TOP OF THE WAVE (double sesh), SUN 08FEB2015

This picture was actually taken the following morning, but I had to throw it in just so you can get an idea of how good it was.

 

Loc: Churches

Time: 0930-1230        

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 5-7 FT, consistent, crowded, current, windy

Board: Lost Mini Driver, thruster setup

     I’ve struggled with trying to make my blogs shorter, so here it goes. . .

     I’m paddling back to the top of the wave, reflecting on times past. Rick sitting at the main peak at 45^th Street, waiving me over towards him, saying, “Sit over here, Matt.” My brother sitting on top of everyone at Canggu, Bali, not verbally telling me to sit at the top, but giving me that hard look and waving me over with his dark hand. Easier said than done at times, but I can’t help but smile thinking about these guys and the times that they’ve given me that advice because this morning . . . it’s working.

     I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen Churches packed with longboarders and ended up passing on surfing here. I’ve watched perfect hundred-yard peeling rights and walked further up the beach where it’s less crowded because the quality sucks. Today the swell is so big and so consistent that snagging one of these long rides is actually possible.

 

The Good:

     This might be a dick move, but I’m pulling that card today. After losing my penis at HB yesterday, I have a lot to prove right now. I go to the top, the main peak, at Churches. I sit deeper than everyone else, even the longboarders. How am I getting away with this? The current. People stop paddling, not realizing that they’re being dragged south to the second point. I feign this knowledge and drift with them, sliding into perfect position. But the crowd isn’t stupid. The second I paddle, everyone else does, too, and then the great surf migration begins. I must hold out as long as possible.

     Man . . . I’ve always said that Trestles is a forgiving wave. Since I’m deep, I’m paddling into the sets with the lips breaking on my back and neck. I should be blowing these drop ins, but my Mini Driver has so much meat on it that I slide down straight, regather myself, and cut to the top of the shoulder to slide down again. Guys are on the shoulder about to drop in, but they back off.

     I’ve been switching between thruster and quad setups, and my thrusters feel really fluid. My backhand snaps aren’t really “snappy.” Instead, I feel fluid through the turn. The strategy is to flow with the momentum that I have coming out of the turn, more swinging than stinging.  

     The bombs drop me off in front of the Churches campsites in the midst of the masses sitting near the bottom of the wave.

 

The Bad:

     Some of the waves fizzle out a little early, leaving me right in the middle of the rows of stampeding whitewash. I think about fear and respect. I’d be lying if I told you that I didn’t fear some of the massive round closeouts that HB and Porto can dish out, especially if they are breaking right on top of you. But even though Trestles isn’t a round wave, you still have to respect it.

     The waves aren’t killers, but it’s a fucking workout just to get back to the top. Row upon row of angry one-story high foam just pummels me. When the sets start coming in, they break even further out, so no matter how far I’ve progressed, the challenge seems never ending.

     I stop paddling at an angle and just go straight out to beat the waves, but it’s the fucking San Clemente 500 with guys caught on the inside and surfers on every wave ready to give you a close shave with their fins. It’s hard to get out of the way, but most guys have control, even though that have that wild-eyed look that says, “If I don’t make this section, I might end up killing you with my board.”

     But once the sets stop, I’m paddling through the lineup once more, going between unfamiliar faces, faces that will continue to linger at the bottom.

 

The Ugly:

     I’m tired. The action has been nonstop, either on a wave or paddling back. I continue to paddle in late like I’ve been doing all morning, but I start wiping out. Sliding down at a slight angle, the face is building before me. There’s a little more chop now from the side shore wind. I ride over one of them and eat shit. On another one, I’m in the flat section going so fast that I just lose my fins and flip over. I’m no longer the one-man wrecking crew. I have to scale back operations and be a little pickier.

     Meanwhile, I praise Bri for following me on this campaign. She’s out here, too, making it to the top, dealing with the impact zone on the 6’10 Becker.

     She says she’s tired, so I go in on my last wave. I didn’t tell her I was going in, but I didn’t want to make the paddle back.

     I sit on the hood of my car, waiting for her to return. Fifteen minutes later, she’s still out there. I can’t let my girlfriend out surf me, so I paddle back out and catch two more.

 

6SICKS6, SUN 08FEB2015

Loc: Churches

Time: 1600-1730        

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 5-6 FT+, consistent, crowded, current, windy

Board: Lost Mini Driver, quad setup

     We’re so drained. Plus it’s fucking windy outside. We could easily just hunker down before the evening and enjoy the beach cottage that we’ve rented for one night. Yet, it’s out of our nature to call it quits so soon. From the window, I can see Old Mans and its victory at seas conditions. Something about Churches right now that’s making it holds shape. I can see it from the window, too. Black dots make their way back out from the bottom of the wave. Rights are still peeling, leaving rows of whitewash behind and throughout the chaotic inside. So we pack up our gear for a short drive down the hill. How can’t we paddle out? We’re surfers. . .

     The low tide has changed the surf a little. One, the size has backed off just a notch, maybe half a foot. The inside waves that were lining up along the cobblestone shelf are now too drained to surf. Yet, the outside waves, with less water on the surface, are standing up more performance style.

     “I think I’m just gonna sit near the bottom of the wave and see if I can snag a few there,” I say to Bri. Pff. How stupid of me. I pause in different spots near the bottom of the wave only to make another push to the top once more. It’s this morning all over again.

 

Bri the Bomber:

     Since it’s not as consistent as this morning, the people at the top are able to hold their position. Not as many cleanup sets brushing away the surfers, but the crowd is thinner, so that kind of evens things out.

     Out back, the set waves are still predictably unpredictable, meaning that they’re either gonna swing super wide, north or south, or just break really far out.

     Bri’s to my south about twenty feet, and all of a sudden this fucking roguer just pops up on the horizon. I can already tell that I’m really deep for it, but not deep enough to pass it up. I could turn and go. Everyone else is too far inside—Bri and I had made a good call sitting out back. And the shoulder of this ginormous wave? Yeah, even though I’m deep on the peak, the shoulder’s for sure gonna stand up right where Bri is.

     I look at her and motion with my fingers, pointing for her to turn around and start paddling. Without hesitation, my woman turns around and picks up speed. I turn around too. I stroke and watch Bri to make sure that the wave scoops her up. I pull back, watching the shoulder of the wave, waiting to see if she actually caught it. A grom pulls out for her. I don’t see her the rest of the ride, she isn’t washed up on the inside at all. All I can do is watch the wave peel all the way to where our car is parked. Yeah. She got a bomb.

 

Wave of the Year:

     There are a couple other stubborn people sitting at the top of the wave. They aren’t letting the current pull them south. They’re fighting. It’s really all an act, us sitting so close to each other, acting like we’re not plotting. When I move to the top, others paddle further out to keep position. Luckily the sets are juicy, sending everyone on a mad scramble. I let the first ones go to position for the second or third.

     I catch a wave just inside from the top, but it turns soupy and drops me off near the shallow impact zone. As I’m paddling back out, the first wave of a set is approaching. It’s swinging so wide south and also breaking so far out that everyone is caught off guard.

     I’m not even at the top of the wave yet, and as the wave starts breaking, I watch five surfers in a row fake paddle for the wave, look down the line, and decide not to go. The wave is already running away, and no one wants to paddle into a critical drop.

     I swing my board around as the guy next to me pulls out, too, and I fucking drop right in and take it. Instant speed from the start. The wave is standing up so vertical, short of barreling, because of the tide. The whole lineup’s going over the shoulder as I wind up for my first hack. SNAP 1. Words can’t describe the feeling, when there’s a whole wall of water building before you, pristine Trestles quality, when there’s no need to look down the line because you know that the section is just building and building all the to shore. SNAP 2. Backhand, my priority is not to lose this wave. I want to get some power hacks, but I don’t want to “put on too much mustard and have the hot dog fall out of the bun” (Chick Hearn). SNAP 3. In the early evening darkness, the sun’s already set. The trough at the base of the wave is dark and curling, yet still open. As fluid as possible, like artwork, I’m painting with the tail of my board, winding up for another full wack. SNAP 4. The quads feel so much better. More grip, keeping me from sliding out. I can’t believe this fucking wave is still going. I’m past the Churches campsite and approaching the group site. SNAP 5. Are you fucking serious? This might be the best fucking wave of my life. Is anyone watching? Fuck I’m surfing this fucking thing so good. Ahhhh, ahhh, it’s about to close out. One more under the lip. SNAP 6.

     I ride out of the wave into the flats and straighten out, turning into the wall of whitewash before falling. I resurface, looking on shore. Some dude’s on his cell phone sitting on the sand. And old couple is sitting in camping chairs next to each other. I’ve ridden this wave all the way to the first intersection that leads up to the offices. Rick would be proud.

Drained:

 

    Bri doesn’t feel like cooking. Neither do I, so we’ve opted for chili dogs. After cooking them over the stove, adding a side of coleslaw, boiling the chili, and chopping some onions, we watch some cable TV. That’s right. Real cable. Motherfuckin’ Cartoon Network, homie. We don’t have cable at home. In fact, this fucking cottage is over twice as big as our El Segundo studio.

     We had so many plans. We brought movies, books, and cards, but at 2100 we can’t even keep our eyes open.

     Lying down on the bed butt naked—not a futon like back home—we talk about how good we’ve caught the surf. We agree that we’re both spoiled. It is possible to be broke and rich at the same time.