Loc:
Manhattan Beach
Time:
0700-0830 Conditions: 4-5 FT+, overcast, consistent, walled
Board: Lost Mini Driver, medium quads
I’m still in bed, and Bri’s just about
ready to walk out the door. I’m taking a steaming hot morning piss when she
does. 0615. Good timing for a legit dawn patrol. I’m halfway to the surf when I
get a Vox from Bri—It’s big and walled. When we get there, we both watch from
The Strand. It is walled. Looks like the high school surf team is having a
class contest or something because they have different colored jerseys on. As
walled as the conditions are, they’re going for it, pumping down the long
dredging faces trying to turn closeouts into something flashy. We see two
shoulders the whole time.
“I’m not paddling out,” says Bri.
I tell her I’m heading back, too. She
leaves, but I stay and watch it a little longer, even walking backwards back to
my VIP parking spot. I should go home. Plenty of things I can do today. Why
paddle out if it’s walled?
#
My wrist feels much better after the
dirtbike spill. I’m duckdiving with much stronger grip. My judgment must have
been good because I don’t get worked by a set. Young Mike is out here. So is
Collin. We’re out in front of the brickhouse. No other locals are out. That’s a
bad sign.
The surf’s not as big as the peak of the
last swell, but the sets are still long and dumpy. I paddle over the set waves,
seeing them stretch out in both directions. I’m looking for anything with a
shoulder, and that’s when a big right comes.
Spectators for the groms are on the shore,
so I go for broke, paddling in, grabbing rail, and just pig dogging, but the
wave isn’t going round enough. Plus, I’m too low on the wave’s face, and the
lip lands just outside of me before I’m gobbled up. I do these kinds of
attempts a lot, and I don’t know how I always come up unscathed.
Another shoulder pops up. It’s a left, and
it’s the best shaped wave that I’ve seen thus far. About head high, I turn and
go a little late. The base of the wave bends, so I just pull in from the drop.
Young Mike is on the shoulder pulling out for me. I hunker down, see the lip
begin to swirl, and then I vanish in the face of the wave.
Resurfacing, the wave’s long gone. The
inside is roaring soup. I paddle back. Young Mike’s right there, and there’s an
odd silence between us. I had just ate it in front of him.
“Fuck,” I say. “I should have made it out
of that.”
Mike turns to me and says, “You need to get
more square on your board.” He touches his chest. “You’re leaning too far
forward. If you want to make it out of a barrel next time, swing your hands forward,
I’ve been doing it too, and you can kind of steer.”
Eh, I’m a little embarrassed. It does bring
things into perspective. Seems I can only get barreled on A-frame HB peaks, but
I just can’t seem to pull it off in the South Bay.
I catch the next right. The wave starts off
with a decent shoulder, but as I’m sliding down its face, the shoulder just
grows and stretches out into a closeout. Instead of pulling in, I straighten
out.
The few morning takers move in on the 26th
Street tower once the kids leave, but we don’t fare much better. With the
lowering tide, the surf gets even dumpier, no hint of shape anywhere. I call
the session after an hour and a half.
Back at my car, I see three missed calls
from my sister and one from Bri. Fuck, I forgot that I was supposed to take my
sister to the airport.
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