WHEN YOU SEE. . ., FRI 24APR015

 

Loc: Huntington Pier, northside

Time: 0845-1110                                      

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, light onshore, semi consistent, cold, overcast.   

Board: What else? The go to. 5’10 Mini Driver, until it breaks.

     I’ve waited . . . I’ve waited all week to babysit my nephew and surf HB. This would be the day that I wouldn’t be looking at HB through a Surfline cam, today would be the day that I’d score. But . . . when you see a standup paddle boarder at the Huntington Cliffs, there’s a chance that you might get skunked.

     Brookhurst. I’m here. With a gray overcast sky above the surf, I’m staring at unorganized low-tide two-footers. In the distance, it looks like sheets of mist have left the clouds and made landfall over Newport. A sprinkle of rain smooches my face while the onshore wind French kisses it. Only two guys out here, a small handful more at River Jetties. Fuck me. Hideki had texted me yesterday, asking me where I’ve been, saying that HB has been epic. Not the choice word that I use lightly, but I trust his judgement. Must’ve been good. Anything is good compared to one-turn quota sessions at Porto.

     I drive back south and decide to chance the pier. Like the South Bay, on shitty days you go where the waves are guaranteed, and what better gamble than the pier. As I make the right onto 7^th Street, I spot Chris by the 7-Eleven changing out of his wetsuit. His clammy pale skin looks cold wrapped around his towel. At the end of the block Hideki waves me down. I haven’t seen this guy in a while. “Late train,” I say.

     “Serious late train!” he says. His hair is longer and more unkempt from the last time I had seen him. Stubble protrudes above his upper lip and around his chin. He’s been consistent. It’s too easy to tell. He says that it was better earlier before the wind picked up and, of course, that yesterday was better.

     I have lunch scheduled with Cassady at 1130, so what else am I going to do? I don’t drive all the way to HB not to surf, so I change, walk into the onshore wind, risk life and limb standing in the center divider on PCH, and make my towards a no-man’s land surf session. (I will use the crosswalk from now on)

     Did I mention I’m not a local here? I’m weary of sitting next to people, so I sit wide north. A grom who had paddled out at the same time catches a wedgy right, ripping two backhand snaps. Two battle buddies paddle around their spot like sharks protecting their kill. After the shark brothers leave, I take over the peak. I’m head of the second shift. First shift clocks out. The rest of the second shift crew is manageable, a couple old longboarders, a noob chick, and a couple guys who don’t look too aggressive.

     For an onshore low-tide overcast day, I’m impressed with how the sandbars are still causing the waves to hold shape. Not every wave is a taker, but it’s consistent enough to stay busy. Off the pier, four-foot plus wedges randomly roll in, and throughout the whole lineup, the Surf Gods deliver.

     I go to work right away, catching both a handful of closeouts and some single shot rides. It’s my first HB sesh on my new stick, and I instantly feel how surfing HB is different. After surfing shitty Porto, playful DMJ, and slopey rippable Churches, HB is definitely faster and steeper on the takeoff. It’s challenging. The only thing missing is glassy conditions. Who cares about the overcast? If it were glassy, this place would be perfect.

     I don’t catch any memorable rights, but just popping up in time gives some satisfaction, even if the waves don’t line up enough. It’s the lefts that are fun. Upon popping up, the waves slingshot you down into fast rampy faces, more speed than my surfing ability can handle, but I stick to what I know. I bottom turn with tremendous momentum and get a frontside wrap, rail to rail with minimum effort because of the wave’s speed. The fast sections are fun to race. Instead of chancing a floater, I clear a section by driving around the flats like the pros do, and my board actually gives me enough drive to make it around. On one ramp, I attempt a layback. I have so much speed that even on the petering two-foot shoulder, I feel my fins make a slashing arc as I lean back and plant my hand behind me. Ahh, only if I could actually ride out of these. One day. . .

     By 1045 the third shift comes out. These guys are fresh dudes, catching wave after wave. I’m the only one left from the second shift. The atmosphere turns into one of those sessions where everyone, except you, is getting waves. I start making mistakes. Looking for that last ride, I fall after a backhand snap. Other waves are closeouts. At 1110, I call it after my last lame wave. It has to end sometime.

     Before turning my back on the beach, I take one last look at the surf. Maybe I couldn’t tell that the wind had picked up from when I had paddled out earlier. The surf looks like a different break. For a day of low expectations, though, I had a lot of fun. An average day at Huntington is like a decent day at Porto. There was more size here, more shape, better sandbars, and I exceeded my one-turn quota.

     So . . . when you see a standup paddle boarder at Huntington Cliffs, it doesn’t mean you’ll get skunked. Keep driving, do more recon along the coast, and if the surf still looks like shit, paddle out anyway and see what happens. Sometimes, you won’t know unless you go.