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Loc:
El Porto, 45th Street
Time:
0910-1030
Conditions:
2-4 FT, light onshore, inconsistent, crowded.
Board:
5’10 Lost Mini Driver
My car’s packed to recon the surf at first
light, and by first light I mean true first light, WHC standards. Gary, who’s
been out of town, sends a text when I’m still sleeping. “Not worthy,” he says. “Going
to work.” Fuck. I should’ve warned him. Low tide has been shit here in the
mornings. Yet, I had my hopes up, too. New swell, new possibilities, maybe tide
wouldn’t be an issue, but it is.
I’ve skipped the idea of an HB session,
even though the cams there are excellent. Holding out for tomorrow, that’s the
plan.
So when I arrive at Porto at 0900, of
course, the tide looks low, but . . . there’s definitely new energy in the
water. Peaks are coming in, still long with shoulders stretched out at the end
of them. Still a little sectiony from the low tide, but it looks rippable. Finally,
a typical average Porto session. It’s the most I can ask for.
Bad thing is, it’s fucking crowded. The
bathrooms and the sandwich shack have the best peaks, but everyone is there.
Meanwhile, 45th has a strange rip running through it. Further south
by the tanks and the smoke stacks is a no-man’s land of nothing, no waves.
The current pulls me just south of 45th.
There are plenty of things to complain about, but a wedgy right stands up out
of the shallow surf. I paddle into it and get one small snap before I kick out.
At least there are waves.
Yet, I’m sitting by a threesome, a guy on a
foamie and two other shortboard pals, and they’re aggressive, especially the
foamie guy. It’s hard competing, and I have to give up a couple of waves.
It’s consistent enough for me to get a
couple of lefts. I get one the two surfers back out on from the outside. It’s
already peeling when I get into it. I do the turn, dip my board, and frog kick maneuver
to get into it. I rarely do this, but fuckin’ A, it works. The shoulder is long
and rampy, so I get a fast forehand snap from the speed. Feels legit.
I’ve been making it a habit to talk to guys
in the lineup, especially if they’re scavengers and not main-breaker guys.
“Did that wave break for you?” I ask my
fellow brethren.
“No, but I saw you get that good left
earlier.”
It’s actually nice, these mellow
conversations. It’s one more guy in the lineup who won’t snake me, and likewise
for me to him.
After what seems like a decent session, the
surf turns inconsistent, now breaking mostly at the two main peaks. 45th
Street shuts down. The lineup’s too thick for me to care to venture. Trying to
get a last wave is frustrating, so I’m mostly just spectating the left in front
of the bathrooms.
This big stocky guy, who I’ve seen sound
off on guys, is riding one of those new Firewire LTF Vader boards, the ones
with the nose chopped off, and . . . he’s fucking killing it, making every
section all the way to the rocks. Paddling back, he says, “I don’t know why we
need surfboards with noses? What’s the pizza slice do for you anyway?”
A guy yells, “Hey!” as a noob drops in on
him, eating shit, causing both of them to eat shit. Porto. . .
I chick in a multi-color teal and black
Roxy suit paddles out next to me on a longboard. She goes for a closeout and
doesn’t stick it. All I hear is the loud FOP! when her board hits the water.
My last wave is so fucking dismal.
Crumbling right. No turns. Just straight into shore. I turn around. Roxy girl
takes off late on a steep right. It’s a closeout, but she’s riding her insider
rail down the face of the wave, purling as the wave doubles up and gets ready
to pound her.
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