Loc: Manhattan Beach
Time: 0740-0920
Conditions: 4-5 FT, low tide, racy,
sideshore, current
Board: Lost Mini Driver, 5’10, quads
Might
as well call September the martyr month if this shit keeps up. I showed up to my
local break a little bit later than usual. The trend of sideshore wind and
light overcast stayed true, but I could tell that the water was moving north
pretty fast.
Can’t
say a lot of people were out that morning. As soon as I reached the water line,
Collin was coming out. “The current’s strong,” he said. “I’m gonna walk back
towards Marine and paddle out there.”
I
walked a little more south, too. The Brazo douche that had ran over Bri a
couple weekends ago with his Costco foamie was out. He was talking to the dark
skin ripper chick who likes to paddle out in a thong. Thong Girl charged on a
left, but the wave was so fast that all she could do was stick the landing and
ride straight. Brazo was eating shit on his foamie. Within forty-five minutes
they both left together.
Fighting
the current was a bitch. My right rotator cuff was screaming for relief. I had
met a Kiwi dude in Java named Pax, and he had to stop surfing because he got to
the point that he couldn’t paddle with his right arm anymore, too much pain in
the rotator, and I wondered if I was doing the same.
Even
worse, it was purl city for me. I felt sluggish on every wave I was taking, and
then the nose would catch. Like a bad car accident through the front
windshield, I kept indo’ing end over end. I wondered what I must’ve looked like
to Mike, who was sitting on The Strand at his usual bench with his morning
coffee. “That guy’s eating shit,” he was probably saying.
None
of the attempts were worthy. Maybe one, at best, offered a split-second glimpse
in the tube.
Later,
Toru came out. I remember him specifically because he complimented me on a left
that I got a turn on, but that was just a small consolation compared to the
session as a whole.
I
left defeated that morning. How had I surfed so fucking well on Monday and
turned into a barnyard? The answer was simple. As much as I would have liked to
think that I was some kind of surfing ironman, I wasn’t. It was time to call
for a couple lay days, maybe three. At some point, everything comes to an end.
I had a good streak.
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