WINTER CAMPOUT PT.3, SAT 27DEC2014

Yeah. That cold.

Loc: Lower Trestles

Time: 0730-1030

Conditions: 1-2 FT, offshore, empty.

Board: 6’0 Zippifish

     Friday night got fucking cold. No bullshit on record-breaking lows. Even with the space heater on full blast, my arms were freezing whenever they drifted out of my fart sack. I got a chill every time my skin touched the walls in my tent. I wondered how everyone else was doing, Hideki in his SUV, Hayana and J in their tent, Orlando and Jen in their van.

     The next morning, everyone except Hideki said they froze their asses off.

#

     I’m up at 0630. Old Man’s is barely breaking. Churches, in the distance, looks like one-foot crumbs. There goes the rest of the trip. I boil some water, make cocoa and accidentally mix it with oatmeal. When Bri and I eat it, it’s actually not bad. Cocomeal is born.

     With the sun illuminating the sky, random vagabond surfers make their trek from the state parking lot towards Trestles, much lower in numbers compared to yesterday. With everyone still knocked out, Bri and I do a recon to look at the surf. Already, guys are heading back to their cars, dry, ready to go home.

     Churches is small but kind of working. My favorite spot on the northern tip is pathetic. So inconsistent. Middles isn’t resembling what it was doing yesterday morning at all. But still, there are some little lines. We have to stay positive. The conditions could improve, but that’s just the surf syndrome talking.

     Everyone starts waking up while Bri and I are suiting up. We tell them where we’ll be, and we head out ahead of everyone.

     Bri catches waves right away when we paddle out. It takes forever for a good set wave to show up, and even that ride is lackluster. Orlando, our neighbor, and Hideki paddle out, and as if shying away from the new company, the surf just goes flat as a fucking lake. Nothing. Nothing at all. On top of that, more people show up just to sit here in stagnation. Orlando throws me a shaka, his smile hiding a feint twinge of disappointment. Even on his ten-foot board, he paddles, humps, and scrapes, but can’t get shit.

     Forty-five minutes go by. I keep eyeing Middles. It looks just as bad, but it could be better over there.

     “It’s probably the same over there,” says Orlando. “I haven’t seen anybody catch anything.”

     I tell him that I had seen somebody on something. As dismal as the attempt seems, Bri and I say we’ll be back if it sucks and make our way towards Middles.

     Hayana and J show up just as we start paddling away. They halt their move and follow us on foot, and then everyone starts paddling with us.

     Once at Middles, Orlando gets his first long right. He smiles on his return. I’m thinking that my work is done. He’s got a wave. And then he gets a second one. After that, the ocean goes dead again.

     A small A-frame breaks at Lowers, but it’s small, the shoulder dissolving right after it breaks. It’s crowded with seagulls, no surfers. I’ve only seen Lowers empty a couple of times, and those were on stormy conditions. Right now, it’s just empty because it’s tiny.

     It’s the last hope. Bri and I head over there. A small peak stands up, but right when I get it, I see that I’m over barely a foot of water. It’s breaking too close to the inside.

     J and Hayana finally join us. All of us are at Lowers. At this famed world-class SoCal spot, for the first time in my life, it is just my friends and I sitting on this wave. Of course, it has to be in the tiniest of conditions. The offshore is strong, making the chill factor unbearable. I’m freezing in my 4/3. But within minutes of us securing the spot, the wind just dies. An outside Lowers-quality peak stands up. Camp neighbor goes right, Orlando purls on the peak, and J goes left. The surf turns consistent. Little Lowers peaks all to ourselves. Now we all have that look on our faces, the purpose in our eyes to get back out there where the next wave might break. The feeling of stoke returns.

     As small as Lowers is, it’s breaking the best out of the peaks that we had passed to get over here. Everyone’s getting waves. Bri’s milking the inside. Hayana snakes Hideki a couple of times. He’s pissed, but really, on a small day like this, he should just party-wave it and be glad that there’s something to catch.

     The speed of the wave catches me offguard. I blow a couple sections, nearly wiping out on a late take off, but most of my rides are nose-walking down-the-line waves.

     We sell it. Three guys paddle out next to us. I already don’t like them. Sorry, but the locals who surf Lowers are greedy. Etiquette doesn’t exist here. But they’re on shortboards, and with our small-wave equipment, we’re still getting the best waves possible. For the first time, I get to be a greedy asshole, butt fucking the guys who usually surf here.

     Now we’ve all got our fill. Even I didn’t expect the session to be this much of a success. With the right boards, we’ve scored empty Lowers, a first, and without being here for first light or waiting until it’s nearly dark.

     It’s lunch time back at the campsite. The surf is just about gone, so we all shower up and prepare for a day of relaxing on the beach. Bri and I are here for another night, but everyone else decides to pack up.

     “No way,” says Jen. “It was freezing last night.”

     I don’t blame them. With the flat spell in full effect, I’m grateful that everyone had shown up and at least stayed the first night. Even more grateful that we scored Lowers. For the rest of our lives, we’ll always share this day, and we’ll always be able to say, “Remember that day when we all surfed Lowers together?”

Who goes beach camping in the winter?