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| Empty Churches after shark sighting. |
Loc:
Oceanside
Time:
0800-1100
Crew:
Rick A.
Conditions:
3-4 FT, glassy, inconsistent.
Board:
5’10 Lost Mini Driver
None of my friends were available for a
weekend trip down south, save for Bri who was going to meet us at San Onofre
that Saturday evening. None of Rick’s friends were able to make it, too. With
an average forecast of 2-3 FT+ for south OC, I could have easily passed.
However, I hadn’t had any quality time with Rick for a while, and it was hard
to tell the guy no. It always is. I can appreciate the true value of quality
time with family, so I told him I’d be ready at 0500.
#
My gear’s prepacked in the back of my wagon
ready to be transferred over to Rick’s van when he pulls up. After cereal and
brewing some coffee, I sit in my car and wait for his headlights. I’m tired.
Rick pulls up. In the morning darkness I can see he’s tired, too.
I fight dozing off. Both of us had shitty
sleep last night. When we hit Irvine’s when we both run out of words. Usually
Rick is longwinded in his conversations, but today we’re piggy backing off of
any subject we can talk about. Silence when Rick is around is highly unusual,
and for the first time ever, we have to really strain to keep the words coming
out of our mouths.
It’s already light out when we exit
Basilone. Only a few heads are at Lowers. A right is swinging wide and peeling
into Middles. Empty. “There’s something out there,” I say.
When we reach the checkpoint to enter the
beach, the guard says, “Beach is closed for surfing. Two eleven-foot great
whites were spotted.”
Rick tells the guy that he has a campsite
and that we’ll just be hanging out at the beach. When we enter, only one car is
parked where it’s usually packed by now. Clean but weak 2-3 FT peaks are
rolling in unridden with only three guys out. On the sand, a sign is posted to
warn beach goers. We walk to upper Churches. Looks the same.
It’s when we jump in the car and head
towards Old Mans that I suggest Oceanside. Rick turns quiet again. I can see
the gears working inside his head. His family is coming over from the South
Bay. They’ll be here within two hours. Yet, another 16 miles south, and the
surf could be worth it.
#
 |
| Saw this entering Camp Pendleton. Haha! |
Oceanside AKA DMJ. What a military perk it
is to have this place. When we pull up, we see waves, but the peaks look long
with racy shoulders at the end of them. We can’t tell if it’s worth the drive,
but we suit up. Guys parked in the lot are saying that the water’s freezing.
Rick looks at my 3/2 and offers up his brand new Hurley 4/3. I accept.
Yes, the water is freezing. Much colder
than the South Bay. My hands go numb instantly. Rick’s still back in the lot
locking up the van. I duckdive an inside wave that looks soft and rippable, but
I keep paddling further out.
Usually this place has minimal crowd, but
there are a lot of people out. Must’ve been good yesterday. The word is out. I
sit wide of three guys who are sitting just north of the jetty. I back out of
the first wave of the set for one of them when another one breaks a little
further out. I turn and go, but the wave closes out, and all I can do is get a
little practice floater. I’m out of position for the next couple of waves, but
I watch how the surfers get into them. Even though the tide is coming up, the
waves are still vertical. One guy doesn’t pull in fast enough and gets
clobbered by the four-foot lip. Still reeling, a small almond slit offers some
tube space. Right at that moment, I just have that feeling, a similar feeling
to the first time that I had gotten some easy barrels at HB Cliffs. Something
tells me that, if I surf right, I might get a little barrel today.
Standard. It’s standard to pull into
closeouts. Like barrel practice, getting pinched. Sort of a rights of passage.
I can’t tell you how many session, especially at Manhattan Beach, where that’s
all the surf offered—pinchers.
I get two more waves where I pull in and
don’t even get a glimpse of anything. On the third one, I get the standard
vision, the curling section in front of me, the eternal shoulder that I’ll
never clear, and the foamy lip that’s about to wash me out. Two guys are on the
shoulder as I pull in. They disappear from view. All I see is foamy water. I’m
blinded. This is where I usually penetrate out the back, another closer under
my belt, but all of a sudden my vision clears, like the washy lip is in rewind.
The lip goes in reverse and curls back into the lip. I’m riding out of it. An
opening. The pocket becomes the open face, and I stand up riding on the
shoulder. I pump twice and end the ride with a half ass floater and a splashy
dismount. Resurfacing, I let out a loud laugh to myself as if I were mad like
the Joker. Yes. That just happened. Beyond stoked. Session made. The drive down
south was worth it.
Paddling back out, I see Rick sitting more
north with the pack. I’m ear to ear. He senses my stoke. I make a circle with
my thumb and forefinger and peak through it as if I had just made a Swaggy P.
three pointer.
And the rest . . . the rest of the session
is fucking decent. A foot bigger would have made the conditions a little
challenging, but four-foot DMJ is absolutely playful. With the tide softening
up the surf, I get to dial in my rail game on my new Mini Driver. To say the
least, I’m a little off. I get good bottom turns, extend as I climb the face
with speed, but I feel hung up on my top turns. Maybe I still have some
Motorboat Too residue. I can really feel the pin tail on this board now, the
bite is has, and how it doesn’t want to release. Yet, I’m still having fun.
It’s just gonna take some time.
“I’ve read the Kelly Slater book,” says
Rick. “You gotta move around.” And he does. Rick’s not the type to sit in one
place. On his beaten-up and war-torn Neckbeard, he sits with the crowd and gets
both rights and lefts all the way to shore. Meanwhile, I’m fine where I am away
from everyone. Save for a couple of body boarders and an SUP guy, I get a lot
of waves to myself.
#
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| Took a little stroll before session #2. Small Churches. |
 |
| Cute abandoned little seal pup. |
Loc:
Upper Churches
Time:
1600-1800
Conditions:
2-3 FT, light onshore, inconsistent.
Board:
5’10 Lost Mini Driver
Rick’s wife’s a little upset at how late we
are getting back to San Onofre. I can tell she’s pulling punches a little since
I’m here. I’m glad that she is because I don’t want to be in the middle of a
quarrel. While Rick’s hands are full with his family, I snack on the fruits of
their get together, munching on hot dogs and chips. Even in the early
afternoon, the conditions are still clean with just a subtle onshore wind. I
wait for the tide to cover the cobblestones before I paddle out again.
It’s 1600 when I’m back at Upper Churches.
Even though the conditions are clean, fuck the waves are much weaker compared
to Oceanside. Upper Churches is crowded, which is unfortunately normal
nowadays, so I do my usual thing and sit wide north, hoping to score some
lefts. I notice another surfer doing the same. I catch one under his priority.
Even though this Mini Driver is shorter than my other one, I’m surprised at how
well it performs even in two-foot surf. I pop up and pump, making the sections,
getting a little floater at the end. Afterwards, the other guy gets the next
one. And that’s how the session goes, trading off with a random stranger. We
don’t talk the whole time, yet we know etiquette.
It’s not until some guy on a blue foamie
paddles out and sits in between us. Fuckin’ guy snakes the other dude, and then
the rotation gets all messed up. Aside from that, I can’t get any solid carves
for the life of me.
I call the session at 1800. On the way back
to the campsite, I spot Rick on the sand walking towards me. Turns out he was
bored since his family went home. In front of us, a bunch of Marines are
breaking up a fight. The soldiers have to barely be in their twenties, just
kids. Too much alcohol and not enough life experience yet. A recipe for
disaster.
When Bri shows up, we grab some Sonic’s to
go and head back to the campfire with Rick. We’re tired. So tired.
