Softtop Destination: Day 2 & 3

Soft Top Destination, Day 1

With a 11 days off, I wasn’t sure where Bri and I should go. It wasn’t long enough for Indo, and my flight benefits wouldn’t cover the costs to catch the little puddle jumper flights. Better to fly direct… Puerto Vallarta became an option, but the idea of going to some country I haven’t been to before was too hard to pass up. So the options came down to a remote location in El Salvador or something more touristy like Costa Rica’s Tamarindo. After including my wife in the process, we decided we’d hit a tourist town. Crowded lineups or not, we were willing to catch foam waves with the crowd and hit some beer and tacos after.

#

The flight…First class was a nice surprise. With the flight being wide open, and my wife and I the only standbys, calling it luck would be an overstatement. Another surprise was the other family sitting across from us. A fifty-something dad who was drunk and covered in tattoos was being loud and obnoxious with his wife and daughter. And of course, his wife was equally buzzed, and everything she said was accompanied with flailing her hands and arms. It was high drama for a red eye.

When the customs forms were passed out, I used my own or, and when I heard them ask the stewardess for one, for which they rarely do, I tapped him on the shoulder to give him my own. When the sun came up about five hours later, I was still penless. I asked his wife for the pen, since she was the one using it, and she pulled it out of her bun and handed it to me with the cap missing.

Upon deboarding, I heard her complaining to her husband how she wanted her pen back for her hair. Wow…she had even thanked me last night when I handed the shit over to them. Lesson learned, don’t give up your pen unless asked. The customer is the enemy.

#

The host of my Airbnb place informed me not to pay over $60 for a taxi into town. Right when Bri and I exited customs, we were aggressively corralled towards a line of taxis by this dude. “How much is it?” I said.

“Right this way, Sir, and I’ll tell you.”

Motherfucker. Here we go again. I may as well be in Jakarta. I’ve always been a terrible bargainer, but when I pushed for he price he finally said eighty dollars. In my shitty Spanish we went back and forth, me lowering he bar at forty and he not budging.

In the humid morning air, I walked further down the curb to get a second opinion from some workers. The woman told me it was a hundred dollars. Get the fuck outta here. The other guy told me eighty, and then he flagged down a taxi driver who said he’d do it for sixty. “A todos,” I said, pointing to me and my wife. He agreed. All looked well. Then he pulled up to another taxi, told us to hop into it, and then another guy hopped in. From there I restated the sixty dollar agreement. “Si, si,” he said. “Sesenta con propina. Ochenta dolores.” He smiled at me through the rearview, brandishing a gold-capped tooth.

Bri could tell I was losing my shit. “Did he get us?” she said.

I told him to stop the car. Bri seconded. “Autobus,” we said. With the car in motion, I opened the car door.

“Sesenta es okay,” said the driver, but Bri and I were not. It was a tense hour long drive. The guy made two phone calls bitching out the other guy about why he’s taking us to Tamarindo for such a small fee. But when we approached town, the driver kindly asked where we wanted to be dropped off, and gave us an enthusiastic, “Pura vida!” As we left.

The breakfast in front of the beach was classic tourist cliché. It was a slow morning with a cool offshore breeze but humid. Out check in time was at 1300 and it was only 0800.

$27 later we were walking the south end of the beach where we saw a small crocodile at a small river mouth. At the very end there were a ton of people getting surf lessons. The wave itself was small, but the water so tropical that I wanted to jump in there myself to get relief.

As we started our trek towards the north end of the beach, our backpacks started getting heavy. My arms were shiny with sweat, and my farts were getting moister each time. We watched the main peak by the northern river mouth. The waves here were better but three times as crowded. After cruising around and checking about surf rentals, we stopped at a bar and ordered a pitcher with nachos. By the time we were done it was time to check in.

The lady at the Airbnb site said no one had told her we’d be coming. Of course, the whole conversation was in Espanol, which means I sounded like an idiot. After that hurdle all that mattered was the AC in our room. My tank-top tan was legit. Cold ass shower was perfectly fine.

#

After a solid nap we walked out in time to catch the sunset. A Euro couple approached us and attempted their best Spanish in asking me to take a picture of them. It was the second time that day someone assumed I was fluent. Now the sunset…it was gorgeous. With the low tide runners breaking in shallow water with the fire in the sky engulfing everything, I knew this trip was something special. Even more special was the fucking sweaty ass humidity even in the night.

“You like weed, blow?” said some local in a baseball
cap, long curly hair spilling out over his ears. That was the mantra of the night, weed and blow offered to us in every dark corner. Right on.

And with the tourist season officially dying, the hosts for the restaurants seemed desperate to lure us into their venues. And yeah, I’m a cheap fuck, so all those restaurants on the beach were fucking expensive. I came for tropical water, fun-sized surf, and cheap beer and tacos. Fuck the bullshit. So we went about a block into town and found some small outdoor eateries lined up next to each other and settled on a large $11 pizza that stuffed both of us.

#

First impressions? Thank God our Airbnb joint has AC and a kitchen. The kitchen is going to save our asses from spending money to eat 3 meals a day out on the local economy. Pay with your credit card as much as possible because the exchange rate from your bank is better than what the vendors/shops will give you if you pay in cash. I’d have more to write, but this is only day 1. Tomorrow, we surf.

SOFT TOP DESTINATION: Day 2 & 3

After soMe research, I found out that the surf shop with the best selection charged the most, so we went back to a shop called Kelly’s where a dark gangly kid with long curly hair works. He showed us the foamies and NSPs that only cost $10 a day. Since the surf looked small leaving our room, I decided on a 6’6 fish shaped NSP and Bri went with a 6’8. Finally for the first time we were on our way to paddling out into some surf.

Most of the surf schools were at the main peak in front of Tamarindo Daria, but the rivermouth had a long soft right that only had about 6 longboarders on it. Surprisingly, just a little south of it was a smaller but empty left that no one wanted to sit on. Naturally, Bri and I paddled for it.

We had been sweating our asses off before jumping in, but, fuckin’ A, goodluck on the water providing any relief. Bri called it “the surf sweats,” and it doesn’t get much more accurate than that. I mean, literally, THAT FUCKING HOT. Now as much as I’d like to pump up the surf to you, I won’t lie. People had already been telling us that Tamarindo is a beginner wave. I’m sure when the swell is solid overhead it’s another story, but the current swell is small. Yet, despite how mooshy and small the lefts were, it felt great to catch waves in this tropical place. We had the right boards for the occasion. I struggled to turn my beast of a board. I think you have to be really good to do a legit cutty on one of these things.

We traded off waves for a couple of hours, even tried to duke it out with a couple of legit nose riders at the top of the river mouth but just couldn’t put maneuver them. Afterwards we went back to El Vaquero for “Nachos as Big As Your Ass” and a pitcher of Imperial Beer. All was well, but then we had been sweating so much that the beer dehydrated the shit out of us. We were in headache country and headed back to the room for a nap. When we woke up we both felt like shit.

We still had the boards for a couple more hours before we had to turn them in for the day, but then the tide was drained so low that the shit was closing out like Bay St., Santa Monica on a bad day. A few Advils later and we cooked some spaghetti with the groceries we got from the market. We went to bed a little uneasy, thinking about the small surf, daily expenses we were incurring, and if spending a week here was too long. At least, we somewhat felt this way until day 3.

#

Day 3

Playa Grande is north of Tamarindo separated by a river mouth that looks shallow enough to walk across but just this pas September a tourist had his leg severed from the knee down by a croc. Jeffrey, the kid who we rented out boards from showed us the pic. “Never swim across the rivermouth,” he said. So after choosing a Rusty longboard for Bri and a huge and chunky CI Average Joe, we paid the boatman $1 each to get across the river mouth. Jeffrey tried to point out the Playa Grande break from his shop. 10 minutes he said. No…the walk was fucking LONG. We passed closeout beach break after closeout beach break until stopping at the south end of Playa Grande, next to a few lone surfers. Armed with a huge hug of water and boards in hand, we decided to paddle out for at least an hour before heading back. Lo and behold, the surf was actually much better than it looked. I’d compare it to HB on a high tide but with a long face that holds shape. I even  got three hits on a backhand right. It’s fun trying different equipment. I’d never ride something so chunky back home, but I made it work and had so much fun doing it. The surf was consistent and more rippable than Tamarindo. Best thing was, we had that shit all to ourselves. We had a serious case of the surf sweats but trudged through it until the tide topped out around 8ft., and the winds chopped it out. Still, we had that shit for like 2 hours.

The walk back was tiresome but satisfying. We legit scored empty surf in Costa Rica just a hike away from the main tourist trap. Another $2 and we were dropped off a stones throw from our room. Lunch was cereal, pastries, and bananas.

After a few errands in town, we paddled back out at the Tamarindo rivermouth. Because of the low tide, no one else was out. We caught some rights to ourselves for about a half hour before we were joined by a Chinese guy on a longboard. He said his name was Joe and that he was from New York but originally from Torrance. We all shared until 6 fucking guys from Encinitas invaded our spot and sat right on us. One of them actually apologized and said, “I know what you guys are thinking, you guys are out here all by yourselves and here come these motherfuckers.”

Just then, the clouds from the mountains swept into the lowlands. The wind changed. Thunder started, and the rain began. People started leaving the lineup.

We turned our boards in and got cover underneath a garage overhand. The rain was torrential, coming straight down, heavy, and all at once. 10 minutes later, and it was over. Back to the room with our leftover spaghetti and ice cream from the market. Bri and I kept going over how grateful we were to be able to do things like this together.

Soft Top Destination: Day 1

Soft Top Destination, Day 1

With a 11 days off, I wasn’t sure where Bri and I should go. It wasn’t long enough for Indo, and my flight benefits wouldn’t cover the costs to catch the little puddle jumper flights. Better to fly direct… Puerto Vallarta became an option, but the idea of going to some country I haven’t been to before was too hard to pass up. So the options came down to a remote location in El Salvador or something more touristy like Costa Rica’s Tamarindo. After including my wife in the process, we decided we’d hit a tourist town. Crowded lineups or not, we were willing to catch foam waves with the crowd and hit some beer and tacos after.

#

The flight…First class was a nice surprise. With the flight being wide open, and my wife and I the only standbys, calling it luck would be an overstatement. Another surprise was the other family sitting across from us. A fifty-something dad who was drunk and covered in tattoos was being loud and obnoxious with his wife and daughter. And of course, his wife was equally buzzed, and everything she said was accompanied with flailing her hands and arms. It was high drama for a red eye.

When the customs forms were passed out, I used my own or, and when I heard them ask the stewardess for one, for which they rarely do, I tapped him on the shoulder to give him my own. When the sun came up about five hours later, I was still penless. I asked his wife for the pen, since she was the one using it, and she pulled it out of her bun and handed it to me with the cap missing.

Upon deboarding, I heard her complaining to her husband how she wanted her pen back for her hair. Wow…she had even thanked me last night when I handed the shit over to them. Lesson learned, don’t give up your pen unless asked. The customer is the enemy.

#

The host of my Airbnb place informed me not to pay over $60 for a taxi into town. Right when Bri and I exited customs, we were aggressively corralled towards a line of taxis by this dude. “How much is it?” I said.

“Right this way, Sir, and I’ll tell you.”

Motherfucker. Here we go again. I may as well be in Jakarta. I’ve always been a terrible bargainer, but when I pushed for he price he finally said eighty dollars. In my shitty Spanish we went back and forth, me lowering he bar at forty and he not budging.

In the humid morning air, I walked further down the curb to get a second opinion from some workers. The woman told me it was a hundred dollars. Get the fuck outta here. The other guy told me eighty, and then he flagged down a taxi driver who said he’d do it for sixty. “A todos,” I said, pointing to me and my wife. He agreed. All looked well. Then he pulled up to another taxi, told us to hop into it, and then another guy hopped in. From there I restated the sixty dollar agreement. “Si, si,” he said. “Sesenta con propina. Ochenta dolores.” He smiled at me through the rearview, brandishing a gold-capped tooth.

Bri could tell I was losing my shit. “Did he get us?” she said.

I told him to stop the car. Bri seconded. “Autobus,” we said. With the car in motion, I opened the car door.

“Sesenta es okay,” said the driver, but Bri and I were not. It was a tense hour long drive. The guy made two phone calls bitching out the other guy about why he’s taking us to Tamarindo for such a small fee. But when we approached town, the driver kindly asked where we wanted to be dropped off, and gave us an enthusiastic, “Pura vida!” As we left.

The breakfast in front of the beach was classic tourist cliché. It was a slow morning with a cool offshore breeze but humid. Out check in time was at 1300 and it was only 0800.

$27 later we were walking the south end of the beach where we saw a small crocodile at a small river mouth. At the very end there were a ton of people getting surf lessons. The wave itself was small, but the water so tropical that I wanted to jump in there myself to get relief.

As we started our trek towards the north end of the beach, our backpacks started getting heavy. My arms were shiny with sweat, and my farts were getting moister each time. We watched the main peak by the northern river mouth. The waves here were better but three times as crowded. After cruising around and checking about surf rentals, we stopped at a bar and ordered a pitcher with nachos. By the time we were done it was time to check in.

The lady at the Airbnb site said no one had told her we’d be coming. Of course, the whole conversation was in Espanol, which means I sounded like an idiot. After that hurdle all that mattered was the AC in our room. My tank-top tan was legit. Cold ass shower was perfectly fine.

#

After a solid nap we walked out in time to catch the sunset. A Euro couple approached us and attempted their best Spanish in asking me to take a picture of them. It was the second time that day someone assumed I was fluent. Now the sunset…it was gorgeous. With the low tide runners breaking in shallow water with the fire in the sky engulfing everything, I knew this trip was something special. Even more special was the fucking sweaty ass humidity even in the night.

“You like weed, blow?” said some local in a baseball
cap, long curly hair spilling out over his ears. That was the mantra of the night, weed and blow offered to us in every dark corner. Right on.

And with the tourist season officially dying, the hosts for the restaurants seemed desperate to lure us into their venues. And yeah, I’m a cheap fuck, so all those restaurants on the beach were fucking expensive. I came for tropical water, fun-sized surf, and cheap beer and tacos. Fuck the bullshit. So we went about a block into town and found some small outdoor eateries lined up next to each other and settled on a large $11 pizza that stuffed both of us.

#

First impressions? Thank God our Airbnb joint has AC and a kitchen. The kitchen is going to save our asses from spending money to eat 3 meals a day out on the local economy. Pay with your credit card as much as possible because the exchange rate from your bank is better than what the vendors/shops will give you if you pay in cash. I’d have more to write, but this is only day 1. Tomorrow, we surf.

180

It's easy to fall out of things. It's easy to just settle in to work, spend your free time dicking off, and to find excuses for the things you've let fall to the wayside, whether it's finding ways to use your creativity, surf, workout, and be a better human being for yourself and those around you.

I convinced myself that where I've landed myself was enough, nothing to prove to anyone. So long as I'm happy and the wife is happy, there was no need to answer to anyone else.

But seeing posts about what everyone else is doing makes me feel like I'm short changing myself. I'm not trying to live to anyone else's standards, but I know that deep inside I can do more, like how I used to do more. Instead of listing them, I'll end with this... I've procrastinated long enough on a lot of things. The fact that I've opened up this blog page for the first time in months and even wrote something down, that's a damn good start for me. I'm hoping this continues. Behind the scenes, I need to get back on track.

My best friend, who's a sober drunk, used to tell me about "taking away from yourself," I took the lecture as contributing your time to things that don't better yourself, even worse, doing things that empty the pot or hollow you out. I guess I feel a little hollow.

Let the 180 begin.

2017 – #16 TUE21FEB

            I messed up by requesting too much overtime last week at work, not thinking that they’d approve it. I didn’t take into account that when it rains, a lot of people call in sick. For a week straight I had to see my friends post record breaking stats on their Traces, knowing that local surf was fun and rippable while I was stuck at work. After pulling a 10 hour shift on Monday, I was determined to paddle out on Tuesday.

            Passing Dockweiler, I could see that there were waves. The Chevron Tanks looked a little walled. I pulled into 45^th Street in the midst of a light rain. There were waves, indeed, but they weren’t peaky. They were coming in a little walled, or the shoulders were just saddles that led into another oncoming wave. Either way, it looked worthy enough, surf starved as I was.

            I pushed it a little more south just to see what 26^th Street looked like. The surf was a tad smaller and, quality wise, not much better. However, there was free parking, so that was just too hard to pass up.

            Paddling out at 1030, only a small thimble full of the usual locals were there. Two whose names I don’t know and the legend Don Kadowaki. The storm drain had some runoff creeping towards the ocean, but hadn’t quite reached it yet. I thought about all the sharps that could be embedded in the sand and the nasty bacteria floating around in the water, but there was no passing on this session.

            The water was cold as I had expected, but a few duckdives later and I was used to it. I paddled a smudge north to escape the few heads that were there, and within a minute a big rolling right came my way. My board felt leafy, just too small for all the water moving around, but as I turned to scratch and kick, it was like my board stopped and slowly gained momentum just in time for the wave to pick me up. The drop itself was fun, although sketchy, and the feeling of maintaining my balance down the face felt victory enough.

            I just didn’t want to blow it. Not surfing in nine days does make a difference. My board felt awkward, the quads a little to fast and loose. I managed my first backhand snap and carefully transitioned into a cutback with still some open face left for another hit. After the second snap, I hit the eject button before the wave closed out and cannon balled into the safety zone just behind it.

            It wasn’t a session when I scored wave after wave. In fact, that was my best wave of an otherwise uneventful session, but paddling back to the lineup and getting the smiling nod of approval from Don and a few of the other gents there made being out there worthy enough.

2017 – #15 SUN12FEB

            So now two more people I know have a Surf Trace. Good thing about that is I can check their stats to get an idea of how the surf is. Manny and Rick both scored turns at 45^th. Actually, Brett Simpson was surfing out there, according to them, so if it’s good enough for a pro…

            Klaude called me right when I got home from work, said he had slept in late, so he was gonna hit it. On the way to the surf, he called again and said there were waves everywhere, except 26^th St.; something about those sandbars over there that’s not working.

            Bri and I parked in the Porto lot and walked to Rosecrans. Sadly, there was so much trash in the lineup: candy wrappers, straws, plastic, and plastic bags. Not big pieces, but there were a lot of tiny plastic things just floating everywhere, and every time a wave stood up, you could just see the trash lifting up with it, weaved into an aquatic curtain.

            Despite the high tide, the paddle out was a little far, and waves were breaking way on the outside. Typical of the tide, a lot of the rides started off fast and bogged out on the inside. We all scored a few waves, but really, the trash was just so nasty. Every duckdive all I could think about was how my sinuses were getting contaminated. My eyes burned a little more than usual.

            After the sesh, I didn’t really have any solid turns to claim. If anything, the surf was a game of just making sections and trying to stay in the pocket, a lot of stop and go without a good face to unleash a solid carve on.

            But the day was beautiful. Bri and I walked down to 26^th on The Strand to enjoy the atmosphere. Manhattan Beach was just as crowded and active as an amusement park without the lines, the ocean as the main attraction. It was like a spring day, and yet, we’re expecting another storm come Friday.

2017 – 13 & 14 The Return of Fran-Sauce

            On Sunday morning, I was supposed to meet with Klaude and Khang at 26^th St., Manhattan Beach. Only issue is, with that day being Super Bowl Sunday, a gang of people called in sick, so I had to stay over to walk an extra flight out. When I finally arrived to the beach, the boys were nowhere to be found. I paddled over to a small pack at 30^th Street and recognized sitting towards the inside. Instead of calling out his name, like I should have, I was trying to be Ninja Matt and planned on getting as close as I could to surprise him, but a wave came, and with that wave went Dais. All I could do was look forlornly towards the shore, knowing that my buddies were somewhere on the sand, heading back to their cars, and not even realizing that I had actually made it out.

            It was a major bummer, but at least there were waves. For the first time in days, the surf was actually manageable. I mean, there were some rideable peaks, racy, but still shouldery enough for a quick turn or two.

            I spotted Toru and Cliff, two 26^th St. regulars. Cliff said I had missed it when it was good earlier, but when I paddled up to Toru he said I didn’t miss much at all. The tide was actually on the downswing, so if any window was rideable it was at that moment.

            The paddle out was surprisingly far, and the waves were breaking more towards the outside. I managed some long racy rides that brought me to the inside, but it was so hard to set up for finishing turns because the waves mooshed out around there.

            I surfed for an hour, and the wind started to change a little. The second shift was over, and most of the locals were gone for the day, already heading home to begin the pre-party festivities.

            Walking on the sand, I saw Francis waving me down from The Strand. Francis…he’s easily in my “top 5” as far as good men go. He was in town to take his paramedic test for his job on Oahu. I hadn’t seen him since last summer. With his classmate in tow, we headed to Seafood Town for their lunch special, and in the evening we went to Klaude’s friend’s Super Bowl get together in Culver City, where I finally met up with the boys and told them how I had narrowly missed them that morning.

            We all planned to surf the next day, despite the strong chance of rain. That Monday morning at work, it rained really hard on the LAX runway. It was the most coldest and miserable session I’ve ever had at work. With it still raining by the time I got home, I thought surf was out of the questions. I checked my phone. Klaude went to work. Khang was a negative. Dais suggested going around 10am.

            Francis told me we should just check it out anyway, and I agreed. “Sometimes all you need is that friend,” he said, “that makes you paddle out in anything.” I guess it had been a long time since I had a morning like that, but we packed up and headed to 45^th Street, and right when we entered the lot we saw seven guys out. The wind was howling offshore, the inside was churning and consistent with kelp, but the waves breaking on the outside were actually clean. Suddenly, what had initially been a bummer of a stormy morning turned into a stoke filled changing fest in the parking lot.

            “Fuck yeah. It’s on,” I said. We giggled like little girls, or maybe it was just me. He sampled my wife’s chunky horse pill of a board, me on my puddle jumper. We paddled out into the winter water. I wondered if we’d get sick, and I hoped it’d be worth it if we did, but there we were, two surf homies paddling out together just like old times.

            To make the rest of the story short, Francis was charging on a board that I’ve only seen in small cobblestone surf. He took a lot of bomb rights, maybe only chest to shoulder high, and threw huge fans of spray out the back. I was stoked for him, for us.

            After an hour and forty-five minutes it was time to call it. His flight home was at five, and the ominous conditions from the storm still made the atmosphere a little sketch. We ended the surf officially with a late breakfast at Main Street Café in El Segundo.

            Here’s to the homie. Hope we get to surf again soon.

2017 – 9, 10, 11, 12, 13

            It’s so easy to fall behind in keeping track of my sessions, especially when I haven’t been scoring. As far as session number 9, Bri and I surfed local, and it wasn’t that great. It was a morning session at 26^th St. Manhattan Beach. Session 10 was another gamble at Trestles after scoring the weekend before, but this time the gamble did not pay off. The most interesting thing to note is how the recent storms have changed the San Onofre shoreline, eroding the sand so much that the beach is just getting shorter and shorter.

            11 was another lame local sesh. The sandbars are kind of weird now south of Rosecrans. They are extremely tide sensitive and swampy.

            Session 12 was my best one as of recent, which took place on WED, 01FEB. I got off work and couldn’t find free parking at Porto, so I parked by 33^rd Street. Lo and behold, despite the swampiness, I caught a nice, sunny window where the mooshy left was actually a little rippable. I got my first turns in a while, sharing the peak with a longboarder and some chick trying to learn with her instructor riding tandem, her ass in his face.

            I felt rusty as shit but extremely grateful to get the feeling of a few solid frontside carves and backhand snaps.

            Thursday the 13^th I was hoping for a repeat, heading back to the same area, but I got skunked. Even though the tide was lower, the surf just wasn’t doing it there. The only break that looked like it was breaking far out enough was Rosecrans and the rest of El Porto. A few guys got lucky, but for the most part the surprisingly semi-thick crowd served as human buoys.

            I had to take the paddle of shame in… Frustrated, I stopped by the Porto lot to see if the surf was any better. It was by just enough for it to be surfable. Most of the waves were breaking towards the inside, but it was something.

            So Surfline says that the local surf has been head high plus. Klaude told me he took a look at it and it was walled. Rick’s brother Juan even passed on it, with only a few takers out.

            As far as what I’ve learned from all this is, when the surf is not on, it’s time to dip into other things, both hobbies and errands. With my wife out of town, I gamed all fricken day yesterday. Today I knocked out the gym, laundry, and handled some military emails that needed my attention. Although, when I’m out of the water for a while, I worry for my surfer identity. I don’t want to be a guy who used to surf. I just need to find that stoke. All I need is another good day.