On Sunday
morning, I was supposed to meet with Klaude and Khang at 26th 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 30th 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 26th 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 45th 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.
