BAD JOKE, WED 04MAR2015

Damn, you. . . Damn, you. . . .

Loc: Bolsa Chica                                     

Time: 0830-1030   

Crew: Cassady

Conditions: 2-3 FT, offshore, inconsistent, swampy. 

Board: Motorboat Too

     Today was supposed to be the day. With Surfline forecasting south-facing beaches at 4-5 Occasional 6ft, how could I not be stoked? To make up for last Tuesday’s missed opportunity to surf good HB, I damn sure wasn’t gonna miss out on today. I had even planned to meet up with my buddy Cassady who lives in Long Beach.

     I’m out the door at 0550, and it’s still not early enough. The horizon’s already a metallic orange, bright enough to be in the water. First light’s much earlier now.

     My first destination is the HB Cliffs. Despite being late for first light, I must be early because barely anyone is parked here. The wind is light offshore, not a cloud in the sky. Save for the sub sixty-degree air temp, it’s a perfect day. I step up to the railing to have a look at the surf, and nothing is breaking. Tide. There’s just too much water on the surface. Nothing but shorepound action. No one is out right here. Further south, a few heads sit closer to Goldenwest.

     I drive further south to take a chance on Brookhurst. On the way there, I see some waves breaking at Goldenwest. There’s a lot of activity at the pier. However, the surf has that mooshy teepee shape. The sets are bigger, but they’re breaking section on section. It’s not classic. No legit peaks.

"And that's when Donny realized that he might have been better off staying local."

     The feeling of getting skunked officially sets in when I do reach Brookhurst. Same story here as the pier. Yet, guys are out. The end section of a wave has a racy shoulder. It looks doable, but it’s not what I expect when it comes to this place, especially with the given forecast. I can’t blame Surfline. It did say “Slow morning” because of the high tide. I just hoped it wouldn’t be this bad.

     So I find myself at Bolsa Chica, taking advantage of my state pass. It’s shorepounding here, so I bust out my book that I had brought with me and kill some time.

     After struggling to stay awake through my book, Cassady arrives a little after 0800. “We could surf here or check out The Cliffs again,” I say.

     “Nah,” says Cas. “I’d rather surf here for a half hour. I have a meeting at work.”

     We’re in the water by 0830. The window should be better. The tide’s going down, and there’s enough swell to start pushing through the moosh. Immediately, I get a couple of fat shoulders. They turn racy, and all I can do is pump for distance and finish with some baby floaters. Cassady, on his longboard, milks the whole half hour, getting fun rides.

     “It looks like there’s potential,” I say. “Maybe another hour?”

     When Cassady leaves, I have the whole break to myself. A few guys sit two towers south of me. My spot shuts down. It seems to be more consistent where the other guys are. I paddle over, and either the waves break too far out or they’re too soft and break late. Even with perfect conditions, me burning hot in my wetsuit, negative wind, sunny skies, and a hyped-up south swell, I cannot get a turn for the life of me.

     Guys show up for surf checks on the sand and leave. It’s fucking 1000 now. The tide should be better, right? It’s gonna turn. The window’s gonna open. It’s gonna get good.

     By 1030, I’m so fucking frustrated. Out there with the seagulls, I have a good sit down with myself. I’d like to think I’m a dedicated surfer. It’s my lifeblood. Maybe not on a charger or international scale, but at least for an average local guy, I’m a fanatic. I’ve earned that. But its days like these when I feel like a joke.

     The demons come out. What am I doing with myself, my life, sitting here waiting for the good wave that isn’t coming. Or maybe it will. Later, the tide’s gonna get lower. This spot’s gonna be transformed, littered with peaks. I could stay and grab breakfast somewhere. Coffee, finish off my book, check it again around lunch time.

     I willingly do the paddle of shame to shore. Driving home, I have a hard time finding the right music to fit the mood.

WINDOW HUNTING, SUN 01MAR2015

Loc: Manhattan Beach, 26^th Street                     
Time: 1100-1230   
Crew: Bri    
Conditions: 1-2 FT, offshore, inconsistent, swampy. 
Board: Zippifish

     Yesterday, Klaude called me after dawn patrolling 26^th Street. “Don’t even bother,” he said. He had just finished skating from 26^th to Porto. “One peak was kind of working, but too many guys on it. Roy was out at 26^th, but he wasn’t catching shit.” I look at surfcam. Yeah. Looks choppy and unorganized.

     This morning, Bri and I are sleeping in. Sundays are her only full days off, so I make sure not to rush her if I can avoid it. Tide’s high anyway. Klaude calls again. Same story, but this time he’s parked outside.

     We invite him in for coffee and a veggie smoothie. Poor guy. Tax season has him so busy, and this whole weekend has been a letdown for surf. Skunked twice in a row.

     When he leaves, Bri and I take our time getting ready. Maybe now that it’s later the tide will be lower. Maybe now’s the right window to surf.

     We score parking at one of my reliable free-parking sites. Looking down the hill, I see lines coming in, but they just keep on rolling until they turn into shorepound. The whole time, I don’t see one wave peel in front of 27^th.

     Zippi in hand, I’m hoping for the best. When we reach the sand, we see more surfers by Marine that we weren’t able to see from the hill. A set rolls through, giving some soft lefts. It’s a little promising.

     When we paddle out, I say hi to Roy. He says that yesterday was bigger and more fun. I nod and smile back at a few familiar faces, but each face has that oh-well look to it, the surf-sucks-but-I’m-here look. And my, there’s a pack sitting on that left. As much as I don’t want to sit on them, I kind of have to.

     Bri paddles further south and sits at the edge of the crowd. The Becker’s not enough board this morning. She scratches and can’t get shit. The waves are pure boggers. I tell her that we should paddle back north, and then an outside set rolls in. It’s only three feet, but it catches everyone off guard, and now the whole lineup is duckdiving it. Just like that, the sun comes out, giving the whole beach a makeover. It looks like a day that should have good waves.

     Don K. paddles out, but he’s with the other local vets sitting more towards the inside. The waves do get a little more consistent and start standing up more, but the lower tide makes them racy. The wind shifts, and the now the surf is slightly choppy and closed out.

     Bri and I leave. I know that I’m unsatisfied, but we’re glad to have spent the Sunday this way. However, man . . . I really haven’t had a good session in a while. This aggression cannot stand. There’s a south forecasted on Wednesday. Maybe then I can redeem myself for last week’s bad call not to go. I hope I score.

GIVING IN, FRI 27FEB2015

Loc: El Porto, 42^nd Street                            
Time: 0630-0830   
Crew: Rick & his friend from work, and Bri     
Conditions: 2 FT+, offshore, swampy, inconsistent.  
Board: Zippifish

     Rick had called me yesterday, telling me that he’d be surfing Porto with one of his coworkers this morning. After hinting to him that I wanted to surf at my preferred local surf spot, he still kept asking me to join him. I even told Bri, “I’m surfing 26^th. No way I’m doing Porto. It’s gonna be crowded tomorrow. I just know it.”

     Yet, when Rick called me last night, he persisted once more, and I gave in. Awww what the hell. He’s the closest thing that I’ve ever had to a dad, and it’s just so hard to tell him now.

     Bri and I arrive to a desolate parking lot and park right next to Rick. His buddy is Rolando, his coworker from Georgia who’s assigned to work at his job for two weeks. Rolando says that he surfs, too. We all look out at the water. The forecast was a little too generous for today. It’s soft serve out there, even smaller than yesterday, but at least I got the right board.

     Rick starts his attack at 45^th as usual. Even though the crowd is thin this morning, the inconsistency is an issue, causing everyone to congregate at the same takeoff spot, waiting for glory. But I’ll give it to Rick. He’s on a mission. Seems like he thrives when his friends aren’t having fun, like he’s doing his best to milk every wave as if he were saying, “Look! See! There are waves out here to catch. You can catch some, too!” That, and combined with his eternal stoke for surf. Sometimes I take it for granted how well he surfs for being in his fifties. Is that even normal? I mean, he used to ride fishes, and as he’s gotten older, he’s shifted to more performance boards.

     The Zippi isn’t giving me the best advantage. The surf is just that weak this morning, but I do get some single shots. A snap here, a forehand cutty on a wave that bogs out, nothing serious.

     Bri catches a few waves on the Becker and heads to work. Rolando is just sitting in the crowd. The waves he catches are small and racy. He’s trying while not smiling.

     Rick says, “Rolando said this is the best surf he’s had since October. This is a good day where he’s from.”

     Yeah, I’m not too sure how this could be stokeworthy at all. Regardless, this is probably the place with the most size in the South Bay.  

     We end the morning at Blue Butterly. I join them for breakfast, buying just a small coffee for myself since I have food in the fridge. Rolando’s looking at his phone. He’s tense. These guys need to get back to work. Rick’s stalling as always, wishing he had the day off, and I don’t blame him for that. Who wouldn’t rather spend the day at the beach?

     Rick’s salmon bagel sandwich is brought to our table. He grabs half of it and says, “Go ahead, Matt. Eat.”  

     “It’s cool, Rick,” I say. “I got food at home.”

     “Just go for it, Matt. It’s too much for me. I can’t eat it.”

     I sigh and say, “Okay.” I bite into it. It’s really good.

SURFING WITH THE VETS, THU 26FEB2015

Loc: El Porto, 42^nd Street                            
Time: 0630-0815   
Crew: Gary, Dave T., Manny A., Juan A.    
Conditions: 2-3 FT, howling offshore, swampy, inconsistent.  
Board: Motorboat Too

     After letting the nick behind my ear heal for a day, I head out to Porto to meet the Venice Vets, also known as the Westside Hurley Crew. However, at this point, since a few of their members have recently been donning gear from solid Quik hookups, I’d rather just refer to them as the salty vets that they are.

     Gary had said that Porto was fun yesterday, so I missed out. Not only had I made the bad call for staying local yesterday, and not only was my ear kind of fucked up from getting dinged from my board, but I also missed out on a decent surf session. Dead or alive, I’m surfing today.

     I score at my secret garden parking spot and head down to Porto. Immediately in front of 42^nd Street, I lock in on a stocky guy on a nice left. He’s crouched low, barrel chested, with his arms hanging down like an ape. On a soft three-foot wave, he’s doing wrapping cutbacks and getting back down the line. It’s Gary. He’s Grape Ape.

     As I paddle out, I spot Manny and Dave T. in the water, too. Surprisingly, the lineup’s not as typically crowded as it usually is. Maybe the glum forecast and the recent rain has people opting for Pillow Point this morning.

     I’m beyond eager. I’m frothing, in need of a major redemption session. I can’t even remember the last good session that I had.

     My Motorboat feels good under my torso, and it’s floating me well, but the waves are just a bit too soft.

     “It was bigger yesterday,” says Gary. Meanwhile, Juan A. enters the lineup.

     There are some bigger rogue waves that catch most of us by surprise. With only two lackluster waves under my belt, a perfect right swings my way. I’m deep for it, but Juan is right on the shoulder. No need to even holler for him to go, because he’s on it. From behind, I can tell that the wave’s holding shape, and then a huge bucket of water gets thrown out the back. All the guys see it. Two more all the way to shore. Easily, it’s the best wave of the morning, and he’s put his homies in combo land.

     And for the rest of the session, I can’t get a decent wave. It’s not just me, it’s the conditions. Some guy is on a fun looking hybrid board, and he’s catching everything. No leash even. I regret not having my Zippifish with me.

     One by one, the guys start to leave for work. Even though the tide’s getting lower, the surf is turning wonky, so I call it, too. At least surfing Porto this morning wasn’t like pulling my teeth with the crowd. It was mellow. And as my DRC surf homies have left, are workaholics, or just don’t surf anymore, I’m grateful that I can be a wildcard addition to their crew.