BIG MANAGEABLE, FRI 13FEB2015

 

Loc: El Porto, 45^th Street

Time: 0630-1030   

Crew: Garr, Dave T., Rick, Juan, Jimmy B.      

Conditions: 5-6 FT, offshore, crowded, borderline all time.

Board: Lost Mini Driver, medium quad setup

     After yesterday’s El Porto session, I planned on surfing my favorite local break today, that was until I saw Rick at the gym last night. He said, “I’m taking tomorrow off from work, Matt.” I knew what that meant. He would be surfing 45^th. Rick’s like a dad to me, and it’s rare for him to get a day off, so I don’t mind taking the opportunity to hang with him, even if it means battling a crowd.

     “Okay,” I said. “First light. See you there.”

     “Want me to pick you up? There’s room in the van.”

     “No,” I said. “It’s cool. I’ll probably park at the ______ for free, and I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

     Rick paused. “You don’t want to park in the lot? I have a bunch of quarters.”

     “No, Rick. I’ll be fine.”

     “You sure you don’t want me to pick you up?” And this is where I have the flashback. Fourteen years ago we were stationed in Utah together, and a bunch of my battle buddies and I were sitting in the back of a cargo Humvee, heading out on a convoy, but Rick was all by his lonesome in another Humvee. He asked all my buddies if anyone wanted to ride with him. Rick had the reputation for always doing things by the book, and he always volunteered us for work. Needless to say, he wasn’t exactly Mr. Popular.

     No one responded to his question. He looked at me and said, “________, you wanna ride with me?”

     “No,” I said. “I’ll stay here in the back. I like the wind in my hair.”

     Rick just gave me this dumbfounded look and walked off. It didn’t occur to me until later of how much of a diss that was. My head was shaved.  

     So looking at Rick in the gym last night, there was no way I could refuse. “Okay,” I said.

#

     We reach the lot just minutes after 0600. “It’s already open!” says Rick. I guess this must be a surprise because the lot is still pretty empty. I spot Dave T. locking up his SUV. Gary’s suiting up right next to his Suburban. When we park, Jimmy B. pulls in right behind us. Juan shows up seconds later. It’s a true WHC affair.

     Meanwhile, there’s decent size out there in the ocean, bigger than yesterday. Sets are breaking at six feet, but it’s not closing out like a mile-long stretch of dynamite. It’s not completely round and dumpy, but it’s slotting high up on the face. Looks like a big but manageable day.

     I paddle out at the channel slightly north of 45^th, in front of the rocks, and catch up to Garr and Dave T. They’re in the same exact spot as yesterday morning, trying to score the bomb lefts. “The first one’s just a decoy,” says Dave. “Get the one after.” And of course, when the set comes, he takes the first wave, but it races away from him.

     The peaks are a little tricky. The tip of the peak is biggest and breaking furthest out in front of the bathrooms. Take off too deep, and you probably won’t make the section. Yet, once it starts breaking, the shoulder is fast and critical.

     The second wave looks like it’s gonna line up all the way to shore, so I turn and go. All of a sudden, the backwash hits, and I bounce up and chest plant into the face of the wave.

     Jimmy B. takes the next wave. Same thing. Backwash rejection. Motherfucker. . . Yet, some of them are really lining up.

     The rogue sets break much further out, and if you’re caught, you’re gonna have to pay it in full. I’m in the impact zone, and I duckdive as deep as I can. I get jostled and twisted around a little bit, but I hang onto my board. Surprisingly, the rest of the set is big but easy to punch through, not typical gnarly Porto.

     I’m paddle in on the shoulder of a big left. I had just come off surfing Churches, where big open-face cobblestone peaks are perfect for snappy turns. But here, big open-face Porto is another story. I have so much speed going down the line. I feel the gunny round-pin tail on my board holding me in a straight line. I bottom turn, but getting a good wrap-around cutty is a struggle against what the board wants to do. No, I don’t get the cleanest carves. It’s more like cautious cutbacks and being fully aware on the rebound to make sure you don’t lose you wave.

     I get two wraps and pull in under the curtain when I reach the inside. I get a quick glimpse of the slot before I’m gobbled up. Paddling back, I’m pretty stoked. Two turns. Not bad.

     When the first shift takes over the lineup in full force, I’m back to where I was yesterday. Good luck on getting a wave. It’s so crowded. Twice, I have to back out for two fucking body boarders. Should they be marginalized? It’s not like it’s slabby enough for a body board. They wouldn’t be taking as many waves if they were surfing.

     I really don’t know the crowd here. Other than the WHC, I really feel alone in this place. No one smiles. It’s like everyone’s in his own surfing bubble, fending for himself. Don’t expect anyone to give up a wave, let alone call you into one.

     I paddle directly in front of 45^th, bottom of the wave, the channel, no-mans land. In front of the tanks to my north, I spot Rick and his brother Juan at the peak I was at yesterday. It’s A-framing, but I can only see the rights, which are also holding shape.

     Nothing should break here, but randomly, one swings so wide that no one at the top of the wave is in position. My first cutback is wide but graceful. I rebound, pump twice, and get a tight little arc on the lip. Going down the line again, this stocky guy on a neon-green board waves at me as he’s going over the shoulder. I don’t really know him, but I’ve talked to him before. It was on a day that he was going to punch some guy out in the lineup. It was ugly, but he, for some reason, took to me, and called me into waves that morning.

     I wave back at him while I’m still surfing the wave, like an idiot, and my front foot slips off the deck. No third turn.

     That wave I had caught creates frenzy in the lineup, and more people paddle over to sit on me, so I head to The Tanks where Rick and Garr are. Juan’s right by me. “Look at that!” he says. A perfect right breaks north of us. Each wave of the set, perfect. A longhaired guy on a red longboarder is killing it. Rick takes one of the lefts. Dave T. is on the inside, no sign of Gary or Jimmy.

     I paddle into the crowd with Rick. Yellow Wetsuit Guy is here again, too. Fuck. The crowd. I just don’t do well in crowds. Escaping once more, I paddle north into no-mans land 2, where I run into Brett AKA Whiffle Boy, a fellow surf blogger.

     “Some fun ones here,” I say.

     “Yeah, if you can get into one of them.”

     Sitting here, I watch Juan and Rick tearing it up. Damn, I don’t know how they can feel so comfortable being corralled in by so many people. Each wave has five guys paddling for it. I just can’t do it.

#

     I notice that Juan is going in. Rick is gone. So is Dave. I catch a mediocre wave in and go back to the van, where Rick hands me some coconut water. “I think I’m going out again,” he says. Juan’s fully dressed, says he’s going to stay and take some pics.

     I pound the coconut water. Within fifteen minutes, I’m back in front of 45^th.

     The offshore wind dies. It’s just pure glass now. Also, the first shift is gone, leaving a gap in time before the second shift takes over. The swell’s backed off just a hair, and now the waves aren’t as racy as they were before. They’re peakier.

Photos courtesy of Juan A.

Rick on a shoulder insider.

Rick losing his hat on the backhand attack.

 

     My first wave, of the second sesh, is shitty. I have to avoid a guy on the inside, causing me to draw an unconventional line. On the inside, I do a halfass layback attempt. I actually ride out of it but without “umph.” The face was standing up pretty well. I should have just gone for it and committed a hundred percent.

     I get a closeout right. Third wave’s a huge racy white-wash left. I pop up late but mange to get three good pumps before straightening out.

     Best wave of the second sesh is another left. I don’t know how I get this one over everyone else. Two cutbacks. The inside is standing up, but I kick out to avoid annihilation, and it dumps me off right next to Rick. He missed it.

     “I think I’m about done,” he says. Just then, a guy on a longboard is on the wave behind mine. The shoulder slots out, and he pulls up underneath it, getting partial cover, and flies right out.   

     Back at the van, the lot is fucking packed now. Vans are pulled off to the side, people already changing. It could be fucking summer. Some shirtless buff guy in jeans is practicing some dance routine with his short-shorts girlfriend, holding her up at the midsection above his head. The lot is littered with people watching, surfers about to paddle out, and those dripping wet, like us, lingering around like hot silent farts.




Some ride waves while others ride face.

     An A-frame breaks in front of the tanks. Even though I struggled with the crowd, from here, it looks like there are waves for the taking. Mirage or not? That’s one thing about this place. There’s always a crowd. You’re probably gonna get snaked. Yet, you get a couple good waves, and it kind of makes up for all of that. The X factor is how well you surf those waves. I definitely didn’t rip today. I was at pure intermediate status.

     Right now, guys are at home, guarantee, watching these waves on surfcam. I’m here. I paddled out. I got some. I could live with that.

SAVED, THU 12FEB2015

 

Loc: El Porto

Time: 0630-0830   

Crew: Garr, Dave T.

Conditions: 2-4 FT, offshore, warm, crowded.

Board: Lost Mini Driver, medium quad setup

     The plan is to surf Porto because Rick is taking the morning off, but my phone goes off at 0600. It’s Rick. I answer, trying to sound as ungroggy as possible. Truth be told, I was KO’d with Bri right here next to me.

     “I already requested time off,” says Rick, “so I think I’m just going to go to work.”

     “Hi, Rick,” says Bri, as she nuzzles up next to me. I’m surprised she can hear him.

     “Hi, Bri,” says Rick. “I hope I didn’t wake you guys. Gary’s running late and heading to the lower lot. You should go, Matt. The sun’s already coming up.”

     Fifteen minutes later, I’m on Vista Del Mar on the way to Porto. I get a text from Garr. 45^th is the call.

#

     I had called it yesterday, today has fun rippable shape. There are mostly lefts that are breaking fat and long in front of the bathrooms, but they’re lining up well.

     “Harold (Dave T.) is out there,” says Gar. He’s pure business today, suiting up fast and heading out there while I’m still swapping out fins.

     Waxing my board, I hear the consistent swish of cars behind me, entering the lot. Fuck, I’m thinking. I just know . . . I just know that it’s going to be really crowded. . .

     I don’t fear today’s waves, but I forget to respect them, which is probably why the paddle out seems to be taking longer than it should. My cockiness made me unaware of the current. It’s kind of strong, not HB strong, but it’s pulling me south to the sandwich shack.

     One of those nice long lefts rolls through. I turn and go, watching it build before me. I pump twice, bottom turn, and go for a top turn, but I lack momentum and fall backwards. Fuckin’ A. Here comes Gary on the second wave, crouching on the wrap off the lip and drawing a tight S, flying down the line as he rebounds out of it. That’s exactly what I was trying to do.

     As predicted, it is now the El Porto 500. Oh yeah, I mean, fuck . . . was it this crowded yesterday? Everyone is out. I had just written a post titled “Top of the Wave,” but there is no way that I am sitting at the top today. Dave T. is right next to me, dealing with the crowd as well. Gary paddles north in front of the tanks where a right has attracted a sizeable crowd. 45^th isn’t doing its Po-Wers thing. In fact, 45^th is the channel today, oddly enough, and this is where I sit. The left off the bathrooms is fucking crowded. I sit on the shoulder hoping for something wide, but every wave already has a taker.

     An hour into the session, and I’m fucking hating life. Really, it’s the first time that I’ve wanted to get out of the water just off of pure frustration. How did I do this before, surfing only Porto in the past? Some locals I recognize in front of the bathrooms. I don’t have juice here. This isn’t my spot.

     Now I’m Mr. Frustro in the lineup. No smiling, no stoke on my face today. I paddle past the right in front of the tanks in hopes to 1. Catch something and 2. To escape the crowd.

     I’m in a dead zone between the tanks and the smoke stacks. I doubt I’ll catch anything. Thoughts go through my mind about how much I hate this place, changing the title of by blog even, and the idea of protesting El Porto all together from here on out. Then all of a sudden, an isolated peak-perfect left sprouts up right in front of me. You’re kidding? A guy in a yellow wetsuit hoots me as I turn and go. Talk about a 180, going from desperation to being on a wave like this. Shouldery with shape, soft yet rippable and building, I drop in with speed, crouch hard on the bottom turn, extend out of it with momentum, and draw a wide wraparound cutback. Coming out of it, I draw a solid carve, getting a late tail release at the end of it. The inside gets soft, and I fall backwards on the third turn. As stoked as I should be, I’m holding back my smile. It took a while to get that. I should be happy but I want more.

     Now yellow-wetsuit guy is sitting on me. Well, it was nice while it lasted. He gets the next juicy wave. I’m bummed, but then another one pops up behind it. I get that one, too. Only two turns, getting an incomplete on the third maneuver again. On another left, I checkturn stall and pull into the closeout. It feels like I’m getting better at doing this, setting myself up that is. Barrel training? We’ll see. I even get a couple practice layback attempts, not sticking them to standard of course.

     Something happens to the conditions. The water gets choppy by the rocks, and there’s a weird backwash even though the tide is going down. More people sit on the spot. Yellow Man is a nuisance. It’s 0830. I don’t want to get a ticket, so I catch a closeout in and leave.

     Looking at the main peak in front of the bathrooms while changing, clean lefts are still peeling. The lineup is now thinner with the first shift departing. I realize that there’s no way I could ever completely write this place off. As frustrating as surfing here can be, it only takes a couple good waves to at least even out the struggle, but you’re expectations need to be realistic. It’s always a battle at the top of the wave here, always, especially when it’s not overhead. I was just lucky enough to have found a gem of a left for a small twenty-minute window to save my session, my attitude, and my appreciation for this spot.

INTERMEDIATE, WED 11FEB2015

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach, 26^th Street

Time: 0750-0920        

Conditions: 4-6 FT, offshore, warm, consistent.

Board: Lost Mini Driver, large quad setup

     After good sessions down south, whether at Churches or Trestles, it’s a little hard to get back into the South Bay groove. I had skipped surfing yesterday. Looked like it would be walled local, and I wasn’t gonna hit the road that soon again. Last night, I knew that I wouldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t even give the surf a little look the next day, so I packed my car and wondered if it would still be gnarly out there.

#

     I’m late on the first shift. It’s 0730, and I score VIP parking right in front of the surf. No surprise I guess. The usual crew who patrols the parking lot is nowhere to be found. In the lineup, I see about nine guys by Marine. Two guys are getting worked trying to paddle straight out in front of the brickhouse. Though, there’s something different about the conditions today. The water is perfect, I mean, between the sets the water is pure glass. Not foggy like last week. The air is hot. Yet, even though the waves are a little too lined up, there are lefts tapering off right in front of the brickhouse, dropping like long laundry lines into the channel. Looks doable. I’d say the waves are about five feet. And then again, it always looks smaller from the car.

#

     I go with the large Simon Anderson quad setup that Klaude had let me borrow. If there’s any chance at getting tubed today, I’m gonna need as much help as possible.

     After warming up, I time the shorepound to avoid getting worked. I have a bad case of anxiety on the way out. There’s barely anyone surfing. Some of the sets are big. I wonder if I even belong out here. Yeah, I had scored Trestles and surfed it well, to my standards at least, but I did get that recent beat down at HB. I’d like to think that I’m not stupid, but really, I just want to face the semi-challenging conditions up front and try to catch something, just do the best I can do. That’s what progression’s about anyway right? Why run away from a fight?

     I have both fear and respect for this spot. I try to go extra deep on the duckdives. Getting sucked back, I’m nearly out of breath. All of a sudden, my shoulders start burning earlier than usual. I’m still not 100% recovered from surfing Churches.

     I make it out to the lineup without losing my board. As Gary and my brother Randy would say, it’s always better to hold on to it. Spotting myself, I’m just in front of 27^th Street. The current’s light, but I’ll have to paddle against it.

     Three guys are sitting right by me. Looking down the lineup, it appears that a lot of people are just making it out at the same time. Monkey see monkey do.

     I tell myself to be patient and only go on the good ones. I haven’t seen any cleaners yet, but it’s better to play it safe.

     A five-foot peak rolls through. A guy on my inside scratches for it, sees that I’m in better position, and gives me the clearance nod. Dropping in, the face actually holds open. I open-face carve it and get a decent wrap. Rebounding back down the line, I extend up off the bottom turn and checkturn under the curtain. Feels textbook, except that I get pinched. No drive on that attempt. Not even a true glimpse of the barrel. However, I did at least get a solid turn.

     Back at the lineup, the sets start coming in. It’s six-feet tops. Any bigger would be a major issue. It’s one of those mornings where you’re bound to get worked but shouldn’t be in fear of drowning.

     After moving around the lineup, paddling to and from, I get impatient and pull in on a closeout. “I gotta go,” I tell myself. Just killing time. When I resurface, there’s an outside set. I feel like Mother Ocean is telling me, “Wrong move, bro. You fucked up.”

     Pants down to my ankles and bent over, I’m just in the worst possible spot. Yeah, I duckdive but get my board yanked away like it was never even mine. I get worked on the next two waves. I’m holding onto my board, but things go awry on the duck, like my body gets twisted out of alignment, my board shifts to the side, and I just get obliterated beneath the surface. But I paddle back out. Holding onto my board keeps my closer to where I was, and I don’t burn any time trying to remount.

     I feel sketched on the rights. I go backhand on one, and it has an open face, but the fins are so big that the board just forces me over the shoulder out back.

     Meanwhile, the top of 26^th has some waves. A little congregation has formed there. One of the peaks goes unridden, the shoulder swirls open for a short barrel. Fuck, I’m thinking to myself. If I could just get one of those little tubes like that, I could just go in right after that, mission accomplished, done for the day. Oh, how badly do I just want to “take the money and run.”

     I sit there once everyone clears out, and nothing breaks with shape. I paddle back over towards 27^th. The crowd has mysteriously begun to thin out now. With the tide going down, a lot of the waves are sectioning off. Still, I try. That HB session with the WHC still stings, so I have to redeem myself here. This is my local break.

     The large quads have drive. I’m on the open face pumping, trying to speed through that curtain as it chandeliers over me, but I get pinched again. Resurfacing, I get worked by the sets. Again I try, again I get worked. I’m so frustrated and mad at myself, and then another clean tube, just like the one I had seen earlier, breaks just to my south at 26^th.

     At this point, I realize the humble-pie situation, take a bite, and swallow it down hard. It’s not just the waves that aren’t shaping up for me. It’s me. The Indian not the arrow, also not the terrain. I’d like to think that I’m a decent surfer. Sometimes my ego gets out of check, and I consider myself advanced. Nah, I’m still intermediate. There’s a lot I’m not doing right.

     Leaving the ocean, the water looks totally different. It isn’t the well-groomed lines that I had seen earlier. The surf has gone sectiony. The late first shifters have called it early.

     Driving home, I’m at odds with myself. I could have held on longer trying to get tubed. But I tried, didn’t I? I still paddled into some decent bombs, although I paid for each one in the impact zone afterwards. My brother once told me that “it will just happen.” So here I am again, probably putting too much pressure on myself as always. At least it was a morning that most surfers opted not to even get wet. I went out. Hopefully that counts for something.

ENCORE, MON 09FEB2015

 

Loc: Churches

Time: 0800-0930        

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 5-6 FT, consistent.

Board: Lost Mini Driver, quad setup

     If you thought we were tired yesterday evening, we’re sure as shit near a coma this morning. I snooze through the 0500 wake up. Like that was gonna happen. I finally get out of bed at 0700. My upper back is so sore from paddling. I fill up the water jugs and try to wake Bri up. She pulls me back into bed, and we don’t end up leaving until 0745.

     The surf is still going off, but we’re so drained. Really, I mean we’ve already scored. Do we have to paddle out again? Can’t we just get all snuggly in the cabin before our check out at 1100?

     The surf’s just a tad smaller than yesterday. No gnarly current and not as many cleanup sets, so guys are really able to hold their positions. Even though the Monday crowd is thinner, there are still enough people to cause a battle.

     I turn to Bri and say, “I’m pretty content. I don’t to need to fight over waves right now.” So we don’t. We actually approach the session with a mellow attitude. Still, I’m able to rob some rights. With the waves less critical, I can go a little harder on the turns. Paddling back out, I see Bri on a right. She’s behind a section, and she needs to find a way around it or lose the wave. She makes two fists, holds them up at shoulder level, and pumps with her whole body. But you know what? It works. She makes it past the section. I watch her awkwardly cutback on her forehand, flailing her arms from almost falling backwards. Hey, at least she understands the concept of turning. Until my dying day, I’ll always say that she’s progressed must faster than I did.

 

The straw that broke the donkey’s back:

 

     After Bri gets snaked by some old fucker in a blue hat, she paddles even further north to beat the crowd. And wouldn’t you know? She starts catching waves. All to herself. But not for long. She’s changed the firing order, and now everyone is paddling more north now to sit near her. It creates some disorganization. Some guys paddle all the way to Middles. Most people are now out of position for the main right at the top of the wave, but then there are these lefts.

     For the first time this trip, I’m surfing the other side of the main peak and going frontside. The lefts are a bit unruly and even racier than the rights, but they’re still holding shape.

     Now I’m really tested. It’s been a while since I’ve caught a critical rippable left with size. I got my frontside wraps down pretty decent right now, rebounding off the whitewash, riding out of it crouching, and pumping down the line for more. But the face is so vertical. I do some frontside arcs, holding the turn until the tail releases, but the rounded pin and quad setup has so much traction that it’s hard to get that crisp accentuation when I really want it. I mean, I really have to draw a wide arc. That’s why I need another good standard shortboard with a squash tail.

     I guess that’s kind of weird. I think on my forehand, at Trestles, I like the looseness that a thruster setup gives me, but on my backhand, I like the extra grip that I get from quads. The idea of asymmetrical fins makes more sense now.

     Of course I do not practice any layback attempts. The waves are just too performance oriented for me to even attempt one. What I mean is, I just don’t want an awkward wipeout.

     Then it happens. Fuck. I have so much speed on one left, that in an attempt to force a tail release on the carve, I blow the fins, slide out, and fall backwards. It happens with so much speed that my upper back and shoulders hit the water first, and I whiplash my fucking neck. To add insult to injury, I get scooped up and body slammed by the wave. Forgivable my ass. . .

     Afterwards, it hurts just to turn my head, but you know what? Eh, I’m still so fucking stoked. I surf through the pain. We’re done at 0930 anyway. Time to go back to the cabin, dust off the rest of them chili dogs, and head back to El Segundo.

     After checking out, we stop off and watch the surf for a little while. The wind’s picked up into a strong sideshore. Waves are still breaking, and the lineup’s even more crowded now with the third shift. This is where I’m supposed to tell you that we suit up again because we’re surfers, because we’re not here to bullshit and waste any time, but I can’t tell you that.

     We stare out at the ocean reflecting on the last two days and all the waves we caught, having the beach cottage, and just . . . how everything worked out.

     We hit the road early and get back to El Segundo at a decent time, still buzzed from the last three sessions of stoke. Sometimes you don’t have to paddle out for every session. If you know you’ve won, there’s nothing wrong with calling it.

TOP OF THE WAVE (double sesh), SUN 08FEB2015

This picture was actually taken the following morning, but I had to throw it in just so you can get an idea of how good it was.

 

Loc: Churches

Time: 0930-1230        

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 5-7 FT, consistent, crowded, current, windy

Board: Lost Mini Driver, thruster setup

     I’ve struggled with trying to make my blogs shorter, so here it goes. . .

     I’m paddling back to the top of the wave, reflecting on times past. Rick sitting at the main peak at 45^th Street, waiving me over towards him, saying, “Sit over here, Matt.” My brother sitting on top of everyone at Canggu, Bali, not verbally telling me to sit at the top, but giving me that hard look and waving me over with his dark hand. Easier said than done at times, but I can’t help but smile thinking about these guys and the times that they’ve given me that advice because this morning . . . it’s working.

     I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen Churches packed with longboarders and ended up passing on surfing here. I’ve watched perfect hundred-yard peeling rights and walked further up the beach where it’s less crowded because the quality sucks. Today the swell is so big and so consistent that snagging one of these long rides is actually possible.

 

The Good:

     This might be a dick move, but I’m pulling that card today. After losing my penis at HB yesterday, I have a lot to prove right now. I go to the top, the main peak, at Churches. I sit deeper than everyone else, even the longboarders. How am I getting away with this? The current. People stop paddling, not realizing that they’re being dragged south to the second point. I feign this knowledge and drift with them, sliding into perfect position. But the crowd isn’t stupid. The second I paddle, everyone else does, too, and then the great surf migration begins. I must hold out as long as possible.

     Man . . . I’ve always said that Trestles is a forgiving wave. Since I’m deep, I’m paddling into the sets with the lips breaking on my back and neck. I should be blowing these drop ins, but my Mini Driver has so much meat on it that I slide down straight, regather myself, and cut to the top of the shoulder to slide down again. Guys are on the shoulder about to drop in, but they back off.

     I’ve been switching between thruster and quad setups, and my thrusters feel really fluid. My backhand snaps aren’t really “snappy.” Instead, I feel fluid through the turn. The strategy is to flow with the momentum that I have coming out of the turn, more swinging than stinging.  

     The bombs drop me off in front of the Churches campsites in the midst of the masses sitting near the bottom of the wave.

 

The Bad:

     Some of the waves fizzle out a little early, leaving me right in the middle of the rows of stampeding whitewash. I think about fear and respect. I’d be lying if I told you that I didn’t fear some of the massive round closeouts that HB and Porto can dish out, especially if they are breaking right on top of you. But even though Trestles isn’t a round wave, you still have to respect it.

     The waves aren’t killers, but it’s a fucking workout just to get back to the top. Row upon row of angry one-story high foam just pummels me. When the sets start coming in, they break even further out, so no matter how far I’ve progressed, the challenge seems never ending.

     I stop paddling at an angle and just go straight out to beat the waves, but it’s the fucking San Clemente 500 with guys caught on the inside and surfers on every wave ready to give you a close shave with their fins. It’s hard to get out of the way, but most guys have control, even though that have that wild-eyed look that says, “If I don’t make this section, I might end up killing you with my board.”

     But once the sets stop, I’m paddling through the lineup once more, going between unfamiliar faces, faces that will continue to linger at the bottom.

 

The Ugly:

     I’m tired. The action has been nonstop, either on a wave or paddling back. I continue to paddle in late like I’ve been doing all morning, but I start wiping out. Sliding down at a slight angle, the face is building before me. There’s a little more chop now from the side shore wind. I ride over one of them and eat shit. On another one, I’m in the flat section going so fast that I just lose my fins and flip over. I’m no longer the one-man wrecking crew. I have to scale back operations and be a little pickier.

     Meanwhile, I praise Bri for following me on this campaign. She’s out here, too, making it to the top, dealing with the impact zone on the 6’10 Becker.

     She says she’s tired, so I go in on my last wave. I didn’t tell her I was going in, but I didn’t want to make the paddle back.

     I sit on the hood of my car, waiting for her to return. Fifteen minutes later, she’s still out there. I can’t let my girlfriend out surf me, so I paddle back out and catch two more.

 

6SICKS6, SUN 08FEB2015

Loc: Churches

Time: 1600-1730        

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 5-6 FT+, consistent, crowded, current, windy

Board: Lost Mini Driver, quad setup

     We’re so drained. Plus it’s fucking windy outside. We could easily just hunker down before the evening and enjoy the beach cottage that we’ve rented for one night. Yet, it’s out of our nature to call it quits so soon. From the window, I can see Old Mans and its victory at seas conditions. Something about Churches right now that’s making it holds shape. I can see it from the window, too. Black dots make their way back out from the bottom of the wave. Rights are still peeling, leaving rows of whitewash behind and throughout the chaotic inside. So we pack up our gear for a short drive down the hill. How can’t we paddle out? We’re surfers. . .

     The low tide has changed the surf a little. One, the size has backed off just a notch, maybe half a foot. The inside waves that were lining up along the cobblestone shelf are now too drained to surf. Yet, the outside waves, with less water on the surface, are standing up more performance style.

     “I think I’m just gonna sit near the bottom of the wave and see if I can snag a few there,” I say to Bri. Pff. How stupid of me. I pause in different spots near the bottom of the wave only to make another push to the top once more. It’s this morning all over again.

 

Bri the Bomber:

     Since it’s not as consistent as this morning, the people at the top are able to hold their position. Not as many cleanup sets brushing away the surfers, but the crowd is thinner, so that kind of evens things out.

     Out back, the set waves are still predictably unpredictable, meaning that they’re either gonna swing super wide, north or south, or just break really far out.

     Bri’s to my south about twenty feet, and all of a sudden this fucking roguer just pops up on the horizon. I can already tell that I’m really deep for it, but not deep enough to pass it up. I could turn and go. Everyone else is too far inside—Bri and I had made a good call sitting out back. And the shoulder of this ginormous wave? Yeah, even though I’m deep on the peak, the shoulder’s for sure gonna stand up right where Bri is.

     I look at her and motion with my fingers, pointing for her to turn around and start paddling. Without hesitation, my woman turns around and picks up speed. I turn around too. I stroke and watch Bri to make sure that the wave scoops her up. I pull back, watching the shoulder of the wave, waiting to see if she actually caught it. A grom pulls out for her. I don’t see her the rest of the ride, she isn’t washed up on the inside at all. All I can do is watch the wave peel all the way to where our car is parked. Yeah. She got a bomb.

 

Wave of the Year:

     There are a couple other stubborn people sitting at the top of the wave. They aren’t letting the current pull them south. They’re fighting. It’s really all an act, us sitting so close to each other, acting like we’re not plotting. When I move to the top, others paddle further out to keep position. Luckily the sets are juicy, sending everyone on a mad scramble. I let the first ones go to position for the second or third.

     I catch a wave just inside from the top, but it turns soupy and drops me off near the shallow impact zone. As I’m paddling back out, the first wave of a set is approaching. It’s swinging so wide south and also breaking so far out that everyone is caught off guard.

     I’m not even at the top of the wave yet, and as the wave starts breaking, I watch five surfers in a row fake paddle for the wave, look down the line, and decide not to go. The wave is already running away, and no one wants to paddle into a critical drop.

     I swing my board around as the guy next to me pulls out, too, and I fucking drop right in and take it. Instant speed from the start. The wave is standing up so vertical, short of barreling, because of the tide. The whole lineup’s going over the shoulder as I wind up for my first hack. SNAP 1. Words can’t describe the feeling, when there’s a whole wall of water building before you, pristine Trestles quality, when there’s no need to look down the line because you know that the section is just building and building all the to shore. SNAP 2. Backhand, my priority is not to lose this wave. I want to get some power hacks, but I don’t want to “put on too much mustard and have the hot dog fall out of the bun” (Chick Hearn). SNAP 3. In the early evening darkness, the sun’s already set. The trough at the base of the wave is dark and curling, yet still open. As fluid as possible, like artwork, I’m painting with the tail of my board, winding up for another full wack. SNAP 4. The quads feel so much better. More grip, keeping me from sliding out. I can’t believe this fucking wave is still going. I’m past the Churches campsite and approaching the group site. SNAP 5. Are you fucking serious? This might be the best fucking wave of my life. Is anyone watching? Fuck I’m surfing this fucking thing so good. Ahhhh, ahhh, it’s about to close out. One more under the lip. SNAP 6.

     I ride out of the wave into the flats and straighten out, turning into the wall of whitewash before falling. I resurface, looking on shore. Some dude’s on his cell phone sitting on the sand. And old couple is sitting in camping chairs next to each other. I’ve ridden this wave all the way to the first intersection that leads up to the offices. Rick would be proud.

Drained:

 

    Bri doesn’t feel like cooking. Neither do I, so we’ve opted for chili dogs. After cooking them over the stove, adding a side of coleslaw, boiling the chili, and chopping some onions, we watch some cable TV. That’s right. Real cable. Motherfuckin’ Cartoon Network, homie. We don’t have cable at home. In fact, this fucking cottage is over twice as big as our El Segundo studio.

     We had so many plans. We brought movies, books, and cards, but at 2100 we can’t even keep our eyes open.

     Lying down on the bed butt naked—not a futon like back home—we talk about how good we’ve caught the surf. We agree that we’re both spoiled. It is possible to be broke and rich at the same time.