I barely toss any water out the back. I lost. House wins.

     Walking back, I see Bri at Middles. She spots me and paddles all the way to North Churches, keeping pace.

     “Oh my God,” she says. “I had such a good session.” She goes on and on about how she got so many waves to herself.

     “Were the big ones shortboardable?” I say.

     “Yeah, the sets were.”

     Back at camp, Gary and Rick don’t even want to ask how my sesh was. My face says it all.

     Juan’s going through his camera.

     “Juan says he saw you get bagged like three times,” says Rick.

     I shake my head. I think I understand now why some surfers localize their breaks. Violence, though not encouraged, sometimes is the answer. I understand that now.

“What Really Matters”

     After cleaning up camp, Juan fires up the grill and cooks some tuna steaks with asparagus. I had already cooked rice earlier. There’s mac salad leftover from dinner.

     In the late afternoon overcast, the three of us grub over the picnic table, joking and exchanging stories about this whole trip.

     Who cares that my last session was shitty. I had wanted to strangle some people earlier, but now I could give a fuck. Fuck everyone at Lowers. All I care about are my homies here.

     We fight over who’s gonna eat the last tuna steak. I could eat five, but I want to see my friends eat it. I try to push it on everyone, but they all say they’re full, so I polish it off and even kill of the scraps on everyone else’s plates, too. 

Juan Suave, Gary AKA Balls Deep, and Rick. So blessed to have these guys in my life. Old Venice Vets.

RICK’S BIRTHDAY WEEKEND PT.V, SUN 09NOV2014

Loc: Lowers

Time: 0630-0830

Conditions: 2-4 FT, overcast, cool, glassy, consistent, crowded.

“To Lowers or Not to Lowers”

     Rick, Juan, and Gary make a beeline straight to DMJ at dawn. Personally, I’d like to just paddle right out here at camp somewhere instead of hit the road again, especially if the surf has a strong chance of being like it had been yesterday.

     Bri’s knocked out. Daniel and Nate head to Lowers, still dressed with boards and their backpacks strapped on.

     “See you there,” I say. After a banana and some coffee, I change and start trotting on the sand.

     This morning isn’t as classic as the last two. For the first time during this trip, the morning sky is overcast and gloomy. Yup, definitely looks like winter. Even the Churches’ lineup is pretty empty. People are either unmotivated by the weather or the surf report. Maybe both.

     I stop short at Mons Pubis, eyeing a lonely peak. This is my spot. I can have it to myself, but I have to shortboard it today after yesterday’s board casualty.

     Three fishermen cast out their lines from shore. It’s just me and them. Why not paddle out here?

     Did I say how much I hate this leaky wetsuit? Fuck. Hurley is great for everything, I love their apparel, except wetsuits. I’ll take Hurley shorts and shirts any day over Quik stuff, but their wetsuits suck.

     I’m cold as shit. Water infiltrates my wetsuit around my balls and then the small of my back. Lame. I get four waves, but they’re too soft for my board. Lame. I surf them like shit.

     Instead of getting out and walking, I paddle through Middles. The waves are too soft here as well. Paddling my way into Lowers, I see Nate and Dan still dressed and sitting on the sand. They have to recognize me. Why wouldn’t they? I’m right in front of them. When I make it up to the Lowers pack, I turn around and see them heading back towards camp.

“Fifteen”

     Sad to say, fifteen people sitting on Lowers is actually a manageable crowd. I sit wide south to catch the spare rights. I’m surprised at how many swing wide my way, and then I’m not surprised. No. The wide rights aren’t standing up that well. There’s more size here, but after my first snap, the wave goes soft. Too much tide.

     Now I’m at the main peak. The crowd seems mellow. A peak rolls in. Everyone turns. I’m in prime position. Now there are only four of us. I want the left. Someone has the right already. I look down my line and see two groms still paddling for the left.

     “Which way you going?” the kid next to me asks the kid on his outside.

     “Left!” I say. The kid next to me backs off, but his homie snakes me. I’m riding the wave right behind him, and he does a tight frontside wrap, causing me to fall in his wake.

     Fuck . . . I’ve always hated kids. Even when I was a little kid I fucking hated kids littler than me. Today’s no different. I paddle in circles, fuming. The kid’s friends don’t want to look at me. I stare at all of them. Please, please don’t let me be the guy who goes off on kids.

     The little fucker comes back. I circle and stare. He doesn’t look up once. As long as he knows. . . As long as he knows.

     Then, I don’t fucking no how, but sitting a little wide north, I catch a legit left. Motherfucker. I forgot how the lefts stand up more than the rights here. The section peels vertically. I’m caught off guard. Plus, I really don’t want to fall. Instead of attacking the wave, I do a measly check turn and try to snap the end section, but the wave’s lost its steam. Fock. That’s right. Fock with an O. Shit.

     Paddling back to the lineup, the last wave of the set sprouts up. Two guys are going for it. In a moment of confusion, they look at each other in a stale mate and accidentally let the wave go. I mean, the wave is already peeling. The first section’s gone to waste, but I’m ready to turn-and-go on the shoulder to milk the final two thirds of the ride.

     I slide into the wave on a steep and rampy section. Bottom turning, I climb the face and crank out a layback snap. I’m shocked when I ride out of it, rebounding and still flying down the line. I’m not a pro, so I’ll do the same damn turn twice. Again, I end the ride with a small layback on the shoulder. My laybacks are ugly and need work, but I pull off both of these practice sons of bitches.

“Twenty”

     Twenty may not be a crowd for others here, but for me it is. I sit inside and try to go for a wave. When I turn around, there’s a guy paddling back out in my way. He throws up his hands and says, “Really?”

     Fuck. I’m confused. Is that bad etiquette on my part? I guess there’s more about surfing that I still need to learn. But what if I have to turn and go on the spot? I don’t let a perfect wave go, right? I’m the surfer. Don’t I have the right of way? Can’t he just paddle around?

     The same guy turns to his friend and says, “I just got burned on the right by some kid.”

     I feel the lineup grow tense. Yeah. The energy’s switched.

     On my next left, some old fucker in a neon green wetsuit snakes me. Second time this morning. I could strangle someone.

     “Yeah,” I say out loud. “Nice wave! Keep going!”

     The guy falls on his turn. When he resurfaces, he puts both of his hands on his face, shaking his head, embarrassed.

     Whether he looks at me or not, I don’t know. I don’t even want to see his fucking face. Back to the lineup for me.

“Working for Waves”

     I don’t want to deal with the main peak. Too many assholes. I sit wide on both sides or inside of everyone, picking off the smaller waves that people let pass. Some of them paddle for them, but I know they’re not in position. Haha, twenty people at Lowers means that you can at least get insiders. How’s that? What’s working on my side is how the waves are coming in. It’s scattered and consistent here. The waves are shifting all around the main point. Twenty people at the top of the wave leave me to my own devices.

     I can’t say that the rest of my rides are solid, but I at least crank out single shot turns on each. Better than DMJ. Also, I’m able to put my shortboard to use. This is the third board that I’ve used on this trip.

     After getting snaked a third time, I’m over it. This guy, he’s good. He’s so fucking greedy though. Everyone here is.

     We were both going for the left, and when he popped up, I mean, he was fucking gone. I couldn’t even say anything. I literally had just pushed my chest off of my board, and this guy had already gotten up to his feet and swooped away.

     “Hey,” says a voice from behind. “I’m sorry about snaking you earlier.”

     I turn around. It’s that old guy in the neon green wetsuit. He’s actually apologizing. I wipe the anger off of my face, smile back, and say, “It’s okay.”

RICK’S BIRTHDAY WEEKEND PT.IV (double), SAT 08NOV2014

Photographer unknown, but he's rumored to be a barrel expert.

Loc: Churches

Crew: Rick

Time: 1230-1400

Conditions: 1-3 FT, sunny, cool, offshore, consistent, mid tide.

     I’m supposed to be cooking lunch back at camp, but none of us are hungry after eating at Roberto’s Diarrhea Tacos. Despite the funky surf at DMJ, the surf at Churches is looking just as pristine as yesterday. It’s about mid tide, and the peaks are starting to stand up and peel nicely, especially without the tide being totally drained. The surf is hitting that really good window right now.

     Nate and Dan paddle out first while Rick takes his time getting ready. Bri opts to chill on the sand and read her book, so I grab the Zippi and go looking for the other guys.

     Heading towards North Churches, I don’t see any of them there. The main point has a lot of guys sitting there. It looks better, but there are too many people. I push it north to Mons Pubis where there are only two dudes.

     I can’t get over how cold the water is. It’s bone chilling, but my wetsuit jacket is enough to keep me semi warm. At least the water’s glassy and the sun is out. The glare coming from the sun and off the water is fucking intense though. It’s a squinty session.

     Soon Rick paddles out on his Neckbeard. We share a couple of waves, but he works his way back towards the top of the wave.

    

“That Guy”

     One of the guys next to me is on a longboard, but he’s sitting too far outside. He tries to turn-and-go whenever a peak rolls in, but he keeps scratching out. Another guy is sitting in a good spot, but he’s on a shortboard. Again, he’s another scratcher who can’t get waves.

     The Zippi catches everything I paddle for with ease. While the two guys remain stagnant, I run circles around them the whole time. Even being picky works for me, passing up what looks like a small wave and then seeing a bigger one out the back.

     Three footers start rolling in a little more consistently, a hair bigger than yesterday. I can’t say that I’m “ripping” because I have to ride this fish a certain way. When trying to get backhand snaps, I’m sluggish. Better to just choose a good line and walk the nose on the rights. But on my forehand, I’m able to get some wraps and rebounds. I think the last time Bri and I had taken a day trip here, the waves were a bit juicier, and I was able to practice some layback snaps. Not today.

     I catch waves all the way into ankle deep water. I lose balance after a wave and accidentally shoot my board into the air. Everything still seems cool, but I notice some sea grass that’s stuck to the nose of my board. I pull it out and realize that the grass was stuck in a nasty crack on the rail. Fuck . . . I had fucked up the board on that wipeout.

     Now I have every reason to get out. I’m usually anal about dings. Gotta get the board out of the water to keep the foam from getting soaked. I think about tomorrow. There’s still all day Sunday to surf, and I won’t have my primary weapon that’s made this trip so fun.

     I’m done after an hour and a half with the surf still pumping. I’m that guy who fucked up his board and has to get out early.

     Back at camp, I take a hot shower and start to cook dinner. Juan shows us some pics that he had taken of the beach.

Juan didn't take this pic, but whoever did is known to be good at cooking tuna.

     After dinner, I’m so drained that I can barely keep my eyes open. There’s so much wood left to burn. Only Daniel, Juan, and I are sitting around the fire. I tap out, say goodnight, and crawl into my fart sack next to Bri.

      

Juan did take this one

Some of Rick's friends came down to visit from the South Bay.

RICK’S BIRTHDAY WEEKEND PT.III, SAT 08NOV2014

We were up pretty early. 

Loc: DMJ

Crew: everyone

Time: 0700-0900

Conditions: 2-3 FT, sunny, cool, offshore, inconsistent, swampy.

     We’ve all been obsessed about one particular surf spot, a spot where your friends will have a hard time pulling you away from, despite the forecasts and better rational judgments, no matter how obvious. For Rick, his special place is DMJ. Aside from 45^th Street, he’d surf DMJ every day if he could. So on this weekend, even with small surf in the forecast, DMJ is the call on day number two.

     Once again, we’re not expecting much. The swell and the tide are against us. When we make that ill fated turn towards the beach, we can already see that the surf looks like Lake Placid.

     All we need is a little bit of size and shape to have to have some fun this morning.

     DMJ is so exposed. Behind us, the backdrop is open land with mountains in the distance. Cool offshore wind hits our backs. The sun’s out, but it only provides a hint of warmth. There’s a peak wide north of the jetty. There’s a left breaking on the jetty itself, where two guys secure it. The tide’s coming up, so we’re going to have to hit it fast.

Photo by Juan A. 

     I’m first one out, leaving the Lost Mini Driver in the van and opting for the Lost RV again. Paddling out first doesn’t guarantee first blood. Bri gets a wave before I do. Peaks approach on the outside. They look like they’re about to break, but they keep on rolling rolling, and then they finally stand up towards the inside.

     Meanwhile, the top of the wave is working a little better. The two dawn patrollers, who had beat us out here, aren’t giving up any space. Rick finally paddles over to sit on top of them and begins his campaign.

     Birthday Boy’s outdoing us all. On a swampy day, he’s getting good lefts on his Neckbeard, frontside, throwing buckets out the back. Gary’s a close second, milking the lefts as well.

     It’s too much competition where they’re at, having to battle it out with the two guys and then Rick and Gar, so the rest of us sit wide.

     Nate goes switch foot on a left, J.O.B. style, and catches the wave in. Done.

     Daniel may not be heat winner, but he gets the most waves. He sits even further north, sitting deep and catching all the inside waves.

     I’m cold. My leaky Hurley 3/2 is taking in a lot of water. For some reason, the seals start to wear out so quickly. I follow Daniel’s lead and start sitting more inside. I manage to paddle into little lefts, trying to do my best to get some turns. I do . . . meh. I’m not doing much damage today, but I build up my wave count and at least catch something.

     Juan’s on shore, snapping away on his camera.

     Afterwards, we all go to Roberto’s Taco Shop for breakfast. I had vowed to never eat here again. Last time, their chicken burrito gave Rick diarrhea. I had ordered the chorizo burrito, and it tasted like shit.

     Bri and I go for the machaca burrito. It’s not bad. Half way through, and nearly a cup of juice starts spilling out the bottom through the tortilla. Fuck. I should have learned my lesson the first time.

     From there, we visit Gary’s parents in Oceanside and pick up two nights worth of firewood from their backyard.

     Back at the campsite, I’m drained. The drive did it to me, and I was just a passenger. Rick’s reserved the campsite for another night in case Bri and I decide to stay longer. I don’t think I’ll be able to make it. 

RICK’S BIRTHDAY WEEKEND PT.II (double), FRI 07NOV2014

Dirt Dan, Nasty Nate, Juan, Bri, and I, standing by for the evening call.

Loc: Churches

Crew: Bri, Rick

Time: 1545-1715

Conditions: 1-3 FT, glassy, sunny, cool, consistent.

“Zippi Time”

     When Bri arrives after work, she brings the rest of our camping gear. Most importantly, she's brought the Zippifish, which I’ll need for the small surf forecast.

     Having missed the first session, Bri paddles out right away while the rest of us head to the store for supplies. Dinner’s gonna be gourmet chili dogs by Chef Gary. I pick up Negro Modelos and tomorrow’s lunch, Spam Loco Mocos.

     I’m itching to paddle out and join Bri for the evening sesh. The tide’s pushed so far out that all the cobblestones are exposed. Conditions are still glassy, and the peaks are coming in small but consistent.

     Rick and I get our gear ready, but I head out ahead of them. Juan opts out of the second session but preps his camera and tripod.

     Walking towards North Churches, I spot Daniel doing some tide-pool recon. He hollers out at me, “You should wear shoes!” I know what he’s talking about. I’ve received my share of cobblestone cuts in the past. No matter how much you think you’ve mastered walking over the rocks here, there’s always the possibility of taking that one misstep and then SLICE. You’re out for about a week.

     Bri’s sitting wide north of three people. A shortboarder paddles out just ahead of me. Even though the water’s cold, I still opt for shorts and a wetsuit jacket. Better to keep my wetsuit dry for tomorrow morning.

     As fun as the RV was for the first session, nothing I ride catches waves easier than the Zippi. It’s just so thick all the way up to the nose. The nose just slides down and gets into waves no problem. Peaks are coming in small, but with the low tide, they are so easy to paddle into. It’s like a repeat of the first session, but instead of trying to get turns, I focus more on distance. The waves are lining up much longer from the tide, and the shape is even peakier.

Photo by Juan A. Camera zoomed with San Onofre in the distance. 

     Juan’s on the cobble stones at the edge of the water, snapping pics. We all score with the sunset in the background. Bri leaves first since she’s been out the longest. Rick follows suit, and then I walk back with Juan.

Juan snapped this iPhone pic as I was getting out, looking back, stoked on small surf.

     Back at the campsite, Gary’s got the chili dogs going, and there’s something about camping that just makes everything taste delicious. We could’ve eaten Cup Noodles for dinner, and I would’ve been happy.

     Now we’re sitting around the campfire with a full moon above us. It’s so bright that we can still see the surf in front of our camp site.

     The call is DMJs tomorrow. Even though I know I should get to bed early, it’s hard to fathom it. Completely beached with a beer in my hand, hot flames warming my face, I look at my watch. It’s barely six thirty. 

RICK’S BIRTHDAY WEEKEND PT.I, FRI 07NOV2014

Here's Rick my surf mentor and former platoon sergeant. When I'm in my 50s, I'll be lucky if I'm ripping like this guy.

Loc: Churches

Crew: Rick, Juan, Gary, Nate, Daniel

Time: 1100-1230

Conditions: 1-3 FT, glassy, sunny, cool, soft.

     Rick’s secured a campsite for the whole weekend. Unfortunately, the surf forecast is dismal, probably the main reason why some of his main homies have backed out of this trip. But Rick’s like a dad to me, and I don’t give a shit if it’s only half a foot out there. I’m going.

     It’s an early start. I get up at 0420, Rick picks me up at 0500, and then we rendezvous at Gary’s house in Torrance. From there, everyone else shows up. I’ve surfed with Nate in the past at DMJs, but this is the first time I’ve met Daniel. They’re both Russ’s childhood friends, and Gary’s coached them when they did hockey tournaments as teens.

     After battling traffic, we arrive at Churches in good time. With a six-and-a-half foot high tide, the surf is swamped out. The conditions are excellent. The sun’s shining brightly over two longboarders sitting in the lineup not catching shit. A fisherman on a longboard paddles out. There’s a crate on his deck, fishing pole, too. Yet, there is an occasional one footer that breaks. The surf wants to do it. A good sign with a tide this high.

     Then it’s breakfast at Pipes Café in San Clemente. It’s practically empty. Their $6.95 French toast special is a small unfulfilling meal, but thankfully the rest of the guys don’t know how to eat, so I polish off a couple their leftovers.

     By 1100, the tide is beginning to go out. Small-wave peaks are rolling in. There’s no complaining from any of us. No moans or groans about the surf. We all knew the forecast before coming out here, so there’s no bitching aloud.

     Gary lets me sample his 5’9 Lost RV. The thing is over 21 inches wide, so it should do great in these conditions.

     Nate and Daniel head to Lowers but stop short and paddle out with the rest of us when we set ourselves up at North Churches.

     The longboarder and SUP guy at the spot can’t be happy with our invasion. I’m trunking it with a rashguard, and fuckin’ A, the water’s cold. What happened to hot November? To compensate for the temp, I paddle with a purpose for every wave and move back and forth through the lineup.

     Rick gets a lot of waves on his green longboard. It’s a 9’6 singlefin. Gary’s on his Pill. One of the other guys is on the Lost Lazy Boy.

     The last time I had sampled the RV was at Jalama in big rippable conditions. Basically, I was using it in the wrong conditions. Now in legit small surf, I’m testing it out with my SA2 quad setup.

     Even though the surf is small, it’s still fun out here. Trestles, Churches, San Onofre just have good shape, and you don’t always need a longboard. Right now, the RV is working, and I’m catching waves pretty easily. Of course, not as easy as the Zippi, but I’m getting quality rides on this thing.

     I start off with some noserides. Some occasional lefts sprout up at three feet. The smooth shoulders line up perfectly as I pop up, get in my first two pumps, and wrap the RV back and rebound down the line again. As much as I love rippable surf, I know how to have fun in these conditions, too.

     It’s a short first session, more like a go out just to make the camping trip official. We head back, snack, and wait for the evening window to surf again.  

All set up for a dirty-old-men weekend. That's Juan, looking depraved and hunchbacked. 

EVENING GLASS, WED 05NOV2014

Loc: El Porto (45^th)

Crew: Bri

Time: 1530-1700

Conditions: 1-2 FT+, glassy, warm, drained tide.

     “There’s no wind,” says Bri, as she comes home from work. Usually we go to the gym. In fact, we had gone the last two days. “You wanna switch it up?”

     I pull up the surf cam. The tide is drained out. Small crumblers are breaking on the shore. It looks clean though. Who the hell would want to work out indoors in a gym when the weather’s this nice anyway?

     We load up the small-wave equipment and head to El Porto. Parked on top of 45^th Street, there isn’t a cloud in the sky. The sun is still high over the horizon, and the water’s so glassy that it looks like a gleaming lake stretched all the way out to the horizon. Small white lines break in the surf. I got the Zippi, Bri the NSP.

     It’s been a while since I pulled an evening session. Bri has to be tortured by my stories, on how back in the day, when I was 100% pure Barn, I used to drive straight to the beach after clocking out from my cubicle. Back then it didn’t matter. I never looked at cams or forecasts. Shitty days to others were good days to me because I couldn’t do much more on a wave besides go straight. Funny thing is, I mostly recall the evening surf being good back then. I had caught so many glassy evenings with good shape. When one progresses as a surfer and learns the good conditions from the bad, he gets picky. Nowadays, a good evening sesh is hard to come by.

     With the sun going down much earlier, the Porto lot is barely full. Crossing over to get to the stairs, I hear someone in a truck behind us talking to Bri. I turn around, and it’s Kurt from 26^th Street rushing the evening sesh, too.

     The air is warm. A low-tide line exposes the flat wet sand up to the shallow water line. People are trunking it. Guys awkwardly paddle on their foamies. Yup, it prime time for beginners—the Costco hour. I’ve been there. I remember.

     There’s a left in front of the bathrooms that’s working. Bri and I paddle there. A couple is body surfing the left. I want to be exactly where they are. Next to us, surfers shout to each other in German. Germans . . . they’re everywhere.

     I get a wave immediately, but the low tide has the waves racing fast. I pump to get distance but reach shallow water within seconds.

     We both get a lot of waves, but it’s hard to get any good down-the-line rides. No turns this evening. As the sun gets lower, more people come out. Some noobs trade off riding closeouts on a shortboard that has a GoPro mounted on it. Now the break in front of the sandwich shack has a peak. Groms on shortboards are getting decent rides, finishing off with fin-blasting maneuvers. Ah, must be nice to be so light. I wish I had started surfing in my teens.     

     Kurt leaves. The sun goes down, and the horizon turns into an orange blaze.

     We catch our last waves in and head back up to the wagon. Even though the surf wasn’t that good, the conditions were so pristine that we did ourselves some justice just by paddling out. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss this perfect SoCal evening. Shit . . . I even trunked it, no shirt. How often is November this warm?

     At the same time, there has to be balance. The surf has been small, and I can’t see myself paddling out in tiny shapeless surf every single day, but we had to do it at least once. Sometimes you have to surf the small days.