Loc:
El Porto, 42nd Street
Time:
0700-0900
Crew:
Russ and Garr
Conditions:
3 FT+, racy, crowded
Board:
Lost Mini Driver
I’m at Porto again because I have Gary’s
Pill board that I need to return to him. Also, after seeing how swampy the surf
was yesterday, I expect Porto to be the only place with enough size.
I tell Garr and Russ that 42nd sucked
yesterday and that 45th, and the tanks just north of it, were
breaking the best. Gary paddles out to 45th to do some battle while
Russ and I do 42nd.
This is against the intel that I already
have, but here I am again, after my bitch-bitch-bitch-moan-and-groan session
from yesterday. I’m already approaching this morning as a wasted session. I’m
not gonna catch shit. I accept it, and if I catch anything decent it will be a
fucking surprise.
It’s so crowded at 45th. Russ
and I watch Gary. He waits for guys who are too deep on the right to pull out
before he paddles for them himself. As much as 45th looks doable, it’s
getting more and more crowded by the minute.
Russ and I work with the scraps. He paddles
into some racy closeouts, resurfacing with a frown and shaking his head.
Since I’m already resolved to not catching
shit, I just start paddling for everything and pulling in. Surprisingly, I’m
actually having fun on the closeout lefts, even getting a little barrel
perspective before the pinch.
Somehow, I make a judgment call and
turn-and-go on a small peak. Once it hits the sandbar it doubles up and turns
into an open-face right. Having been surf starved, I unleash the best power
hacks that I can on my backhand, completing two solid turns before the wave
fizzles out. Russ acknowledges the ride when I get back. I don’t know how I got
that lucky.
Russ is trying to get lucky, too, but it’s
not really happening. Gary’s back with us now, having given up the battle
against the main pack.
By the end of the session, I leave with
three decent waves under my belt. Russ and Gar are pulling out of the parking
lot. I wave at them before I reach the showers, feeling pretty content about
the morning.
Two guys are showering off with me. One of
their wetsuits is ripped at the thigh, exposing a bleeding fin slice. I look at
Bleeder’s board. It’s a 7’0 thruster, severely discolored from the sun, and has
duct tape all over it. Even their wetsuits look second hand. I wonder how long
they’ve been surfing, and then I think about myself back in my kook days.
Fuck I was so kookish, and I had thought
that I already “belonged,” bonified and labeled, in the surfing community, even
with a fucking fun board NSP.
I’ve been there before. These kids are all
right, so long as they progress and don’t regress.
Back at my car, they walk up to a FUCKED UP
Buick. I mean, it’s beat to shit. Craigslist status, probably bought for $500.
I can overhear them while I’m changing.
“Dude,” says Bleeder. “You done with your
towel?”
“Almost,” says his friend.
“Okay, let me know when you’re done.”
I look over. They’re both sharing the same
towel.
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