OUTGOING SWELLS, THU 29JAN2015

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach          
Time: 0700-0900        
Conditions: 3-4 FT, overcast, offshore, cold
Board: Lost Mini Driver, medium quads

     It’s a replay of yesterday, but many things are different. Bri’s in the upper 26^th Street lot while I’ve cheap-assed it on the hill. The surf is smaller with a high tide, but there is actually shape. I meet Bri in the lot. Tom, who I haven’t seen in a couple weeks, is parked here, too. So is Collin.

     “There’s a good peak at Dockweiler,” he says. “I passed it on the way over here.”

     I’ve heard of secret peaks around there, but knowing me, I’m always gonna surf here regardless.

     Walking over The Strand, we see the left working in front of the tower, shoulder high, soft but rippable. The high schoolers are selling it.

     Young Mike’s out in front of the brickhouse. He and a John John Florence lookalike are surfing another left. I had a feeling today would be like this. With the outgoing swell, things usually tend to shape up better here.

     Still, there are some cleanup sets, but smaller than yesterday. Manageable.

     Bri and I paddle out and join the brick-house pack. Fuck it’s cold. It’s definitely still winter water conditions, at least for SoCal. Struggling, I have a hard time catching a first wave. I almost catch one, but Imitation John John is on it, so I pull out. Bri goes late on a right and disappears. I see her later getting worked on the inside.

     I finally catch a left, and it’s in front of Young Mike again who’s paddling out from the inside. I want to surf this wave well, but I’m forcing it. My pumps are awkward, body too stiff and upright. I’m trying to do a replay from Trestles and spring up out of the bottom turn. I do and begin my wrap with speed, but I lean too far backwards, and my board doesn’t follow, so I lose it. Fuck, it was a rippable wave too. I turn around. Bri’s still getting worked, now all the way in front of the tower.

     The current’s a little unsuspecting, as I’m dragged south, too. The groms are leaving. Tom’s by my side. It should be “go time” with waves all to ourselves, but as history has told, the kids have taken the waves with them. Just a slight change of tide has made things walled again. Not gnarly walled but no shape at all.

     Bri leaves. I look at Collin in the distance. He throws his hands up in frustration. The waves are long with hints of shoulders at the end of them. Some look like they won’t break but double up when they hit the sandbar. Positioning is hard. I finally get a decent right. My first snap is sluggish. As walled as the sets are, the inside is still fat. Could’ve used my Motorboat Too today. I try to really use my rail on the bottom turns in hopes to create more speed, but I’m slow. I end the wave with three turns. Still not bad.

     And as the old swell leaves and the new one comes in, the shape improves. My wave of the day is a runner of a left. I pump down the line the whole time to set up for one G-force carve. I go rail to rail, deep, even getting the board perfectly positioned back under my feet, but I get lazy. I expect the wave to push my board and redirect it, but I eat shit instead. All I needed to do was use my hips to ride out of it.

     I’m out of the water at 0900. Looking at the break from the shore, it a whole other day from this morning. The peaks are coming in more scattered. The other locals have crowded the brickhouse: Roy, Ross, Toru, Costco Kim. Even though I didn’t surf my best, I’m happy at this sight. I have a lot to look forward to tomorrow.

 

THE TIP, WED 28JAN2015

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach          

Time: 0700-0830        
Conditions: 4-5 FT+, overcast, consistent, walled
Board: Lost Mini Driver, medium quads

     I’m still in bed, and Bri’s just about ready to walk out the door. I’m taking a steaming hot morning piss when she does. 0615. Good timing for a legit dawn patrol. I’m halfway to the surf when I get a Vox from Bri—It’s big and walled. When we get there, we both watch from The Strand. It is walled. Looks like the high school surf team is having a class contest or something because they have different colored jerseys on. As walled as the conditions are, they’re going for it, pumping down the long dredging faces trying to turn closeouts into something flashy. We see two shoulders the whole time.

     “I’m not paddling out,” says Bri.

     I tell her I’m heading back, too. She leaves, but I stay and watch it a little longer, even walking backwards back to my VIP parking spot. I should go home. Plenty of things I can do today. Why paddle out if it’s walled?

#

     My wrist feels much better after the dirtbike spill. I’m duckdiving with much stronger grip. My judgment must have been good because I don’t get worked by a set. Young Mike is out here. So is Collin. We’re out in front of the brickhouse. No other locals are out. That’s a bad sign.

     The surf’s not as big as the peak of the last swell, but the sets are still long and dumpy. I paddle over the set waves, seeing them stretch out in both directions. I’m looking for anything with a shoulder, and that’s when a big right comes.

     Spectators for the groms are on the shore, so I go for broke, paddling in, grabbing rail, and just pig dogging, but the wave isn’t going round enough. Plus, I’m too low on the wave’s face, and the lip lands just outside of me before I’m gobbled up. I do these kinds of attempts a lot, and I don’t know how I always come up unscathed.

     Another shoulder pops up. It’s a left, and it’s the best shaped wave that I’ve seen thus far. About head high, I turn and go a little late. The base of the wave bends, so I just pull in from the drop. Young Mike is on the shoulder pulling out for me. I hunker down, see the lip begin to swirl, and then I vanish in the face of the wave.

     Resurfacing, the wave’s long gone. The inside is roaring soup. I paddle back. Young Mike’s right there, and there’s an odd silence between us. I had just ate it in front of him.

     “Fuck,” I say. “I should have made it out of that.”

     Mike turns to me and says, “You need to get more square on your board.” He touches his chest. “You’re leaning too far forward. If you want to make it out of a barrel next time, swing your hands forward, I’ve been doing it too, and you can kind of steer.”

     Eh, I’m a little embarrassed. It does bring things into perspective. Seems I can only get barreled on A-frame HB peaks, but I just can’t seem to pull it off in the South Bay.

     I catch the next right. The wave starts off with a decent shoulder, but as I’m sliding down its face, the shoulder just grows and stretches out into a closeout. Instead of pulling in, I straighten out.

     The few morning takers move in on the 26^th Street tower once the kids leave, but we don’t fare much better. With the lowering tide, the surf gets even dumpier, no hint of shape anywhere. I call the session after an hour and a half.

     Back at my car, I see three missed calls from my sister and one from Bri. Fuck, I forgot that I was supposed to take my sister to the airport.

TRESTLES DAYCAYION (double), TUE 27JAN2015

 

Loc: Trestles, Middles & Lowers

Time: 0745-1115        

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, sunny, warm, offshore, consistent

Board: Motorboat Too

     With some business to tend to at Camp Pendleton, and a sushi night with the boys in Mission Viejo, it only makes sense to head to Trestles for the whole day. Also with a juicy swell still on tap, I’m doubtful that the local beach breaks will have any shape.

     Even though I leave at 0545, I hit bumper to bumper traffic in Huntington. It’s nerve wracking. I’m tired from staying up late on the PS4, it’s dark out so I still feel like sleeping, and the drive is already about an hour without the traffic.

     Once I enter the campground, I stop at Old Mans for a look, and the waves are small and walled. Fuck. I head over to Churches not sure what to expect. When I park, the scene just takes my breath away. Long walls are coming in from the top of the wave, but the rights are peeling at lower Churches. There are only six guys out, all longboarders, and they’re trading off on rides. The set’s four-to-five feet easy. Looks like I won’t need my fish this morning. Suiting up takes a while because I can’t take my eyes off the ocean. In the distance, I can see the distant breaks at San Onofre much better, and it looks like it’s pumping there too. I guess the northern most break that I had looked at wasn’t working as good.

     Once I’m suited up, I walk the shoreline. I could paddle out here and mix it up with the loggers, but I don’t want to deal with any jockeying this morning. About three more guys have paddled out. It’ll probably be a fuckfest soon, so I push it further north.

     Upper Churches (or Mons Pubis) is kind of working but not as good as I’ve surfed it before. It might be because of the WNW direction. Most of the waves are coming in lined up, no lefts just right-hand shoulders at the end of them. A Middles gamble might be the call.

     Middles. . . I paddle out in front of a rock formation that I had named The Battle Position. Since then, it’s lost its luster, looking more like a moundish ruin.

     The water’s cold. I have to do a little cobblestone boogie but avoid getting cut. On my way out, some long rights start breaking. I’m not even at the lineup yet, but I can’t help but to turn-and-go on the inside waves. When I catch them, they race away. Too lined. I finally calm myself and paddle all the way out.

     I linger just wide of the main pack. A surfer rips the right at Lowers, but the wave looks fat. Surprisingly, there are only a few people there. Instead of packs of surfers, everyone is spread out in a buckshot spread along the Middles-Lowers border.   

     I do my usual technique of sitting wide to catch unmolested waves, but I can’t get more than single turns. They still feel good, but guys at the top of the wave are getting longer rides.

     Little by little, I inch my way into the action. A guy on a Costco foamie is fucking killing it. I mean, he has to shift his weight and torque his hips hard on each turn. Keeping that back foot on the tail, he’s able to whip that monstrosity around. Maybe not the prettiest turns but he’s pulling them off, showing off his knowledge of proper surf mechanics. He gets off the wave, smiles, and nods his head at me.

     “You killing it on that Costco,” I say.

     “Dude!” he says. “The waves are so predictable today.” He’s gleaming with stoke. I need to get like that too.

     I start getting better waves. No, it’s not classic Trestles, like how it can be on a good south-west swell, peaky and scattered, but every other set has shape. My how I’ve missed these Trestles waves. I’m getting away with fucking murder, paddling in so late with the lip spilling on my back. I’m doubtful at first with how fast I’m slung down the face, but I pop up and wind up for a snap. The face is so steep and rampy, yet never barreling, that the tail of my board is just doing these carving hooks on every turn. I mean, I’m not even snapping the lip. I’m doing these full hooks where I just pause at the end of the accentuated motion, redirect the nose, and wind up once more. I get four turns on my best wave. Four. Fuck it’s been a while.

     Even though the lefts are racy, I pick those off too just long enough for a single maneuver. Here I practice my laybacks. Ahh! What a morning . . . the lefts. Fuck my ass, it’s like, yeah . . . I’m really in the training stages of my laybacks. I just can’t ride out of them. On one, I try to pick a steep part of the face and just go for it. Like, I just throw my whole body into it Clayback style, but I blow it so fucking badly. Literally, I just backflop on my deck and wipe out lying on my board. Mechanics. . . On the next wave, I consciously spring up out of the bottom turn, torso, extended, and climb the face with speed. Reaching back with my inside arm, I lean backwards as board does a solid arc. It feels good. Too bad I don’t know how to follow through to get my board back under my feet and ride out of it.

     It’s a little discouraging. It just comes to show how long the learning curve is in surfing. I can only wonder how many times I’ll have to keep blowing it before I can pull it off.

     After that left, I paddle back out. I look at the beach, and I’m already at the next set of portapotties. I’m at Lowers.

     Lowers. . . The infamous Lowers. As I’ve called it before, the biggest lie in surfing. Yeah, it’s an epic spot if you can actually get a fucking wave here, yet there are only three guys on it. For some reason, the swell direction isn’t making it classic. It’s actually smaller here. However, if you’ve read any of my past Lowers sessions, you’ll know that I rarely catch it empty. Fuck it. It’s “LOWERS.” How can I not sit here?

     It’s breaking uncharacteristically softer than usual, but I still milk the lefts and rights the best I can. I get good opening turns but the shoulders moosh out soon after. With everyone spread out the same, no one really invades the spot.

     I spend the next couple of hours going back and forth, crossing that invisible line between Lowers and Middles. Some guys are reluctant to sit at the top of the wave where it’s breaking best, so I even sit at the bottom of the wave to give them as much priority as possible.

     When I look at my watch again, it’s 1045. Three fucking hours have gone by. Yet, I’m energetic. A crew of groms show up on their bicycles, boards in hand. I figure it’s a good time to grab some lunch.

 

#

Loc: Churches, Trestles--Middles & Lowers

Time: 1445-1700        

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, light onshore, cool.

Board: 6’0 Kainalu Fish, twin fin

 

     You see, me and the boys are power eaters . . . that’s right. We kill buffets and anything all you can eat. We don’t fuck with places with time limits. Nah. We do two hours minimum. It’s usually Sebastian, Tim, and me. We need a fourth seed so badly, but every candidate we’ve had can’t hang. It takes passion, a love of food and a certain respect for the deliciousness translated through each and every bite to sit down at the table with us. So tonight’s AYCE sushi night. During these occasions, we usually starve ourselves until it’s go time. When I say starve, I don’t literally mean starve. Maybe some light snacky poos throughout the day, but that’s it.

     I paddle out at North Churches with the fish this time. I figure since the swell’s backed off, why not make the evening session a fun one with a wave magnet of a board. The transition, though, is awkward. After having been on the 5’9 Motorboat Too, this board feels too big. The sensation is different popping up. It just feels slower, yet once I’m on my feet with, the board is just so fast down the line. I struggle to turn it. It just wants to go in one direction as fast as possible. I walk the nose and eat shit. My amateur hotdogging is hella rusty since the last couple of swells have been brutal.

     The guys who I’m surfing next to are a bit aggressive, so I paddle all the way to Middles.    

     At 1530, something happens. I forgot to mention that I had only eaten four tangerines the whole day. That and coffee from my mug and water. I had felt good into the afternoon, but now my fucking stomach hurts. The thought of white tuna, salmon, and yellow tail just makes my stomach hurt even more. Gawd, I haven’t been this hungry since that seven hour Jalama session in August.

     I’m weak. I start surfing like shit. I could leave the water right now, but I’m stubborn. My thighs are still aching from snowboarding, the rest of my body more so from the gym yesterday and session number one this morning.

     Lowers is breaking a little more classic now. Not crowded, but there are more heads there. I site wide south of it. It’s not as consistent as it was this morning. I’m more patient than I’ve ever been before, willing to let waves roll by, and every time a wave comes I’m hardpressed to surf it well. It’s like pussy being thrown at you when you don’t want it because you’re in a serious relationship. Because of my patience, I’m there in the right spot every time a good one comes. Perfect right-hand peelers come through. My feet placement’s off, throwing off-balance snaps on my backhand. Tired, I just walk to the nose and crouch to get distance thinking: spicy tuna handroll, unagi, albacore, mackerel, spicy tuna handroll.

     I catch a closeout in but it’s still too early, so I walk back to upper Churches where I’ll be closer to my car. Each wave is draining on my body. Delts on fire. I’m past burning calories. Burning muscle.

 

     I’m back at my car and fully changed by 1730. I call the boys and beg them to meet me at Zenko Sushi as early as they possibly can. “I’m starving,” I say. “I’m about to eat my hand.”

     When they arrive at 1830, I’m already sitting down at our table, first round of sushi on the way. With bloodshot eyes, white Vertra still stuck to my face, and sunburnt lips, I go into AYCE autopilot.

     A true samurai can hold up his sword and wait for the moment to deliver a fatal strike, even though an equal blow is about to be dealt to him as well. As hungry as I am, I focus on the white slab of fish, pick it up with my chopsticks, and dip it into the soy sauce. Raw and buttery, I chew it slowly, never having tasted anything so good in my life.

FRI 23JAN2015

I can appreciate "shape" over a walled day.

Loc: Manhattan Beach, Rosecrans
Time: 0700-0830
Crew: Bri, Juan, Garr                 
Conditions: 2-3 FT+, sunny, warm, offshore
Board: Motorboat Too

     I should be on the road heading to Big Bear for my friend J’s bachelor party, but since I’ll be missing out on a massive swell this weekend, I have to get a surf in before I leave. The swell’s supposed to be tapering off, but I check 26^th Street anyway. Of course, it’s a fucking lake. Bri parks and walks towards The Strand as I’m walking back. “Let’s go meet the guys,” I say.

     When I pull into the Porto lot, a freakish rogue wave breaks at 45^th. It’s amazing what a couple miles down the beach does. But as packed as it is, I can tell that there’s a mellow energy in the air. If it were firing consistently, people would be rushing, wearing a no-bullshit face in preparation for glory. Instead, people are just kind of watching and taking their time. As soon as I drive past the bathrooms, several parking spaces are open.

     Bri and I search for Gar and Juan in the water. I don’t see Gar, but Juan is unmistakable in his chinstrapped surf cap. With the tide a little lower this morning, some nice peaks are sprouting up and down the beach. 45^th and the sandwich shack look consistent, but those spots are more packed.

     We paddle out at Rosecrans, just as Juan is paddling late into a four-foot right. I’m about to hoot him on, but some dick in a hooded wetsuit fucking drops in on him. Fuckin’ A. I watch them both resurface to see if there will be an altercation, but Juan just paddles back, no big deal.

      I flag him down. He waves back. “Where’s Gary?” I say.

     Juan points to the guy who had just snaked him. Shit, I didn’t recognize Gary with his hoodie on. Figures Gary would snake him. About fifteen minutes later, Jimmy B paddles out and joins us, too.

     I have a slow start. The crowd’s manageable, but I can’t seem to get a good wave that will stay open. Bri gets a legit wave before I do. It’s pretty impressive seeing her on the Becker. Even paddling back through the impact zone, she turtle dives that thick 6’10 without issue.

     Gary stands out this session. He constantly gets long lefts, getting so much distance that he ends up sitting at the next break over.

     I finally get a decent runner of a left. Juan hoots me as he goes over the shoulder. The section crumbles in front of me, but I do a small floater over it. I get a little snap on the shoulder, hearing someone else hoot me from the inside. To finish the ride off, I try a layback but don’t ride out of it.

     “Matt!” I hear. I look towards the shore. Jimmy’s waving goodbye.

     And even though I hadn’t expected much this session, the surf actually gets better, and I get a few more fun little rides.

     Bri leaves to work. Juan and Gar get out at 0830 because they didn’t pay the meter. I could surf longer. I’m good until 0850, but I get out to have a little face time with the masters.

     I invite Gary out for breakfast since he had hooked me up with a good wetsuit deal. Turns out Juan’s available too since Biden’s visit is causing chaos with the traffic. We end up at Mandy’s in El Segundo. It’s Juan’s first time here. After coffee and food, I spring for the bill, saying that I had the intention of treating, but those guys whip out their cash and make sure to pay their share even though I had offered.

"Here it comes," says Gary.