MY BARREL YEAR, MON 31AUG2015

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0620- 0900     

Conditions: 5-6 FT, consistent, low tide, clean, heaving

Board: Lost Mini Driver, 5’10, quads

     Waking up that morning, I didn’t know what I was truly preparing for, but even though I didn’t know, I was already doing everything right. First off, I got a good night’s sleep, so I woke up at about 0515, made myself some coffee, and ate a small bowl of cereal. Pulling out of my parking stall, I felt well rested and unrushed. I knew there would be a free parking spot waiting for me, and there was.

     I hadn’t been paying much attention to the surf forecast because nothing really stood out. Today was supposed to be another poor-to-fair morning. I expected some windswell and south ground swell possibly in the mix but nothing too spectacular. If anything, I was expecting a decent but typical morning of surf.

     Since it was still dark out, especially with the recent overcast, I couldn’t see the waves. As I crossed the strand in the morning darkness, that’s when I was able to see what was going on out there.

     The base of the waves, from the low tide, was dark and bending. Sizewise, it was head high, the biggest surf I’ve encountered since being back from Indo. I had said before that big waves are scarier when they’re perfectly shaped. I can’t recount what I had written before, but in relation to that Monday morning, as big as it was, the surf was not completely closed out. I didn’t bother to eye the rights, but the lefts. As walled as the waves looked, there were tapering shoulders with shape. The way they bent, I could tell that they were worthy of pulling into, and that’s where the scariness comes in. My mind, my body, little did I know that I had already made the commitment to pulling into these beasts before even paddling out.

     Young Mike was just south of the 26^th Street tower, accompanied by a no-namer I had never seen before. Besides them, only three high school groms were chillin’ at the tower before the rest of the surf team arrived.

     Young Mike caught a smaller left. It was racy. He popped a little frontside air.

     When I paddled out, I timed it right. I didn’t take any bombs on the head. In fact, it wasn’t one of those mornings when it’s dangerously thumping. It was consistent, but there were those small lull windows that were deceiving.

     It barely took a minute to make it out. The low tide made the paddle short, and before I knew it I was in position for a wave. I looked at my watch just to see what time it was. 0622. Then, out back, coming right to me, was one of those scary monsters that I had described above, and this is where a moment of fear kicks in. Fear because I’m human, I never said I was good at getting barreled, I’ve never been barreled at home, and as gnarly as that wave looked, I knew, dead or alive, I was about to paddle into it.

     If anything, I’ve learned that easy barrels aren’t easy to come by. There are those days when they happen. I know I caught a day like that earlier this year at the Huntington Cliffs, and I’ve never caught another day like that since. On most days, especially in the South Bay, barrels are hard, at least if you’re not advanced or expert (I’m speaking for average surfers). Take Porto for instance, it’s usually on walled and gnarly days in the winter when there’s legit barrel potential, and most guys aren’t even making it out. Sure, I’ve seen Tyler do it, but he’s a pro. There aren’t a dozen Tylers in the lineup getting consistently tubed at Porto. Most are like me, either running for the pillow tops or plain eating shit.

     So back to the story, what I’m saying is that sometimes you get what you ask for. You want to get barreled, but there are the South Bay challenges that come with it.

     As the wave was approaching, its size was already unmistakable. I’ve surfed bigger waves here but messier ones, messy to the point that you know you’re just gonna pull in and get pinched. But this wave actually had a legit shoulder on it, so there would be more work involved. Closeouts are easy to catch because there’s not much expected out of you, performance wise. You pull in, a buddy sees, you get gobbled up, you resurface, a friend hoots, and you paddle back out. Problem was, I’ve only caught so many few makeable barrels that I hadn’t had much experience for what comes next.

     My positioning was already perfect. No excuses. No one else around me on that dark dawn morning. If I was going to puss out, I literally would be failing myself. With caution, I picked the shoulder just outside of the peak to paddle into. There was that moment when the wave was gentle and lightly sloped, and I’m talking about three strokes into it, and believe me, I was paddling as deep and hard as I could with more purpose than ever because I knew I’d at least have the first part of the ride down.

     When I popped up, the wave still had some slope to it, and then the drop happened. Bottom turning, the shoulder just stood up and stretched out. This is where everything goes silent for a moment. Usually, what follows this silence is an explosion, and me being sucked under, wondering what the fuck just happened. But this time, I did exactly what my instincts allowed. I pulled in and just held my line. The heavy lip curled over me and left my dry and driving in the tube.

     I don’t know what else to compare this to. Maybe a wild theme-park ride that only lasts a few seconds, when you’re unstrapping your safety belt just as soon as you had put it on.

     I remember driving, seeing the dull dawn light reflecting off of that liquid cavern, and seeing that swirling exit at the end. Once again, I was thinking, I could actually make it out of this motherfucker.

     What happened next? I don’t know if it was instinct or luck, but I somehow squeaked out of a chandelier section, and I know it was so because I did not have a clean exit. I did not come flying out triumphantly like I hope to one day, but instead I narrowly escaped. For another split second, I was straightened out into the flats, looking at the sand, The Strand, the orange horizon of the Manhattan Beach homes. I had made it. I escaped the fucking tube. I just got fucking barreled. And then, the fucking wave just detonated behind me, devouring me down with it.