LONE WOLFING, TUE 25AUG2015

Loc: El Porto, 45^th Street

Time: 0815-0945

Conditions: 1-2 Occasional 3 FT, inconsistent, crowded

Board: Motorboat Too

     I’d like to go to my usual local break, but as I pass 45^th Street, I notice an open parking spot on Highland Ave. I keep driving. No, I’m not surfing Porto today. I’m gonna surf where I know at least half the lineup, where I’m welcomed. Against my will, I hook a U-turn and head back to that open spot.

     I haven’t been surfing as long as most of the regulars who surf Porto, but I have a right to reflect and recall my own past experience here. There was a time when I’d pride myself in securing a metered parking spot, way back in the day when I was surfing with friends who fell out of love with surfing years ago. If I would have kept my attendance consistent here, I think I’d qualify as a local, but I don’t.

     Lone wolfing . . . it’s the conscious decision when you decide to surf somewhere you’ll be casted as an outsider, away from the confines of your usual comfortable spot. Every once in a while this isn’t such a bad call. You get to be anonymous. Nobody knows you, you don’t know anybody. If you surf like shit, people will just think you’re a kook. If you have a good session, then you’re the unsuspecting sleeper, everyone’s favorite.

     Well, I doubt my session’s gonna go that well because it’s fucking tiny. A thick voluptuous chick is playing on the inside, blonde hair but looks Hispanic, possibly South American. She’s wearing a black bikini top with bottoms that are thick around the waist but ram up her anus like a G. She swims out to the lineup and lingers around three fun boarders who are all speaking Spanish.

     Four other Asian chicks are out on longboards, too. Wow. Yeah. This is summer in the South Bay. After Blue Crush came out, Rick A. calls the chick surfers crushies, but who gives a shit. . .

     Doing my lone wolf thing, I try. I scratch. Meh. I do get a few short rides to begin with. I actually get one racy left where I make a section with a floater and get vertical on the finishing floater. Feels good and aggressive for a small day. But after that wave, fuckin’ A., it’s hard to get another one like it.

     The crowd’s no joke. The school kids aren’t the ones crowding the lineup but adults. Are this many people unemployed and barely working part time like I am? Either that or a gang of people have Tuesdays off.

     One guy looks like a young Hedo Turkoglu, but he has dirty blond hair and a soul patch like a billy goat. He’s one of the few idiots like myself trying to surf this shit on a shortboard. We trade off on waves. I make the effort to share; if I catch one I let him take the next.

     Some long hair Russell Brand looking dude paddles out on a shortboard with a noob chick. He’s teaching her how to surf. I swear, the best wave of the morning comes through, a left. It’s perfect and shouldery. Russell paddle battles with Hedo until Hedo backs off. My dumb ass is on the shoulder, slightly scratching, hoping that one of them fails. Hedo backs off, and the look on Russell’s face is so fucking intense. Man . . . Lone Wolf all the way. I think we found our sleeper. He’s on a fish. I don’t watch his ride, but I hear the swish of spray get thrown out the back. Fucker.

     When he returns, he says to the chick, “Man! Whenever I’m going for a wave I can’t help it. I go for it like I’m in Bali!”

     Hate to break it to you, guy, but Bali is played out and fucking crowded. It’s cheap. Nowadays you’ll probably meet more people who have been to Bali than fucking Mexico.

     The whole session while I’m catching meager rides with nowhere to go, I have to hear them talk.

     “I know what you mean,” says the chick. Later, she asks him if she should be riding something smaller like the fish he’s on. Mind you, she’s on a foamie.

     “You can,” he says. “But it might be a little frustrating for you.”

     Hedo turns to me unexpectedly and says, “It’s actually pretty fun!”

     What the hell? I’m thinking. I thought we were all supposed to be lone wolfing it?

     “Yeah,” I say. “Probably would help to have a little more volume.”

     “Nah!” He grabs the nose of his shortboard. “You can either turn or you can’t!”

     I blow my nose.

     “You got something right here,” he says, pointing to the left corner of his mouth.

     I touch my face and look at my hand. There’s a big slimy booger.

     The session’s a short one. It’s the deal I made with myself. If it’s small or crummy, I’m only surfing for an hour, hour and a half tops.

     Driving back, I recount the lone-wolf session. Heh . . . not dramatic at all. That one wave I had, that was it. Hedo was cool, Russell annoying, and I was the kook. Kook with a fucking huge ass booger on my face.

RESIDUE PT.2, SUN 23AUG2015

Loc: El Porto, Rosecrans

Time: 0730-0840

Crew: Bri, Rick, Gary, Manny, Dave, Chris, Jack, Russ

Conditions: 1-3 FT, inconsistent, crowded

Board: Motorboat Too

     It’s hard to get up early after Orlando’s party. I look at my phone, Rick had texted me an hour ago.

     There’s no legit swell on tap, so I’m not expecting anything this morning. Especially since we’re meeting Rick at Rosecrans on a Sunday, I know it’ll be crowded.

     Pulling into the lot brings back a memory of how I had brought my brother here to surf for the first time, the cliques of surfers lined up along the lot. “Too much of a scene,” he had said.

     This morning, it’s not so bad. I catch Whiffle Boy pulling out his board from his car, stop, and ask him if he’s ready to shred. He laughs.

     I spot Rick’s van at the end of the lot and score the last parking spot there. Jimmy B.’s rinsing off as Bri and I get to the sand. We call out and wave to him.

     As crowded as the lineup is, we spot the Hurley wetsuits in the water. Rick’s hat also gives away their position. Almost all of their crew is out, and they’re holding down a whole peak to themselves.

     Greetings go all around when Bri and I reach the water. The conditions are clean with just a light onshore, but the surf is inconsistent. I get a right immediately, but my snap on the end section is lackluster.

     Meanwhile, the WHC crew is in full heat-mode. Gary goes for a left and scratches out, and Manny gives him so much shit for it. Of course it’s playful banter, but they’re being a little hard on each other the way good friends do.

     Before that, Rick had taken a wave under Gary’s priority, and Gary dropped in on him, taking the wave and scoring a hit on the inside section. All Rick could do was shrug because he knew it was Gar’s wave. It’s the only time you’ll ever see him give one up.

     In the spirit of pushing each other, I get a decent left that everyone’s eyeing. I get up a little late but make the drop and pump down the line. I want to send a bucket over the back, but the wave walls up. Instead, I get a little float job and stick the landing. Manny hoots me on. Eh, I know it’s a charity hoot, but it’s just nice that they don’t blow up on me like they do on each other.

     A backhand hit on a right is probably my best wave. The surf isn’t offering much for turns, but Bri paddles into a nice right, pops up, and goes down the line. All the homies give me the nod of approval.

     We’re done in about an hour. Even though it was crowded, it was one of those sessions when it was fun to just hear everyone talk shit. It was crowded, but there were also a couple waves, too. I think I’m finally getting back into the swing of things since coming home.

     In the lineup, I had heard this one guy rant to his friend. I didn’t hear the whole conversation, but I got the gist of it. “This is all we have,” he said, holding out his arms towards the ocean. He was talking about how some guy was being greedy in these small, begging conditions.

     This is it. This is what we have. Shitty surf or rippable, be grateful for it. Paddle out and own it, but you have to share at the same time. This ain’t Indo, but this is where I surf. Take some pride in it.

RESIDUE, SAT 22AUG2015

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0730-0815

Crew: Bri, Klaude

Conditions: 1-3 FT, consistent, crowded

Board: Motorboat Too

     Dude . . . this whole past week I’ve set my alarm for 0530 at the latest, and every morning I’ve snoozed until my alarm stopped buzzing. Bri and I have been off, going to bed too late and needing that extra hour to sleep in. No legit dawn patrols. Saturday morning was no different.

#

     We’re late. I have a family obligation to tend to at 0900, so we only have less than an hour to surf, a fucking tease.

     I even park in the upper lot, which is unheard of because I’m a cheap ass. I feed a few coins into the meter.

     Klaude pulls up behind us. I have so much residue from last night that I can’t acknowledge how he’s sticking out his tongue from his driver’s-side window.

     Time is everything. There is no time. I wax my board, throw my shit on, and then I’m waiting for Bri.

     Orlando and Jose are making their way out to the water the same time we are. “Remember, party at my house tonight!” says Orlando. “You coming?”

     I tell him yeah, that Bri gets off at 1700, and then he says that the band won’t be there until 1600, so our timing will be perfect.

     The lineup’s packed. Even though the surf is a little smaller than the last time I surfed here, the conditions are at least clean, much cleaner than yesterday.

     I watch Klaude milk a long left on his DK Puddle Jumper, a wave that looks like it shouldn’t even be giving that much. Bri does much better than I do, even burning a noob on a right. Klaude looks at me when we see what she does. He sticks his tongue out. I guess she’s a local now.

     Later, I overhear Klaude tell her how she has the same paddling mannerisms that I do. This is good. It means she paddles ugly and really, really wants the wave.

     I go home without a decent wave under my belt. My shampoo hunt turns nil. My claim-to-fame waves are nothing but closeout pinches.

     After the sesh, I pick up my seventeen year old cousin from his school in Hollywood to take him grocery shopping. The kid fills up the shopping cart until it’s overflowing, nothing but Spam and a bunch of other instant shit, true college grub. We bond, and it’s nice. I can’t be selfish all the time. Gotta have some family time.

     When Bri gets off work, we head straight to Orlando’s and catch the party in full swing. He has a band playing, there’s plenty of food and beer, and about ten surfers from our local break are here. It’s cool seeing everyone out of the water, faces and names officially being matched together for the first time.

     Bri and I are the last ones to leave. On the way home, Bri and I talk about how grateful we are for our friends, our social life here, and how moving away from the South Bay would be hard. Things like these are easy to take for granted.

HOKEY POKEY, FRI 21AUG2015

Loc: El Porto, Rosecrans

Time: 0710-0810

Crew: Rick, Gary, Juan, Dave T.

Conditions: 2-3 FT, consistent, onshore, junky, overcast

Board: 5’10 Mini Driver

     I wanted a session just like the day before. I wanted to be a small-barrel hunter, but pulling up to my local spot, I could see that the conditions were strong onshore. Vietnam Vet Mike was out, sitting on his bench on the strand, talking to some other locals. He said that the wind would turn offshore a little later. As I was leaving, I also caught Kurt rushing the surf. I told him how good it was yesterday, but he said he had to work. Hmmm. Should I feel guilty with my unemployed ass?

     So I headed back home on Highland Ave., and then I recalled a text I had gotten from Rick. He was taking another day off, and he was surfing Rosecrans with the other homies, so I thought I’d head over there just to say hi.

     I didn’t even plan on surfing. I caught a glimpse of Juan and Rick’s dual Hurley bands on their thighs, and I knew it was them. Stepping out of my wagon, Gary walked up to me with a brand new wetsuit and a wetsuit jacket. “Here you go,” he said.

     Man. Talk about Quik sponsorship from the homie! How couldn’t I change my mind and paddle out?

     Rosecrans was at least half a foot bigger than 26^th Street was. There were peaks rolling in, but they were just choppy and disorganized. Those salty vets were doing a lot better than I was, but I didn’t care. I would’ve paddle out into a puddle of piss to have this new gear on. Brand new wetsuit, water tight. I’m telling you, I’m so fucking stoked to get free fucking gear, and good gear at that.