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| Damn, you. . . Damn, you. . . . |
Loc:
Bolsa Chica
Time:
0830-1030
Crew:
Cassady
Conditions:
2-3 FT, offshore, inconsistent, swampy.
Board:
Motorboat Too
Today was supposed to be the day. With Surfline forecasting
south-facing beaches at 4-5 Occasional 6ft, how could I not be stoked? To make
up for last Tuesday’s missed opportunity to surf good HB, I damn sure wasn’t
gonna miss out on today. I had even planned to meet up with my buddy Cassady
who lives in Long Beach.
I’m out the door at 0550, and it’s still
not early enough. The horizon’s already a metallic orange, bright enough to be
in the water. First light’s much earlier now.
My first destination is the HB Cliffs.
Despite being late for first light, I must be early because barely anyone is
parked here. The wind is light offshore, not a cloud in the sky. Save for the
sub sixty-degree air temp, it’s a perfect day. I step up to the railing to have
a look at the surf, and nothing is breaking. Tide. There’s just too much water
on the surface. Nothing but shorepound action. No one is out right here.
Further south, a few heads sit closer to Goldenwest.
I drive further south to take a chance on
Brookhurst. On the way there, I see some waves breaking at Goldenwest. There’s
a lot of activity at the pier. However, the surf has that mooshy teepee shape.
The sets are bigger, but they’re breaking section on section. It’s not classic.
No legit peaks.
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| "And that's when Donny realized that he might have been better off staying local." |
The feeling of getting skunked officially
sets in when I do reach Brookhurst. Same story here as the pier. Yet, guys are
out. The end section of a wave has a racy shoulder. It looks doable, but it’s
not what I expect when it comes to this place, especially with the given
forecast. I can’t blame Surfline. It did say “Slow morning” because of the high
tide. I just hoped it wouldn’t be this bad.
So I find myself at Bolsa Chica, taking
advantage of my state pass. It’s shorepounding here, so I bust out my book that
I had brought with me and kill some time.
After struggling to stay awake through my
book, Cassady arrives a little after 0800. “We could surf here or check out The
Cliffs again,” I say.
“Nah,” says Cas. “I’d rather surf here for a
half hour. I have a meeting at work.”
We’re in the water by 0830. The window should
be better. The tide’s going down, and there’s enough swell to start pushing
through the moosh. Immediately, I get a couple of fat shoulders. They turn
racy, and all I can do is pump for distance and finish with some baby floaters.
Cassady, on his longboard, milks the whole half hour, getting fun rides.
“It looks like there’s potential,” I say. “Maybe
another hour?”
When Cassady leaves, I have the whole break
to myself. A few guys sit two towers south of me. My spot shuts down. It seems
to be more consistent where the other guys are. I paddle over, and either the
waves break too far out or they’re too soft and break late. Even with perfect
conditions, me burning hot in my wetsuit, negative wind, sunny skies, and a
hyped-up south swell, I cannot get a turn for the life of me.
Guys show up for surf checks on the sand
and leave. It’s fucking 1000 now. The tide should be better, right? It’s gonna
turn. The window’s gonna open. It’s gonna get good.
By 1030, I’m so fucking frustrated. Out
there with the seagulls, I have a good sit down with myself. I’d like to think
I’m a dedicated surfer. It’s my lifeblood. Maybe not on a charger or
international scale, but at least for an average local guy, I’m a fanatic. I’ve
earned that. But its days like these when I feel like a joke.
The demons come out. What am I doing with
myself, my life, sitting here waiting for the good wave that isn’t coming. Or
maybe it will. Later, the tide’s gonna get lower. This spot’s gonna be
transformed, littered with peaks. I could stay and grab breakfast somewhere.
Coffee, finish off my book, check it again around lunch time.
I willingly do the paddle of shame to
shore. Driving home, I have a hard time finding the right music to fit the
mood.
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