TINY WINDOW, SAT 14MAR2015

Reptile Rick is fully equipped

 

Loc: Huntington Beach, Brookhurst                    

Time: 0730-0930

Conditions: 4-5 FT, offshore, hot, inconsistent.    

Board: Lost Mini Driver

     I slept like shit last night because of the ampm coffee that I needed on the drive home. On a caffeine binge, not only was I wide awake, but I was smelling like ass. I didn’t want to wake Bri up, so I skipped the shower, tossing and turning in stale salt and sweat. So now at 0540, Rick is here. We’re loading up his van and on the way to Huntington.

     A rarity, the rest of his WHC homies are already on the road, ahead of us, heading to San Clemente. Since Rick has to be back by 1000, we do a surgical strike closer to home.

     First we stop by Goldenwest. It’s still dark out. Two young ladies jog towards us with their tits bouncing around. “Morning, ladies,” says Rick.

     “Good morning,” the chicks say back, gleefully and full of perk. Rick looks at me and smiles. Dirty dog. . .

     The peaks look a little soft here, but the tide is kind of high at first light. Rick’s down to paddle out here, but I insist on Brookhurst. I love that spot. Less crowded, I get to use my parking pass, and it’s a good wave.

     I should have known that the cars already parked at Brookhurst this early is a bad sign, but we do a surf check anyway, and the peaks are standing up more.

     “Yeah, let’s do it,” says Rick.

     We get a couple double takes in the parking lot. It’s actually kind of crowded, it’s not like this place unless the surf is really, really, really pumping. Rick and I aren’t locals. It’s obvious.

     There appears to be a light current, so we walk a little further south past tower 4 and paddle out there. A juicy 5 footer is breaking right in front of us. Its surfer, a short stocky man with short curly orange hair is pulling in for a quick slot, banking it off the top on the finishing maneuver. A closer look and I realize it’s Pistol Pete AKA Pete the Plumber AKA Klaude’s roommate’s exboyfriend’s friend Pete who’s a firefighter.

     I paddle up to him and congratulate him on his ride. He says that yesterday had more current, was bigger, and a little more closed out, but that it was fun. I tell him I had spent the whole day at Churches yesterday. He’s not impressed.

     Peaks . . . they’re coming in just a little wide and sectiony, but there are some with perfect shoulders. The size isn’t as gnarly as it was the last time I had surfed here with The Vets. Instead, it’s at that great practice size. Not a death wave, and worth pulling into, closeout or not.

     Immediately, a left comes my way. I turn and go. Rick’s going for it too. “I got it, Rick!” I say.

     “Yeah!” he says back.

     I pop up, riding the wave behind him. Fucking guy. I think he thought I was asking him if he had the wave. It’s not the first time he’s snaked me or any of his other buddies. Reptile Rick. It’s a good one, but I kick out. No sense in battling for it with a homie.

     After surfing Churches all day yesterday, and on a big fat fish, there’s some residue left over. I have to make the transition of surfing a different board and a different wave. On the next left, I’m a little slow at popping up, but I make the drop. Its shoulder is tight, vertical, and short. I try to set up for a top turn, but before I know it, I’m racing along the shoulder until it tapers off into nothing on the inside. Fuck. I should have pulled in. That’s my first though. I’m surfing this wave wrong.

     Now the crowd is on it. Probably the most crowded I’ve ever seen Brookhurst. To escape, I paddle more south to stay ahead of the pack, but the surf turns inconsistent. I let the current pull me back towards the crowd. A wave comes. I have to back out for someone. Again, I have to back out. I’m in position for another one, but some guy is duckdiving right under me. Too close.

     Rick comes back. “I just got barreled,” he says. He even flags down a guy paddling by who had seen his barrel. The guy validates it.

     The lull gets worse. Everyone’s sitting around like it’s a party without cake. I spot Pete north by tower 5, so I mosey over towards him.

     This spot doesn’t produce much. I get a couple of lackluster rides. More lull. Rick and I shake our heads at each other. Bad call. Maybe we should have stayed at Goldenwest. All I know is that there’s some weird voodoo thing going on right now. It’s disappointing. After yesterday’s wave buffet this morning’s stoke meter goes unchecked.

     On the way back home, I struggle to keep my eyes open. I feel bad. My cousin from Maui, MC Sausage, once told me that going to sleep while you’re in the passenger seat is a “bad omen.” Since then, I never sleep when I’m copilot.

     Rick drops me off. He still has his honey-do list to take care of. “I still think it was the right call,” says Rick. “I got that one left. It was amazing.”

     He takes off. I walk back to my apartment from my garage with the sun on my face. I’m burned. My cheeks and the back of my ears, even my eyes are stinging from the UV. Good session or not, I’m glad to be back. Gonna take that shower that my body’s longing for. Gonna open up the fridge and tear some shit up.