Loc:
El Porto
Time:
0630-0830
Crew:
Garr, Dave T.
Conditions:
2-4 FT, offshore, warm, crowded.
Board:
Lost Mini Driver, medium quad setup
The plan is to surf Porto because Rick is
taking the morning off, but my phone goes off at 0600. It’s Rick. I answer,
trying to sound as ungroggy as possible. Truth be told, I was KO’d with Bri
right here next to me.
“I already requested time off,” says Rick,
“so I think I’m just going to go to work.”
“Hi, Rick,” says Bri, as she nuzzles up
next to me. I’m surprised she can hear him.
“Hi, Bri,” says Rick. “I hope I didn’t wake
you guys. Gary’s running late and heading to the lower lot. You should go,
Matt. The sun’s already coming up.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m on Vista Del Mar
on the way to Porto. I get a text from Garr. 45th is the call.
#
I had called it yesterday, today has fun
rippable shape. There are mostly lefts that are breaking fat and long in front
of the bathrooms, but they’re lining up well.
“Harold (Dave T.) is out there,” says Gar.
He’s pure business today, suiting up fast and heading out there while I’m still
swapping out fins.
Waxing my board, I hear the consistent
swish of cars behind me, entering the lot. Fuck, I’m thinking. I just know . .
. I just know that it’s going to be really
crowded. . .
I don’t fear today’s waves, but I forget to
respect them, which is probably why the paddle out seems to be taking longer
than it should. My cockiness made me unaware of the current. It’s kind of
strong, not HB strong, but it’s pulling me south to the sandwich shack.
One of those nice long lefts rolls through.
I turn and go, watching it build before me. I pump twice, bottom turn, and go
for a top turn, but I lack momentum and fall backwards. Fuckin’ A. Here comes
Gary on the second wave, crouching on the wrap off the lip and drawing a tight
S, flying down the line as he rebounds out of it. That’s exactly what I was
trying to do.
As predicted, it is now the El Porto 500.
Oh yeah, I mean, fuck . . . was it this crowded yesterday? Everyone is out. I had just written a post titled “Top of the Wave,”
but there is no way that I am sitting at the top today. Dave T. is right next
to me, dealing with the crowd as well. Gary paddles north in front of the tanks
where a right has attracted a sizeable crowd. 45th isn’t doing its
Po-Wers thing. In fact, 45th is the channel today, oddly enough, and
this is where I sit. The left off the bathrooms is fucking crowded. I sit on
the shoulder hoping for something wide, but every wave already has a taker.
An hour into the session, and I’m fucking
hating life. Really, it’s the first time that I’ve wanted to get out of the
water just off of pure frustration. How did I do this before, surfing only
Porto in the past? Some locals I recognize in front of the bathrooms. I don’t
have juice here. This isn’t my spot.
Now I’m Mr. Frustro in the lineup. No
smiling, no stoke on my face today. I paddle past the right in front of the
tanks in hopes to 1. Catch something and 2. To escape the crowd.
I’m in a dead zone between the tanks and
the smoke stacks. I doubt I’ll catch anything. Thoughts go through my mind
about how much I hate this place, changing the title of by blog even, and the
idea of protesting El Porto all together from here on out. Then all of a
sudden, an isolated peak-perfect left sprouts up right in front of me. You’re
kidding? A guy in a yellow wetsuit hoots me as I turn and go. Talk about a 180,
going from desperation to being on a wave like this. Shouldery with shape, soft
yet rippable and building, I drop in with speed, crouch hard on the bottom
turn, extend out of it with momentum, and draw a wide wraparound cutback.
Coming out of it, I draw a solid carve, getting a late tail release at the end
of it. The inside gets soft, and I fall backwards on the third turn. As stoked
as I should be, I’m holding back my smile. It took a while to get that. I
should be happy but I want more.
Now yellow-wetsuit guy is sitting on me.
Well, it was nice while it lasted. He gets the next juicy wave. I’m bummed, but
then another one pops up behind it. I get that one, too. Only two turns,
getting an incomplete on the third maneuver again. On another left, I checkturn
stall and pull into the closeout. It feels like I’m getting better at doing
this, setting myself up that is. Barrel training? We’ll see. I even get a
couple practice layback attempts, not sticking them to standard of course.
Something happens to the conditions. The
water gets choppy by the rocks, and there’s a weird backwash even though the
tide is going down. More people sit on the spot. Yellow Man is a nuisance. It’s
0830. I don’t want to get a ticket, so I catch a closeout in and leave.
Looking at the main peak in front of the
bathrooms while changing, clean lefts are still peeling. The lineup is now
thinner with the first shift departing. I realize that there’s no way I could
ever completely write this place off. As frustrating as surfing here can be, it
only takes a couple good waves to at least even out the struggle, but you’re
expectations need to be realistic. It’s always a battle at the top of the wave
here, always, especially when it’s not overhead. I was just lucky enough to
have found a gem of a left for a small twenty-minute window to save my session,
my attitude, and my appreciation for this spot.
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