Loc:
El Porto, 45th Street
Time:
0630-1030
Crew:
Garr, Dave T., Rick, Juan, Jimmy B.
Conditions:
5-6 FT, offshore, crowded, borderline all time.
Board:
Lost Mini Driver, medium quad setup
After yesterday’s El Porto session, I
planned on surfing my favorite local break today, that was until I saw Rick at
the gym last night. He said, “I’m taking tomorrow off from work, Matt.” I knew
what that meant. He would be surfing 45th. Rick’s like a dad to me,
and it’s rare for him to get a day off, so I don’t mind taking the opportunity
to hang with him, even if it means battling a crowd.
“Okay,” I said. “First light. See you there.”
“Want me to pick you up? There’s room in
the van.”
“No,” I said. “It’s cool. I’ll probably
park at the ______ for free, and I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”
Rick paused. “You don’t want to park in the
lot? I have a bunch of quarters.”
“No, Rick. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure you don’t want me to pick you
up?” And this is where I have the flashback. Fourteen years ago we were
stationed in Utah together, and a bunch of my battle buddies and I were sitting
in the back of a cargo Humvee, heading out on a convoy, but Rick was all by his
lonesome in another Humvee. He asked all my buddies if anyone wanted to ride
with him. Rick had the reputation for always doing things by the book, and he
always volunteered us for work. Needless to say, he wasn’t exactly Mr. Popular.
No one responded to his question. He looked
at me and said, “________, you wanna ride with me?”
“No,” I said. “I’ll stay here in the back.
I like the wind in my hair.”
Rick just gave me this dumbfounded look and
walked off. It didn’t occur to me until later of how much of a diss that was. My
head was shaved.
So looking at Rick in the gym last night,
there was no way I could refuse. “Okay,” I said.
#
We reach the lot just minutes after 0600. “It’s
already open!” says Rick. I guess this must be a surprise because the lot is
still pretty empty. I spot Dave T. locking up his SUV. Gary’s suiting up right
next to his Suburban. When we park, Jimmy B. pulls in right behind us. Juan
shows up seconds later. It’s a true WHC affair.
Meanwhile, there’s decent size out there in
the ocean, bigger than yesterday. Sets are breaking at six feet, but it’s not
closing out like a mile-long stretch of dynamite. It’s not completely round and
dumpy, but it’s slotting high up on the face. Looks like a big but manageable
day.
I paddle out at the channel slightly north
of 45th, in front of the rocks, and catch up to Garr and Dave T. They’re
in the same exact spot as yesterday morning, trying to score the bomb lefts. “The
first one’s just a decoy,” says Dave. “Get the one after.” And of course, when
the set comes, he takes the first wave, but it races away from him.
The peaks are a little tricky. The tip of
the peak is biggest and breaking furthest out in front of the bathrooms. Take
off too deep, and you probably won’t make the section. Yet, once it starts
breaking, the shoulder is fast and critical.
The second wave looks like it’s gonna line
up all the way to shore, so I turn and go. All of a sudden, the backwash hits,
and I bounce up and chest plant into the face of the wave.
Jimmy B. takes the next wave. Same thing. Backwash
rejection. Motherfucker. . . Yet, some of them are really lining up.
The rogue sets break much further out, and
if you’re caught, you’re gonna have to pay it in full. I’m in the impact zone,
and I duckdive as deep as I can. I get jostled and twisted around a little bit,
but I hang onto my board. Surprisingly, the rest of the set is big but easy to
punch through, not typical gnarly Porto.
I’m paddle in on the shoulder of a big
left. I had just come off surfing Churches, where big open-face cobblestone
peaks are perfect for snappy turns. But here, big open-face Porto is another
story. I have so much speed going down the line. I feel the gunny round-pin
tail on my board holding me in a straight line. I bottom turn, but getting a
good wrap-around cutty is a struggle against what the board wants to do. No, I
don’t get the cleanest carves. It’s more like cautious cutbacks and being fully
aware on the rebound to make sure you don’t lose you wave.
I get two wraps and pull in under the
curtain when I reach the inside. I get a quick glimpse of the slot before I’m
gobbled up. Paddling back, I’m pretty stoked. Two turns. Not bad.
When the first shift takes over the lineup
in full force, I’m back to where I was yesterday. Good luck on getting a wave.
It’s so crowded. Twice, I have to back out for two fucking body boarders.
Should they be marginalized? It’s not like it’s slabby enough for a body board.
They wouldn’t be taking as many waves if they were surfing.
I really don’t know the crowd here. Other
than the WHC, I really feel alone in this place. No one smiles. It’s like
everyone’s in his own surfing bubble, fending for himself. Don’t expect anyone
to give up a wave, let alone call you into one.
I paddle directly in front of 45th,
bottom of the wave, the channel, no-mans land. In front of the tanks to my
north, I spot Rick and his brother Juan at the peak I was at yesterday. It’s
A-framing, but I can only see the rights, which are also holding shape.
Nothing should break here, but randomly,
one swings so wide that no one at the top of the wave is in position. My first
cutback is wide but graceful. I rebound, pump twice, and get a tight little arc
on the lip. Going down the line again, this stocky guy on a neon-green board
waves at me as he’s going over the shoulder. I don’t really know him, but I’ve talked to him before.
It was on a day that he was going to punch some guy out in the lineup. It was
ugly, but he, for some reason, took to me, and called me into waves that
morning.
I wave back at him while I’m still surfing
the wave, like an idiot, and my front foot slips off the deck. No third turn.
That wave I had caught creates frenzy in
the lineup, and more people paddle over to sit on me, so I head to The Tanks
where Rick and Garr are. Juan’s right by me. “Look at that!” he says. A perfect
right breaks north of us. Each wave of the set, perfect. A longhaired guy on a
red longboarder is killing it. Rick takes one of the lefts. Dave T. is on the
inside, no sign of Gary or Jimmy.
I paddle into the crowd with Rick. Yellow
Wetsuit Guy is here again, too. Fuck. The crowd. I just don’t do well in
crowds. Escaping once more, I paddle north into no-mans land 2, where I run
into Brett AKA Whiffle Boy, a fellow surf blogger.
“Some fun ones here,” I say.
“Yeah, if you can get into one of them.”
Sitting here, I watch Juan and Rick tearing
it up. Damn, I don’t know how they can feel so comfortable being corralled in
by so many people. Each wave has five guys paddling for it. I just can’t do it.
#
I notice that Juan is going in. Rick is
gone. So is Dave. I catch a mediocre wave in and go back to the van, where Rick
hands me some coconut water. “I think I’m going out again,” he says. Juan’s
fully dressed, says he’s going to stay and take some pics.
I pound the coconut water. Within fifteen
minutes, I’m back in front of 45th.
The offshore wind dies. It’s just pure glass
now. Also, the first shift is gone, leaving a gap in time before the second
shift takes over. The swell’s backed off just a hair, and now the waves aren’t
as racy as they were before. They’re peakier.
 |
| Photos courtesy of Juan A. |
 |
| Rick on a shoulder insider. |
 |
| Rick losing his hat on the backhand attack. |
My first wave, of the second sesh, is shitty.
I have to avoid a guy on the inside, causing me to draw an unconventional line.
On the inside, I do a halfass layback attempt. I actually ride out of it but
without “umph.” The face was standing up pretty well. I should have just gone
for it and committed a hundred percent.
I get a closeout right. Third wave’s a huge
racy white-wash left. I pop up late but mange to get three good pumps before
straightening out.
Best wave of the second sesh is another
left. I don’t know how I get this one over everyone else. Two cutbacks. The inside
is standing up, but I kick out to avoid annihilation, and it dumps me off right
next to Rick. He missed it.
“I think I’m about done,” he says. Just
then, a guy on a longboard is on the wave behind mine. The shoulder slots out,
and he pulls up underneath it, getting partial cover, and flies right out.
Back at the van, the lot is fucking packed
now. Vans are pulled off to the side, people already changing. It could be
fucking summer. Some shirtless buff guy in jeans is practicing some dance routine
with his short-shorts girlfriend, holding her up at the midsection above his
head. The lot is littered with people watching, surfers about to paddle out,
and those dripping wet, like us, lingering around like hot silent farts.
 |
| Some ride waves while others ride face. |
An A-frame breaks in front of the tanks.
Even though I struggled with the crowd, from here, it looks like there are
waves for the taking. Mirage or not? That’s one thing about this place. There’s
always a crowd. You’re probably gonna get snaked. Yet, you get a couple good
waves, and it kind of makes up for all of that. The X factor is how well you
surf those waves. I definitely didn’t rip today. I was at pure intermediate
status.
Right now, guys are at home, guarantee,
watching these waves on surfcam. I’m here. I paddled out. I got some. I could
live with that.
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