WERKED, FRI 16JAN2015

Yeah, "gold' rating, but where's the shape?

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach, 28th Street
Time: 0645-0845
Conditions: 4-5 FT+, sunny, cold, walled, consistent
Board: 6’0 Lost Mini Driver, large quads

     I’m early, parked on 27^th Street. Street cleaning doesn’t come in until 0900, so I’ve got time. It’s dark. The air is cold. I step out to see how close I am to the curb and run back inside the car. Offshores are strong. Windchill. Meanwhile, the high school surf team is doing laps on the sand. Some of them have already hit the water. Their black sleek bodies get picked up by the incoming waves. Out back, they lower once more before the next one comes. I can think of so many reasons not to paddle out. One, there’s no shape. Two, there’s no shape . . . at all. Three, it’s cold. Four, my bed’s so nice and cozy and warm. Why put myself through this?

     I step around and pop open the hatch, grab my wetsuit, and put my left leg in. I look up again at the closeout in the distance. There’s PV. Always shape there on a swell like this, but I’d be late if I huffed it there. Doubt there’d be any parking left. And then there’s the drive, the walk, the long paddle out. If I surf here, I might get a gem. Right here, local. . .

     Two guys are on foamies, getting clobbered by the inside whitewash. Yet, their demeanors are playful, laughing at each other with each whitewash onslaught, as if saying, “Oh my God!” or “Holy shit!” They’re gone a minute later. But the conditions are so damn deceiving. A lull sets in, the ocean an aquatic desert. Mother Ocean saying, “What? I didn’t do shit.”

     The young Asian dude, a fellow darkee like me, is out there. I don’t know his name, but he’s in tight with the rippers. I’ve never talked to him. He’s the only face I recognize.

     My timing is impeccable, only having to duckdive two soft rows of whitewash. Just like that, I’m in the lineup. Cool. Too easy. The water’s cold. I look at the horizon, a blazing orange contour line just above the rooftops to the east. I need to feel that sun on my face, need warmth.

     No surprise, every wave is walled. I paddle further out to beat a couple waves, never shitting myself. With good positioning, I’m out of harm’s way. I just have to be picky. I just have to be picky. . .

     It’s a pull-into-oblivion kind of day. Thank you, Klaude, for the SA large fins that you let me borrow. I got those fuckers on today because, God willing, I’ll need them if I have a chance in hell of making it out of one of these dredgers.

     I scan for shape, any wall that looks like it has some kind of shoulder on it, even if I have to squint to make it imaginary. It’s a game. Eat the piece of shit that looks best. In the end, it’s still a piece of shit.

     My first glory wave is a left. Actually, I have the mindset to only go left this morning. Nothing like a terrible wipeout on your backhand. No, sir. I’ll wanna see the beatings coming on my forehand, thank you very much. My drop-in is flawless. Speed down the face, watching the base start to curl, bottom-turn pump, and pump again. I definitely feel more drive with the large fins. I race down the face until I’m overwhelmed by the curtain, but I surf the closeout the best I can, getting a quick slot, even seeing the swirl shut down into a foamy cone from the inside. Resurfacing, I get back to the lineup. Timing flawless once more.

     My second wave is a little more sloppy. I drop-in late. Still committed I stick the drop and pull up under the lip. I’m way too deep. It’s not as good as my first ride, but I make it back to the lineup unscathed.

     “You were a bit low on that one,” says a voice from behind. It’s my fellow darkman, the young ripper I’ve never talked to before. He says his name is Mike. Young Mike.

     I’m shivering and giddy that this dude is actually conversing with me. Wow. I must’ve done something right. I take out an earplug and tell him that if there were a little more shape, some of these would be makeable.

     “The rights are actually better,” he says before paddling off.

     I’m stoked. I got points. More XP points with the local crowd. Feeling validated, I go for another wave, sticking another poorly timed late drop. Out back, a closeout’s yawning out across my whole vantage point. It’s not that big, maybe only five feet, but there’s just so much water moving around. The air is fizzling around me like a pool of club soda. I duckdive it and get jostled around. I resurface off of my board but still holding it. I paddle hard, thinking, Big scoops . . . Big scoops. I get close to the lineup, and another wave stands up. I’m in the impact zone. Young Mike looks at me as he goes over the wave. XP points lost.

#

     Now I’m sitting on the sand, defeated. It’s been a while since I’ve sat on The Throne of Shame. Other guys are coming in, too, done for the day. Yet, the waves don’t even look that treacherous from here. I can’t duckdive that?

     I paddle out a second time and get worked again. I had sprained my hand dirtbike riding about two weeks ago, so my grip’s a little weak. Every time the board wants to wrench away, my wrist hurts. My pussy hurts. I make it out.

     The right thing to do is sit and wait. Be picky again and catch my breath, but there’s a left coming, and it looks like it has a shoulder.

     Having just rereached the lineup I turn and go. This time I slide down early. The shoulder starts to race away, and I’m pumping, keeping up with it. Guys are going over the shoulder to the outside. I tuck a little closer to the face and wait for it to throw out, but when the face bends it happens so fucking quickly. The curtain falls right on top of me. I should have pumped up a little higher. When I resurface and turn around, there’s another wall coming in. I’m in the worst place possible.

#

     I’m sitting on the sand for the second time this morning. It’s humbling. One look at me, and it’s obvious. As they used to say in the pineapple fields, “No can handle.” I could go home now, but I can’t go out like that.

     On the way back out, I suffer some more beatings. Always hold onto your board, is the advice of many of my experienced friends. Gary had told me this recently, even after rolling around and touching bottom, he holds on. The one time I decide to “ditch,” I’m sucked so far under. My lungs are weak. I struggle for air. The water pulls me in different directions. I resurface, grab my board, and try to scamper towards the outside. The water’s so porous from the foam that I’m sliding all over the place.

     When I reach the outside, I settle into a calm. I made it back out. I’m going for one more. Gotta make it count. If I’m in the impact zone once more, I’m going home. But I’m here. Back. It’s a small victory.

     The lefts stop coming in. More rights are starting to show, but they’re still walled. When the eternal lines stretch from north to south, I’m in position to beat them.

     I take a couple more chances, pulling into some of the best closeouts I can get that aren’t too consequential. After the third one, I turn around and see the set. I’m out.

#

     Sitting in my car about to drive off, I watch the surf a little longer. I had thought that the swell might back off a little, but there are still long walls rolling in. To my left, guys are waxing up their boards in the parking lot. They’re probably thinking that they might get lucky and catch a good one, just like I had.

UNMET QUOTAS, THU 15JAN2015

Loc: Manhattan Beach, 33^rd Street
Time: 0715-0815
Conditions: 2-4 FT, sunny, cold, walled, swampy
Crew: Juan, Gary
Board: 6’0 Lost Mini Driver, quad

     Again, I’m late. Not an official dawn patrol. Gotta start waking up earlier. Bri leaves ahead of me. She’s surfing 26^th, but I’m heading to Rosecrans to surf with Gary because he’s selling a wetsuit. Did I mention I’m in desperate need for a sealed 3/2? Well I am, and this morning’s transaction will be well needed.

     I scan the cars, people, the “scene” as I make my way towards the south side of the lot. I don’t catch any familiar faces, so I get to the very end where there’s a fucking surf contest. Didn’t see that one coming. Also, no parking at the end. Sure as shit, Gary has prime parking, vehicle empty. He’s already out there.

     I search for street parking. Nada. I enter the Porto lot again and end up by the sandwich shack. No sealed wetsuit today. I bust out my 3/2 Hurley wetsuit with the leaky seals. At least it’s bone dry.

     The swell is a bit hyped, gold-rating according to Surfline. I had suspected that it would just be another offshore walled day, and I was right. The shape hasn’t changed much. Just a little bigger with worse tide.

     Scanning for Gary in the lineup, I head south. He’s not at Rosecrans, not at 34^th. I don’t see him at all. 33^rd is packed. If he’s here, he’s somewhere around there. I paddle out and spot him and Juan more south, almost near 30^th.

     I paddle over to them. The last time I saw Juan was before New Year. We try to catch up, but a wave pops up. Everyone scrambles for it. Gary disappears. Juan takes the next one. I’m on the last, a closeout.

     While Juan and I meander back to the lineup, Gary’s paddling back all the way from the inside. He got a good one.

     The crowd sucks, but the waves aren’t really that great anyway. There’s a right at 34^th, a couple shoulders here and there, but good luck getting one with the crowd.

     Juan snakes me on a left, but it’s expected. I’d rather get snaked by a buddy. I get snaked on another wave by a stranger, but it was a racy one anyway, so no big loss.

     We all paddle back towards Rosecrans just south of the contest. The rip current sucks us out. Next thing you know, everyone is sucked out. Now we’re all beelining towards the inside.

     Once we’re settled, a left sprouts up, the shoulder long but holding. Gary’s deep. I through him a peace sign as I paddle over the shoulder. I take the next one. Closeout.

     When Gary comes back, he and Juan are ecstatic. Turns out Gar got barreled on that one. Juan had seen it, too.

     They leave, while I’m still in the water, trying to end it with one good wave. My last one is a bit racy, foamy from the backwash, too. I take it all the way in. First session this week that I’ve missed my one-turn quota.

“How’s John?”, WED 14JAN2015

I've taken pics from this very spot so many times, but it never gets old. I love the South Bay. I hope to live in El Segundo for a long, long time.

 

Loc: El Porto, 45^th Street
Time: 0730-0845
Conditions: 2-3 FT, cool, semi walled
Board: 6’0 Lost Mini Driver, quad

     When I wake up, I can already see the clear sky through the sliver of my curtains. Also, it means that I’m late. Driving to the beach, I realize that the sun is rising a bit earlier, and that I can be in the water by 0630. This isn’t a legit dawn patrol. Mental note: Don’t stay up so late playing Call of Duty on PS4.

     Late means that I don’t score parking at 26^th, but I had eyed a parking spot at one of my select spots, so I flip a bitch and head towards Porto.

     South of Porto had looked small, so maybe surfing Porto will be the right call. Klaude had told me that he’d be passing on surfing today because “It won’t be that good,” and looking out at the ocean, I think he was right. There aren’t as many people here compared to Monday, and when the crowd at 45^th is manageable, then that means it can’t be that great.

     Still, I’m here and I’m dressed. Why turn around now and what better way to start the morning, even if I only pull an hour.

     I usually don’t surf here, but with my older homies surfing the north and south end of the lot, I’d like to think that I spread my surfing sporadically between 26^th Street and 45^th, more so 26^th. The shape is similar to yesterday but just a little bit smaller.

     Even though the crowd is manageable, it’s a little too crowded for the inconsistency, so I sit wide south of everyone. I see Ray at the main peak, Chinese dude who’s been surfing here for years. After a couple of minutes, the current starts dragging the crowd north, so I end up closer to 45^th.

     The session’s frustrating, so I take a set-wave closeout left. The wave starts off hollow, so I pull in and just practice setting myself up. The initial slot feels nice, just to get that little perspective in the tube.    

     After an awkward wipeout, I resurface, and a fellow dark-brown islander gives me a nod.    

     It’s another picky morning, but for some reason I start scoring just south of 45^th. There’s this left that keeps coming in. I shouldn’t say “scoring,” but I’m getting decent rides for what’s on offer today. Unfortunately, I surf them like shit.

     On one wave, I mistime my floater too early and instead end up riding high on the shoulder when I should have done a carve instead. To finish the wave, I eat shit on an attempted layback. Second left, I get a sloppy top turn to start off and then eat shit on another layback. Fuck me. I do get one backhand snap, just one before the closeout, but it’s my cleanest wave of the morning.

     The islander paddles towards me. I’m thinking that he recognizes that my little spot is working. Brown man to brown man, he smells me as one of his own.

     He paddles up to me smiling and says, “How’s John?”

     I take a closer look at him. “What?”

     “How’s John?”

     “Which John?” I’ve never seen this guy before in my life.

     “Oh,” he says, shaking his head and dummying down his smile. “Sorry, I thought. . .”

BRI’S BECKER BOARD, TUE 13JAN2015

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach, 26^th Street
Time: 0700-0900
Conditions: 2-3 FT, cool, semi walled
Crew: Bri, KK
Board: 6’0 Lost Mini Driver, quad

     I’ve been concerned about my tentative trip to Indo this summer, not necessarily about me but for Bri. She’s been riding the 6’8 NSP for some time now, and the board that my brother has waiting for her there is a 6’4. “Big” according to him, which means it will be small for Bri. Though, if I’ve learned anything, it’s not to push or force the issue on people. For example, I want to tell Bri that she should taper down to the 6’10 Becker, which has more length but less volume because it’s shaped like a shortboard, but I don’t want her to do it on my accord. I just want her to keep having fun.

     As if our minds were in sync, on Monday night she tells me that she should start using the Becker. Right on.

#

     Bri leaves the house before I do. After changing on top of the hill, I walk to the sand and see that the lineup is packed with high-schoolers. Typical. I search for Bri on the sand, expecting her to be warming up, but then I see her already mixing it up with the crowd. She snakes one of the groms on a left, but the wave is kind of racy and runs away anyway.

     She’s in front of Brick House, just north of the 26^th Street tower. As I warm up, I watch her paddle into another left. Her popup isn’t super fast, but it’s getting better. I watch her get down the line. Her pumps aren’t manly and aggressive but more subtle while still serving their purpose. She’ll improve in time. She gets good distance on the wave all the way to the inside. It’s when she paddle back out over an inside wave that I realize she’s using the Becker. Wow. She’s already looking good on that thing.

     I paddle out and say, “Hey, I saw that.”

     “You see that?! I’m having so much fun on this board.”

     The wave quality could be better. I haven’t seen classic peaks here in a while, consistent classic that is. Waves are standing up in walled lines with occasional shoulders at the end of them, racy but manageable if you’ve got the stuff. I catch a closeout.

     Bri takes off on another one. I’m amazed how quickly she’s adjusted to her timing on it. She gets down the line again. When she comes back she says, “This . . . if my board.”

     When she takes off for work, it’s right on cue when the groms have to leave, too. The older farts and I paddle south, closer to the tower. Normalization restored.

     With the sun blinding me, I only notice Klaude’s presence when he’s just yards away from me.

     “You didn’t tell me it was this small,” he says.

     I sense the disappointment. I had messaged him earlier, said it was fun size, and that shape was an issue. Just as he says that, an outside set rolls in. We all have to paddle out to beat it.

     Vietvet Mike is sitting in the lineup with us. It’s a little hard to catch waves, even for him. The ones with shape are smaller and break more towards the inside while the bigger ones are closeouts.

     The session turns picky, but despite the desperation I paddle into an inside right that actually has shape. Popping up, and knowing how racy the waves are, I immediately start pumping, hoping to milk something out of the ride. Surprisingly, the face is open and holding, so I bottom turn and get one solid backhand snap. I pump again, and there’s room for a second. After the finishing turn, I turn around and face the ocean. Klaude’s looking back. We always watch each other. Don’t worry, it’s with gay tendencies only. I throw up my arms and claim it. It’s a noob thing to do, but it’s for fun. I got a decent wave. I’m stoked.

THE “ALMOST BARREL”, MON 12JAN2015

 

Loc: El Porto, 40^th Street

Time: 0945-1115

Conditions: 2-4 FT, light onshore, cool

Board: 6’0 Lost Mini Driver, Thruster

     I had to miss the dawn patrol because the landlord barged into my apartment this morning with inspectors. Looks like they’ll be putting in sound proof windows this year. So these grimy guys were walking through my apartment while I sat there in my house shorts with fucked up bedhead.

     Even though I don’t like to surf Porto as often as I used to, I still think it’s a good spot to go when the lot empties out a little, in this case on the second shift.

     Dais texts me and says that he’s there, but I score free parking at one of my reliable spots and meet him in the water.

     I had been gone for the weekend, and this is the first time I see what the surf has on offer. Consistent lines are rolling in, a little walled but with a few corners here and there. From what I can see, 45^th has the best peak right now. The sandbars have shifted. It’s taken a while. For a minute there, the sandwich shack and bathrooms had the best peaks.

     Coming in at second place is 40^th Street Tower, and obviously these two peaks are where everyone is sitting.

     The ocean feels like icewater, but I got my bone-dry 4/3, so I’m prepared. Other than some minor seal leaks, I’m doing all right.

     It’s a long paddle out to the lineup, but the current isn’t pulling me much at all. The battle’s happening directly in front of the tower. Not a perfect A-frame, but a fast peak, with both lefts and rights, is breaking. One guy gets snaked and another guys drops in on the snake. Typical. Again, it’s why I don’t like surfing here, but at least the crowd is more manageable right now.

     I’m loyal to the gap in the lineup, always surfing where it’s emptier, but I’m kind of paying for my decision. Shape here is farfetched. I paddle into three closeouts by the time Dais makes it out.

     I ask if he’s working next Tuesday because that’s the biggest day in the forecast, and I’d like to hit the road and go to Trestles. Unfortunately, he’ll be working, but we discuss the possibilities of surfing HB on Wednesday.

     When I finally get my nug, it’s a right that I’m pretty deep and late for. Somehow, I pop up with good timing, avoid purling, and wind up for a backhand snap, but the wave bogs out on the reentry. I’ve always said that sometimes all you need to have a good session is one good wave. It hardly counts, but I did get a clean turn on it.

     The current picks up a little, and we find ourselves either getting sucked out or dragged north, so we’re doing some paddling.

     I’m too far inside when a wave stands up. A guy in a blue and neon-green wetsuit paddles into a wave. He resurfaces after it explodes and says, “Awww shit. What a waste. Fuckin’ blew that one, brah. Purled it.”

     “At least you went,” I say. I paddle into position for the next wave, but Blue turns around and tries to go for that one, too. I back out for him, and then he backs out. Now that was a waste.   

     But there’s still the third wave of the set, and it looks like it has shape. I’m in perfect position. Blue hoots me into it as I kick and paddle. When I pop up, I see the face standing up before me. I pull in and draw a line. Crouching, the lip swirls over me. A little man is sitting way off on the shoulder, looking at me in the tube. All of a sudden, the green room just races away from me. Awkward wipe out.

     It takes a little duckdiving to get back out. Blue nods at me. Dais, who’s on the inside, holds up his hand, makes a circle with his fingers, and looks through it.

     I want another one like it so badly, but I don’t get it. I drift towards 45^th where it’s just too packed for me to get into a groove.

     Changing back at the car, I think about that “almost barrel.” I was in there. I’m getting more waves like that, when I’m setting myself up well, but Porto requires more work. I gotta work in the tube, pump, more than just hold a line in hopes to get out. As they say, progress not perfection.

     Driving home, listening to Barrington Levy’s reggae music, I’m stoked that I got something to take home with me.