THE FISH AND I (quadruple), FRI 13MAR2015

And I thought this would be enough fuel...

 

Loc: San Clemente, Churches                          

Time: All damn day

Conditions: 3-4 FT, offshore, hot, hot, consistent. 

Board: Zippifish

     With a severe flat spell, I was looking forward to surfing the new south swell on Friday. Sure, I could have gone to HB, but my friends were down to do sushi in Mission Viejo Friday night, so Trestles was the call. Of course, I had my concerns. The forecast called for 3-4 occasional 5 feet. If the swell will be overcasted, then Trestles could be mooshy, leaving HB the better call. I grabbed the Zippifish just in case.

 

The Road:

     Even with only four hours of sleep, I’m determined to make it to Trestles at first light. No disappointed drive when the sun is coming up. No, I’m gonna get there before that happens. Armed with exactly two bananas, two PB&J sandwiches, and a thermos full of water, I hit the 405 N to meet with destiny.

     When I reach Churches, I see that I’ve miscalculated when first light is since we had set the clocks forward. It’s still, literally, night time. Yet, a few dark silhouettes march on the sand right in front of me, surfboards in hand, all heading towards Middles or the breaks further north from there. I shut my eyes and take a short nappy poo.

 

Rise and Shine:

     I have all day. The tide is still kind of high. What’s the rush? With the sun just beneath the San Onofre mountains, I step out of my wagon to do a wave patrol. Already, about half a dozen longboarders are sitting on Churches. Peaks are rolling in, but . . . they aren’t breaking “classic.” The waves are a little sectiony and racy, stretching out so far that they’re semi walled. No long rides all the way from the top of the wave to the campgrounds. It’s just not one of those days.

 

 

     I walk all the way to Middles, and it doesn’t look much better. On the way back, I stop at Mons Pubis. A soft A-frame rolls through, maybe two-to-three feet tops. It’s a little bit bigger at the top of Churches, but no one is at Mons, and I figure that I can just sit on it and wait for my waves. Who knows? Maybe it will get better.

 

Meet my homie Zippifish:

     I’d love to be on my Motorboat Too that’s baking in my wagon right now, but I have to be realistic. I’d be sitting on that shortboard barely catching anything. However, the fish is a sure thing. No matter what, I’ll catch waves on this.

#

     So where do I begin in even describing my first session of that morning days later? Here’s what I remember. The crowd sitting at the top of Churches was scattered all the way towards the edge of Mons. I didn’t dare to catch any of the rights because I didn’t want to lose position, sell the spot, and have some jackasses end up sitting on top of me. Instead, I was picky. When someone tried to paddle towards me, I paddled further north. Not that day. I wasn’t going to let anyone get the best of me. I had driven too goddam far and had suffered through the flat spell terribly.

     My expectations were low after having done the morning wave recon. Peaks were sprouting up and racing away, but there were these little in-between waves that had good shoulders. As small as they looked at first, upon popping up, the shoulders just stretched out into classic Trestles shape, even doubling up towards the inside. That morning, with the exception of about two other surfers, I had that spot to myself. Cutbacks. I felt like the cutback king. I got so many lefts with so much time, time meaning how popping up on such a buoyant board just buys you that extra second to set yourself up. I only caught a few rights, and I surfed from 0730-1000 before calling it to eat some lunch.

#

 

     Back at the wagon, I take some quality time out to recharge and eat, even sitting down at a picnic table in the shade while I maul a banana and a sandwich. I go through my texts, voxes, give my report, and keep chowing down. Replenished and rehydrated, I go back to Mons with a second coat of Vertra on my face.

 

Session 2:

     I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. I’m falling. Eating shit. I’m rusty this second session. My food’s digested, I’m not cramping, but I’m just off. The surf is going through a weird tide shift from it bottoming out, so the surf goes a little inconsistent. I still manage to get some rides, but on the way back out to the lineup, it hits me. Exhaustion. There’s this weak feeling in my stomach, like I hadn’t even eaten. My arms are trembling. It’s like I’m going into some weird diabetic shock, even though I have no idea what it feels like, but I heard that diabetics feel “off” and get kind of loopy. That’s me. I’m not me. Definitely off.

     Ironically, I’m catching my last wave in, and it’s the best wave of the session, maybe the whole morning. It’s a sectiony and racy left. I’m popping up on the shoulder, but I just have a feeling that it’s gonna run away from me. As I pop up, I pump, and just get down the line so fast. Although, I have to use everything in my amateur repertoire, like my shitty floaters. When I get to the shoulder, I do a deep bottom turn, climb the face, and get a fluid cutback. It all feels so different on the fish, like its undeniable volume requires some serious weight shifting to redirect its nose down the line. Just stomping on the tail to keep the nose out, I can feel its planky shape just lift up and out of the water. It’s so abrupt that I slap the face of the wave on the transitions. On my shortboards, I’d for sure fall behind, but I’m flying down the face of the wave again reaching the shoulder once more. Fluid with speed, if a wave has shape, this board will get you where you need to be.

     I blow the layback attempt on my final maneuver, but it felt worth it to try. The wave was closing out anyway. On the shore, I see a group of guys watching me. They begin to suit up. Spot sold.

 

Banana Man:

     Now I’m sitting on the back of my wagon after only surfing an hour. I’m chowing down on the last of my food, which was supposed to last me until way later. I bullshit with a grom who’s parked next to me. He says that San Clemente High School is off today, and that he’s waiting for the crowd to clear out at Lowers. I can’t imagine that happening.

     After forty-five minutes, I put on my third coat of Vertra and head back to Mons.

 

Session Three:

     Did I mention that I haven’t even taken off my wetsuit yet?

#

     I can’t even recall this session anymore. It all seems like a blur, but I know for sure that I at least surfed another hour and a half before going in once more for a last break. Same as usual. Hogging the lefts like a true goofy foot at a spot that’s famous for rights.

 

Third Intermission:

     Usually I only surf twice when I’m here. One marathon session in the morning followed by a heavy ass lunch and then another marathon evening session. I don’t know what it is about today. Perhaps I’m just that frothy. There was that dry spell. That wasn’t fun. But I know what it is. The wind’s been pretty damn good all day. The sun’s scorching, and there are waves. All day long waves. Trestles quality waves. I wouldn’t even call today “good,” but a fair day here is more fun that most spots.

     The onshore wind does pick up a little. I have all you can eat sushi with my pirate crew tonight at 6:30 pm. Ha, that’s another reason why I’m pushing it. I’m gonna kill some motherfuckin’ yellow tail and salmon tonight!

 

Zippi on the Rights:

     Instead of going back to Mons, I paddle out right in front of my wagon. Fuck it. I’m exhausted, and Mons looks like it’s affected by the wind anyway, while lower Churches has some cleaner rights.

 

 

     Fourth coat of Vertra on my face I believe?

     Upon paddling out, I turn and go on a left. It races away. A little distance. Next two waves are racy rights. I get a snap on one of them. Not too bad. After that, there’s no way you can avoid paddling to the top of the wave. The bottom of Churches is so much more inconsistent, while fun rights just peel in the distance.

     All of a sudden, the fucking wind dies. On top of that, the crowd’s not even too packed. There are guys who know what they’re doing, but this Friday crowd is mostly noobs.

     First, I get the lefts that nobody wants. Yes, there are lefts at Churches, but they don’t peel into shouldery down-the-line peaks. Instead, they stand up and turn open-face rippable before they just closeout over the cobblestones. I get a lot of single shots. Double shots. Rarely connecting three turns, but that’s okay.

     When the water gets even glassier, the rights start peeling better. I realize that I could probably be on my shortboard right now, but never once do I feel that the Zippi is hindering my performance. Remember, this is my ticket to a wave buffet. Why change it? Steeper drops going right, guys on the shoulder have to back out for me. Rear-hand pumping, one snap, two snaps, and back to the takeoff spot. I’m beyond stoked but can’t appreciate it because of how tired I am. It’s 1730 when I get out of the water.

 

The Effect:

     Peeling off my wetsuit for my first time today, it feels good to be back in shorts. I look at my face. It’s impossible to get all the Vertra off. My eyes are beyond bloodshot. Necktan is ludicrous. I put on a hat, and it doesn’t help.

     We eat sushi for a solid two hours. I don’t get home until 2300. Rick texts me and asks where I’m surfing tomorrow. “Local,” I say. “I’m beat.”

     “Let’s go to Huntington,” he says. “I’ll pick you up.”

     “Okay.”