THE RICARDO SESSIONS, SAT 31JAN2015

Loc: Manhattan Beach, 42^nd Street
Time: 0645-0900        
Crew: Rick, Garr, Klaude
Conditions: 2-3 FT, high tide, swampy, crowded
Board: Motorboat Too

     I love surfing at my other local beach break, but I have to spread to the love and surf with my other homies, too. So I’ve figured out a schedule that allows me to surf with all my people each week. Monday through Thursday is pretty open for me. I can either surf local or travel to HB or as far south as Trestles. Garr likes to surf the Rosecrans area on Fridays, so I can catch him there. With Rick only able to surf the weekends, I have to put in a Porto sesh at least one day out of the weekend. This morning, I’m meeting them at 45^th.

#

     This morning I’m a good dawn patroller, catching Gary and Rick parked by the bathrooms before the sun’s up. Juan pulls up a minute later. Even though it’s dark, I can tell that it’s swamp city out there, but the peak at 45^th is trying to break through the tide. A couple longboarders get on the left. Tony, local thug life surfer, rips a small inside wave.

     Juan says he’s gonna wait for the tide to drop, but I just head out first. Why wait? Some of those waves look rideable. I send a Vox to Klaude and walk towards the steps that lead towards 45^th.

     It’s been a while since I’ve made this walk. I used to know a lot of people here. I look to my right and Whiffle Boy is there. He waves. I shoot him a peace sign and walk down the steps.

     The paddle out feels long. My muscles are aching. I’ve been surfing since Monday, and it’s catching up. I catch a mooshy right and then give up on 45^th. I sit wide south a little more towards 42^nd. Soon, I see Rick on 45^th. More people paddle out there to join him.

     Gary paddles up behind me. “Look,” he says pointing behind him. Klaude’s here.

     Finally, I get an opportunity to catch up with Fort Klauderdale. Being an accountant, he’s really busy this time of year, pulling late nights at the office while trying to be a social gerbil at the same time. Throw dawn patrols on top of that? I don’t think so.

     Lucky as I’ve been lately, I get some decent waves. I’m just in tune for some reason, and most noticeable, I’ve really been getting my front side wraparound cutbacks down. Maybe it’s because the surf has been soft lately, so it’s not like I’m getting snappy forehand hacks, just being fluid, rebounding off the lip, being low on my board as I redirect back down the line, and eyeing the section in front of me, preparing to pump towards that open face again. And I’m talking only three-footers tops. Easy surfing.

     Gary and I are paddling back out when a set wave breaks. Klaude pulls out. Gary tells Klaude that it was about to go round and barrel.

     “I’ll pull in next time,” says Klaude.

     Either way, the wave looked fast to me.

     We hold down the spot for almost an hour, but the place just gets packed. What had been the no-man’s land that no one else wanted to surf is now a prime surf zone.

     There’s a Japanese chick floating around on her fun board. Klaude chats it up with her a bit, even hooting her onto some waves. She paddles and doesn’t catch anything.

     Some longboarders paddle into our zone. One guy goes left. I’m on the shoulder, but I pull out for him, and he eats shit. Afterwards, the same guy paddles back out and takes the next wave again. Lame. It’s poor etiquette. If you had blown a wave and someone pulled out for you, let the next wave go. And then again, this is Porto.

     Once Tattoo Face enters the zone, I’ve had enough.

     “He loves it over there,” says Gary. He motions towards Rick. Rick’s right in the thick of things at 45^th. Leader of the pack, he’s catching back to back lefts. Paddling back through the lineup, he talks to everyone around him. It truly is Rick’s spot. He’s at home.

     Gary shoots south towards the bathrooms. I leave Klaude (sorry, bro) and paddle for 45^th, but it’s much too crowded. I sit wide north, watching Juan get on the frontside action.

     For old time sake, I paddle further north in front of the Chevron tanks, but the surf is dead here. I’m forced to push it further, and I find myself in the next pack. Whiffle Boy is here. I can see why. To escape the crowd, this is where one must surf.

     But the surf here is wonky. I paddle into a wave as the backwash hits, and I chuck my board just before I fly into the air. I have a good laugh with another surfer when I resurface.

     I also get caught inside in a weird wonky rip. It’s when a long set rolls through, too. When I finally make it back to the lineup, I see that it’s not even a long paddle out to shore. Not sure how I got worked so hard.

     My last wave, finally, I have an open-face right. I draw a deep bottom turn and prep to hit the lip when a fucking Costco Foam Fucker drops in on me. Not only is he dropping in on me, but he’s going left into me . . . the wrong fucking way. It’s one thing to snake someone but to slide down into him/her going the wrong direction? C’mon, man!

     Foam Fucker raises his hands in apology. I’m so over it. I straighten out and eat shit on the whitewash. I’m shaking my head in disappointment when I resurface. I turn around. Foam Fuck is still apologizing. I put up my hand, gesturing, Sure, sure, it’s cool. Not much I can do now.

     Walking back onto shore, I catch Whiffle Boy. “Looks like you had a visitor on that wave,” he says. “It is Porto.”