THE MILK MAN, MON 27APR015

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0645-0900

Crew: Klaude                                         

Conditions: 2-3 FT, offshore, inconsistent, soft, sunny. 

Board: 5’10 Mini Driver

     Something tells me that Porto is the right call since the swell is dropping, but surfing Porto makes me feel isolated sometimes. Sure, I talk to people there, but I’m not as cool with them as I am with the other peeps where I surf, so I head to my favorite local spot for a look. On the hill, I can see that the high-pressure system has moved in. The sun isn’t up yet, but the sky’s already clear. The water’s smooth and unmolested with soft two-to-three foot lines coming in. It’s mooshy out, but it’s worth a gamble with the tide going down.

     Reaching the sand, I see that none of the local regulars are out yet. Even the grom patrol is light. I paddle out just south of the 26^th Street tower where a few stragglers are.

     The waves are breaking a little fat but still offer some corners. After a couple closeouts, I catch a good right and crank one good backhand snap on it and ride out clean. After that, finding a good wave is hard. I keep bogging out on the inside after my turns. Maybe the quads have too much grip on my snaps and they’re slowing me down in these soft conditions. Should’ve went with thruster setup. I was going to use my MB Too, but I forgot my Futures Fins like a dumbass.

     In the distance, I see a guy walking towards the water. As he enters, he does a little hand motion and points to the sky, a ritual. It has to be no other than Klaude.

     The groms have left. Second shifters are now out. Toru even joins us for his standard thirty-minute heat.

     The conditions still stay perfect—glassy and offshore—but the waves just aren’t producing good shape. The ones with size closeout. There’s a weird backwash. Yet, Klaude catches a left from the tower all the way north to the brickhouse. “God damn,” I say when he paddles back. “Gonna start calling you the milkman.” He makes two fists and tugs on two imaginary udders.

     On the next right, he catches another long one all the way inside.

     The lowering tide isn’t helping. Klaude says, “When Uncle Miles shows up, that’s my cue to leave.”

     I look north. “He’s here.”

     We watch Miles on his longboard go two for two on some long lefts.

GOOD SUNDAY, SUN 26APR015

 

Loc: El Porto, 40^th Street

Time: 0630-0830

Crew: Br, Rick, Gary, Dave T., Manny                 

Conditions: 4-5 FT, offshore, consistent windswell. 

Board: 5’10 Mini Driver

     Dejavu. It’s 0530, and my phone’s going off with texts again. It’s Rick, no surprise, and he says the surf looks decent. At 0555, I finally succumb to my phone blowing up and check the surfcam. Consistent windswell peaks are marching into Porto. I get up and turn on some music in hopes for Bri to wake up, too—that’s how she likes being woken. After filling our water jugs, I have to tell her to get up. “There’s surf,” I say. Minutes later, she meets me in the car, and we drive off.

     Where to surf? I know 26^th Street is gonna be packed again with all the homies, but I didn’t surf with Rick yesterday. I have to catch him at least once this weekend. Instead of driving straight on Highland like I normally do, I hang a left on 45^th. Sure as shit, Rick’s van is parked at 40^th. Only five guys are out. I spot Dave T and Rick immediately. The peaks are a little soft because of the tide, but they have size. A set comes in at about five-feet, solid playful size. I’m amped.

     “Let’s go,” I say. Bri’s still changing.

     “Just go, you don’t have to wait for me.”

     “I’ll wait.”

     She rolls her eyes and halts zipping up her wetsuit. When we hit the sand, I’m already ten steps ahead of her.

     I see Rick get two turns on a right as I’m paddling out. On the third duckdive, I realize how consistent the surf is. It takes a little while to get to the lineup. I’ve already drifted close to Rosecrans. I say wassup to Dave first. Gary spots me.

     “It is on!” says Gary. “The heat is on.” Fuck, his face is serious, but I’m stoked. I love the friendly competition.

     On my first wave, a left, I force a carve on a soft section and get hung up on the lip. The wave leaves me behind. I need to back off on trying to approach the surf like a contest. Too much mustard and not enough hotdog. Just have fun, I tell myself.

     And so I go back to stoke mode, watching the WHC, old Venice Vets, go head to head with each other. All of them are ripping. Dave T. and Manny are the standouts, getting the most rides. Even though it’s not official, there seems to be a personal heat with Gary and Rick.

     Bri draws blood right away and catches a long right. I get a set-wave left. It’s racy, so I have to pump to get down the line. I chance float a crumbling section in front of me and actually clear it. With the wave about to closeout, I get a frontside carve and ride out of it. It ends up being my wave of the day.

     Bri catches a left and disappears for at least fifteen minutes. Out back, everyone is hooting and hollering for a rogue wave out the back. Gary’s darting for it from deep in the lineup. He turns and goes with the lip already spilling. As he’s popping up, we can all tell that he’s late, and it just steamrolls him. Gary gets churned up on the inside.

     “Where’s Bri?!” says Rick. His tone is serious and less fatherly than usual. It brings me flashbacks to when Rick and I had served in the same unit together in The Guard. He’s worries. So am I. I catch my next wave in and start walking towards 45^th because that’s where Bri should be after her last left, but when I turn around, I see her getting pounded on the paddle out at Rosecrans.

     On another bomb left, I back out for Gary who’s on my outside. I want him to go, but he backs out, too. A second later, SPLASH!, a bucket gets thrown out the back. It’s Rick.

     Next wave, Rick paddles out and takes another wave under Gary’s priority. When Rick gets back, an altercation ensues. All I hear is, “Come on, Ricky. You just got one, and you paddle right out and get another one again? C’mon!”

     Gary looks upset. Rick has his clenched smile. He looks at me and raises his eyebrows.

     Bri rejoins us eventually. Yes. That consistent. I even get worked with Dave and Gary right next to me on the inside.

     At the two hour mark, we’re done. Plenty of paddling and plenty of waves. I didn’t catch many good rides, but that was mostly my fault. Bad selection, and surfing with a motley crew of salty surf vets, frothing at the mouth for a chance at showmanship. I can only hope to be ripping like that when I’m older.

     Afterwards, Bri and I treat Rick out for breakfast at Mandy’s. Klaude stops by the house and tells us how 26^th Street was. “It was empty,” he says. “Only Ross, Roy, Paul, and Steve. Most of the guys were just watching from the lot.”

     Sounds like it was the same up and down the beach. Even though I didn’t surf at my favorite spot, Bri and I still made the right call. We got to surf with Rick and the rest of his crew, even Manny who I haven’t surfed with in a while. Porto wasn’t even that crowded.

     I spend the rest of the day with Bri watching NBA Playoffs. It’s a good Sunday.

DON’T FORGET TO VALIDATE YOUR LOCAL CARD, SAT 25APR015

Dave T. had texted me a couple of days ago and alerted me of this photo posted from April 15th on swellmagnet.com To think that I had bitched about this day being shitty. Didn't realize that I had actually gotten a decent turn.

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0645-0900

Crew: Bri & Klaude                                   

Conditions: 3-4 FT, light onshore, crowded.

Board: 5’10 Mini Driver

     My phone gets blown up with texts around 0530. It’s Rick and the WHC. They’re already parking around Rosecrans to surf Porto. I had just surfed last weekend with Rick, and when it comes to Porto I usually only surf there on weekdays. It’s been a while since I surfed my favorite local break. Since I haven’t surfed there in a while, I decide to make an appearance. Small waves or not, I have to keep my membership going. Time to punch in and get my local card validated.

     Bri works, so she drives there separately. I have to take a mean ass shit, so she leaves ahead of me. When she gets there, she shoots me a Vox and says that the surf is small and no one is out.

     Driving on Vista Del mar, the surf in front of Chevron and around the Jetty looks dismal. “Small and no one is out,” she had said. Exactly not what I want to hear.

     When I pull up to 26^th Street, I see some small lines rolling in. The ocean’s surface is textured like stucco from the onshore wind. Indeed, no one out. Yet . . . I already know I’m going.

     I’m already suited up when I’m walking down to meet Bri. I catch Stocky John and Mitch in the metered lot. After a small chit chat, I catch Bri in Vietnam Vet Mike’s VIP parking spot.

     We warm up just south of the tower. Just from parking fifteen minutes ago, the surf has already picked up a notch. The shape is a little messed up from the wind, but some fast racy peaks are still rolling through, some with shoulders to offer. Just north of Marine, the lefts look consistent and rippable.

     Oscar, Kai, Young Mike, and a bunch of other regulars are out. It’s crowded, but at least I know the faces here.

     Sitting on the left, I actually score a lot of rides. In the right place, I take off as the shoulders stand up. The waves aren’t round. They start off soft with shape and turn sectiony on the inside. A lot of them are four footers. Most of them are chasers, but they’re fun. I finish one wave off with a solid carve, my wave of the day. Before long everyone is out: Orlando, Jose, Ross, Roy, Don K “The King”, and Klaude.

     I had scored a lot of lefts, so I paddle north to the next peak where it’s less consistent. Obviously, Bri catches a lot of waves on her NSP. She should be on the Becker, but it needs repairs. She has to leave early for work, so for a while it’s just Klaude and I trading off waves with the local vets. It’s hard for us to get a good down-the-line ride, but Roy is shining, always picking the gems, getting at least two turns.

     About a quarter to nine, the wind picks up. A lot of people leave. The water gets choppier and the lowering tide makes the rides shorter. After the surf, Klaude and I meet at Goodstuff for breakfast.

     So today I wasn’t expecting much. With an already shitty surf forecast and tiny onshore waves at first light, the surf ended up producing more than what was called for. Most importantly, it was a day when everyone was out, all the regulars. I can’t say that we are all officially friends, but we’re at least friends in the water, part of the same class at the same school of surf. I showed up, participated, and got points attendance.

WHEN YOU SEE. . ., FRI 24APR015

 

Loc: Huntington Pier, northside

Time: 0845-1110                                      

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, light onshore, semi consistent, cold, overcast.   

Board: What else? The go to. 5’10 Mini Driver, until it breaks.

     I’ve waited . . . I’ve waited all week to babysit my nephew and surf HB. This would be the day that I wouldn’t be looking at HB through a Surfline cam, today would be the day that I’d score. But . . . when you see a standup paddle boarder at the Huntington Cliffs, there’s a chance that you might get skunked.

     Brookhurst. I’m here. With a gray overcast sky above the surf, I’m staring at unorganized low-tide two-footers. In the distance, it looks like sheets of mist have left the clouds and made landfall over Newport. A sprinkle of rain smooches my face while the onshore wind French kisses it. Only two guys out here, a small handful more at River Jetties. Fuck me. Hideki had texted me yesterday, asking me where I’ve been, saying that HB has been epic. Not the choice word that I use lightly, but I trust his judgement. Must’ve been good. Anything is good compared to one-turn quota sessions at Porto.

     I drive back south and decide to chance the pier. Like the South Bay, on shitty days you go where the waves are guaranteed, and what better gamble than the pier. As I make the right onto 7^th Street, I spot Chris by the 7-Eleven changing out of his wetsuit. His clammy pale skin looks cold wrapped around his towel. At the end of the block Hideki waves me down. I haven’t seen this guy in a while. “Late train,” I say.

     “Serious late train!” he says. His hair is longer and more unkempt from the last time I had seen him. Stubble protrudes above his upper lip and around his chin. He’s been consistent. It’s too easy to tell. He says that it was better earlier before the wind picked up and, of course, that yesterday was better.

     I have lunch scheduled with Cassady at 1130, so what else am I going to do? I don’t drive all the way to HB not to surf, so I change, walk into the onshore wind, risk life and limb standing in the center divider on PCH, and make my towards a no-man’s land surf session. (I will use the crosswalk from now on)

     Did I mention I’m not a local here? I’m weary of sitting next to people, so I sit wide north. A grom who had paddled out at the same time catches a wedgy right, ripping two backhand snaps. Two battle buddies paddle around their spot like sharks protecting their kill. After the shark brothers leave, I take over the peak. I’m head of the second shift. First shift clocks out. The rest of the second shift crew is manageable, a couple old longboarders, a noob chick, and a couple guys who don’t look too aggressive.

     For an onshore low-tide overcast day, I’m impressed with how the sandbars are still causing the waves to hold shape. Not every wave is a taker, but it’s consistent enough to stay busy. Off the pier, four-foot plus wedges randomly roll in, and throughout the whole lineup, the Surf Gods deliver.

     I go to work right away, catching both a handful of closeouts and some single shot rides. It’s my first HB sesh on my new stick, and I instantly feel how surfing HB is different. After surfing shitty Porto, playful DMJ, and slopey rippable Churches, HB is definitely faster and steeper on the takeoff. It’s challenging. The only thing missing is glassy conditions. Who cares about the overcast? If it were glassy, this place would be perfect.

     I don’t catch any memorable rights, but just popping up in time gives some satisfaction, even if the waves don’t line up enough. It’s the lefts that are fun. Upon popping up, the waves slingshot you down into fast rampy faces, more speed than my surfing ability can handle, but I stick to what I know. I bottom turn with tremendous momentum and get a frontside wrap, rail to rail with minimum effort because of the wave’s speed. The fast sections are fun to race. Instead of chancing a floater, I clear a section by driving around the flats like the pros do, and my board actually gives me enough drive to make it around. On one ramp, I attempt a layback. I have so much speed that even on the petering two-foot shoulder, I feel my fins make a slashing arc as I lean back and plant my hand behind me. Ahh, only if I could actually ride out of these. One day. . .

     By 1045 the third shift comes out. These guys are fresh dudes, catching wave after wave. I’m the only one left from the second shift. The atmosphere turns into one of those sessions where everyone, except you, is getting waves. I start making mistakes. Looking for that last ride, I fall after a backhand snap. Other waves are closeouts. At 1110, I call it after my last lame wave. It has to end sometime.

     Before turning my back on the beach, I take one last look at the surf. Maybe I couldn’t tell that the wind had picked up from when I had paddled out earlier. The surf looks like a different break. For a day of low expectations, though, I had a lot of fun. An average day at Huntington is like a decent day at Porto. There was more size here, more shape, better sandbars, and I exceeded my one-turn quota.

     So . . . when you see a standup paddle boarder at Huntington Cliffs, it doesn’t mean you’ll get skunked. Keep driving, do more recon along the coast, and if the surf still looks like shit, paddle out anyway and see what happens. Sometimes, you won’t know unless you go.