STOKED NOW, BUMMED LATER, SAT 04APR015

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach, 26^th Street                     

Time: 0700-0745

Conditions: 1-2 Occasional 3 FT, crowded, soft.

Board: Motorboat Too

     After yesterday’s surf fest at Churches, I knew that I had to lower my expectations surfing Manhattan Beach. As soon as I parked, I saw weak lines rolling in to shore. I mean, glassy weak. The lips were just wavering in the morning light, complexion grey. Could get better, I thought. The report had called for occasional four footers . . . but I knew I was fooling myself. Yet, my crew, the DRC holds itself to a high standard. Klaude had said he’d be surfing this morning and that he’d be out.

     One good thing about being there was that I got to see all the local guys I haven’t surfed with in a while. One by one, as we spotted them in the lineup, we caught up. Orlando invited me and Bri to his camp out late this month. Stocky Jon had shaved his mustache and goatee. And Roy was looking scruffy and dark and bloodshot as usual.

     I popped up on my first wave and got two pumps before cutting back. Immediately, the wave bogged out. Second wave bogged out even faster. After that, I couldn’t catch anything. A few longboarders were able to glide through the moosh, but even they were having a hard time.

     At 0730, I told Bri that we’d be leaving if we didn’t catch anything. Sure as shit, we ended up doing the paddle of shame.

     Back on shore, I checked my phone and saw that Klaude had just got up. Usually, we’d give each other shit for missing the session, but I told him that he didn’t miss out on anything.

WINDOW HUNTING, SUN 01MAR2015

Loc: Manhattan Beach, 26^th Street                     
Time: 1100-1230   
Crew: Bri    
Conditions: 1-2 FT, offshore, inconsistent, swampy. 
Board: Zippifish

     Yesterday, Klaude called me after dawn patrolling 26^th Street. “Don’t even bother,” he said. He had just finished skating from 26^th to Porto. “One peak was kind of working, but too many guys on it. Roy was out at 26^th, but he wasn’t catching shit.” I look at surfcam. Yeah. Looks choppy and unorganized.

     This morning, Bri and I are sleeping in. Sundays are her only full days off, so I make sure not to rush her if I can avoid it. Tide’s high anyway. Klaude calls again. Same story, but this time he’s parked outside.

     We invite him in for coffee and a veggie smoothie. Poor guy. Tax season has him so busy, and this whole weekend has been a letdown for surf. Skunked twice in a row.

     When he leaves, Bri and I take our time getting ready. Maybe now that it’s later the tide will be lower. Maybe now’s the right window to surf.

     We score parking at one of my reliable free-parking sites. Looking down the hill, I see lines coming in, but they just keep on rolling until they turn into shorepound. The whole time, I don’t see one wave peel in front of 27^th.

     Zippi in hand, I’m hoping for the best. When we reach the sand, we see more surfers by Marine that we weren’t able to see from the hill. A set rolls through, giving some soft lefts. It’s a little promising.

     When we paddle out, I say hi to Roy. He says that yesterday was bigger and more fun. I nod and smile back at a few familiar faces, but each face has that oh-well look to it, the surf-sucks-but-I’m-here look. And my, there’s a pack sitting on that left. As much as I don’t want to sit on them, I kind of have to.

     Bri paddles further south and sits at the edge of the crowd. The Becker’s not enough board this morning. She scratches and can’t get shit. The waves are pure boggers. I tell her that we should paddle back north, and then an outside set rolls in. It’s only three feet, but it catches everyone off guard, and now the whole lineup is duckdiving it. Just like that, the sun comes out, giving the whole beach a makeover. It looks like a day that should have good waves.

     Don K. paddles out, but he’s with the other local vets sitting more towards the inside. The waves do get a little more consistent and start standing up more, but the lower tide makes them racy. The wind shifts, and the now the surf is slightly choppy and closed out.

     Bri and I leave. I know that I’m unsatisfied, but we’re glad to have spent the Sunday this way. However, man . . . I really haven’t had a good session in a while. This aggression cannot stand. There’s a south forecasted on Wednesday. Maybe then I can redeem myself for last week’s bad call not to go. I hope I score.

BEFORE DRILL, THU 19FEB2015

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0645-0845   

Crew: Tom Y.      

Conditions: 5 FT, soft.               

Board: Lost Mini Driver

     Before leaving for drill, it’s imperative that I get a really good surf session before I take off. In this case, I’ll be up north the whole weekend, so I really want some memorable waves that I can froth over while I’m gone.

     Rick had told me to surf Porto because it will be bigger there. He didn’t even need to mention how the shape there will probably be better, too. Regardless, I’m not surfing there. I don’t want my pre-drill session to be a frustrating one against a crowd.

     Parked at the top of the hill, I see that there’s some decent size, a little bit bigger than expected. However, the tide’s on it. Also, I haven’t seen a clean shoulder break from the outside all the way in. It’s soft and walled, if that makes sense. Of course, I hope for the best anyway and paddle out.

     You know it’s a bad sign when barely any locals are out. Actually, barely anyone is out.

     The size seems a little harrowing, but since it’s swampy, duckdiving isn’t an issue. It’s more like a duckdive training kind of morning, when you can just work on your technique and not get rolled.

     Before long, I’m joined by Viet Vet Mike. Stocky Jon paddles out, too.

     We’re constantly faked out, paddling for waves that look like they’re going to break, but they don’t. When I finally do catch a wave, it mooshes out after a couple pumps. When all seems like it’s gonna get worse from here, cleanup sets start appearing. If it wasn’t for the tide, we’d all have some mean hold downs. Instead, it’s just a lot of paddling and a lot of duckdiving, but nothing critical. But the outside waves lack shape. Just a nuisance to the already soft regular-sized waves.

     I spot Tom Y. by The Brick House, so we paddle up to each other and catch up. Turns out he’s just gotten back from Denver on a vacay from work. “I haven’t surfed since I last saw you,” he says. I think that was two weeks ago.

     I take the next right, and the wave bogs out on me right after my topturn. Tom takes the next wave and disappears as it breaks. He paddles back with a sore look on his face, saying, “Fuck, I’m so out of shape. I’m getting good waves but my paddle sucks!”

     We get separated, and I find myself by Stocky Jon. For the first time this morning, a shouldery left comes through. I pump down the line, trying to set up for a good carve, but the wave is weak. I check turn and then pump some more for a strong finishing move. I put as much weight as I can into the turn, even torqueing my board so hard that the nose is almost facing the other direction, but the turn lacks “umph.” I’m forcing my board to do something that the wave isn’t made for.

     Stocky J. gets the next one. Instead of turning, he rides it all the way to shore, just pumping down the line.

     The whole session, Don K. is on the right board, a gunny shortboard that looks like it has a lot of foam. He catches every wave, surfing well, his rides are long, precisely doing what each wave calls for.

     I leave the beach not quite unfulfilled but not satisfied either. There were waves out there, but I just didn’t surf that well. Maybe I should have used the Zippifish? I don’t know. Driving back to El Segundo, I have to be content with this being my last session of the week until I can surf again when I come back home.

LATE TRAIN PT.1, SAT 14FEB2015

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach, 26^th Street

Time: 1000-1130             

Conditions: 3 FT, offshore, crowded, racy.

Board: Lost Mini Driver, medium quad setup

     After celebrating Valentine’s Day early, Bri and I sleep in. The tide’s supposed to be high at first light. There’s still supposed to be plenty of swell left. We should have been up already, but it’s also the weekend and officially Valentine’s Day. Why not get that extra cuddle time for the woman?

     Summer in February it is. Everything is perfect: blue sky, no clouds, no wind, and the hot California sun. Also, we score free parking, which is always a major plus.

     On the way towards The Strand, Bruce is talking to Cliff, who’s parked on the side of the road. Other than them two, not too many local regulars are around. They’ve probably already left.

     In the water, Don K. is unmistakably standing out, flying down the line on a racy left. Roy’s on the next one. He busts an air but loses his board, nearly getting clobbered by it.

     The lineup’s scattered with the surf at a fun-sized three feet, but there’s an issue with the shape. Maybe the tide’s backed off a little too much. The waves are coming in a little too lined, and they’re racy with a little shoulder at the end of them. It’s an issue of being right on the shoulder, and on a good one that won’t run away, at that.

     So we paddle out, me in my 4/3 and Bri in her 5/4. We had prepacked the car, so now we’re stuck with too much neoprene. Before long, I’m burning up in it. I catch up a little with Roy. He says the surf was better earlier. South of the tower is where the lefts are, but it’s also crowded there. I’d hate to compete against the local legends, so I sit a bit wide.

     I catch a right, force one snap, and then the wave bogs out on me. I’m a bit behind on a left. Roy hoots me in it from the inside. When I pop up, the lip’s already curling, so I pull in for a pinch with my mouth open. I swallow some water.

     A little north, poor Bri is over there corralled in by the weekend crowd, but at least Toru is out.

     We haven’t seen him in a while. Turns out he had pulled a hamstring surfing a couple of weeks ago and has been out since.

     The rest of the session is a bit frustrating. There’s the crowd and the poor shape, yet everyone is content to sit shoulder to shoulder for race-away shoulders.

     I catch a small insider that has a little shape and actually get two baby turns on it.

     Leaving the water, Bri and I aren’t disappointed at all. Yeah, the surf wasn’t great, and it was crowded, but we know that we asked for it. We were late, and this is what you have to expect when you are. Still, with the cool water from the shower running off of my face and down my wetsuit, I’m still glad to have paddled out.

INTERMEDIATE, WED 11FEB2015

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach, 26^th Street

Time: 0750-0920        

Conditions: 4-6 FT, offshore, warm, consistent.

Board: Lost Mini Driver, large quad setup

     After good sessions down south, whether at Churches or Trestles, it’s a little hard to get back into the South Bay groove. I had skipped surfing yesterday. Looked like it would be walled local, and I wasn’t gonna hit the road that soon again. Last night, I knew that I wouldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t even give the surf a little look the next day, so I packed my car and wondered if it would still be gnarly out there.

#

     I’m late on the first shift. It’s 0730, and I score VIP parking right in front of the surf. No surprise I guess. The usual crew who patrols the parking lot is nowhere to be found. In the lineup, I see about nine guys by Marine. Two guys are getting worked trying to paddle straight out in front of the brickhouse. Though, there’s something different about the conditions today. The water is perfect, I mean, between the sets the water is pure glass. Not foggy like last week. The air is hot. Yet, even though the waves are a little too lined up, there are lefts tapering off right in front of the brickhouse, dropping like long laundry lines into the channel. Looks doable. I’d say the waves are about five feet. And then again, it always looks smaller from the car.

#

     I go with the large Simon Anderson quad setup that Klaude had let me borrow. If there’s any chance at getting tubed today, I’m gonna need as much help as possible.

     After warming up, I time the shorepound to avoid getting worked. I have a bad case of anxiety on the way out. There’s barely anyone surfing. Some of the sets are big. I wonder if I even belong out here. Yeah, I had scored Trestles and surfed it well, to my standards at least, but I did get that recent beat down at HB. I’d like to think that I’m not stupid, but really, I just want to face the semi-challenging conditions up front and try to catch something, just do the best I can do. That’s what progression’s about anyway right? Why run away from a fight?

     I have both fear and respect for this spot. I try to go extra deep on the duckdives. Getting sucked back, I’m nearly out of breath. All of a sudden, my shoulders start burning earlier than usual. I’m still not 100% recovered from surfing Churches.

     I make it out to the lineup without losing my board. As Gary and my brother Randy would say, it’s always better to hold on to it. Spotting myself, I’m just in front of 27^th Street. The current’s light, but I’ll have to paddle against it.

     Three guys are sitting right by me. Looking down the lineup, it appears that a lot of people are just making it out at the same time. Monkey see monkey do.

     I tell myself to be patient and only go on the good ones. I haven’t seen any cleaners yet, but it’s better to play it safe.

     A five-foot peak rolls through. A guy on my inside scratches for it, sees that I’m in better position, and gives me the clearance nod. Dropping in, the face actually holds open. I open-face carve it and get a decent wrap. Rebounding back down the line, I extend up off the bottom turn and checkturn under the curtain. Feels textbook, except that I get pinched. No drive on that attempt. Not even a true glimpse of the barrel. However, I did at least get a solid turn.

     Back at the lineup, the sets start coming in. It’s six-feet tops. Any bigger would be a major issue. It’s one of those mornings where you’re bound to get worked but shouldn’t be in fear of drowning.

     After moving around the lineup, paddling to and from, I get impatient and pull in on a closeout. “I gotta go,” I tell myself. Just killing time. When I resurface, there’s an outside set. I feel like Mother Ocean is telling me, “Wrong move, bro. You fucked up.”

     Pants down to my ankles and bent over, I’m just in the worst possible spot. Yeah, I duckdive but get my board yanked away like it was never even mine. I get worked on the next two waves. I’m holding onto my board, but things go awry on the duck, like my body gets twisted out of alignment, my board shifts to the side, and I just get obliterated beneath the surface. But I paddle back out. Holding onto my board keeps my closer to where I was, and I don’t burn any time trying to remount.

     I feel sketched on the rights. I go backhand on one, and it has an open face, but the fins are so big that the board just forces me over the shoulder out back.

     Meanwhile, the top of 26^th has some waves. A little congregation has formed there. One of the peaks goes unridden, the shoulder swirls open for a short barrel. Fuck, I’m thinking to myself. If I could just get one of those little tubes like that, I could just go in right after that, mission accomplished, done for the day. Oh, how badly do I just want to “take the money and run.”

     I sit there once everyone clears out, and nothing breaks with shape. I paddle back over towards 27^th. The crowd has mysteriously begun to thin out now. With the tide going down, a lot of the waves are sectioning off. Still, I try. That HB session with the WHC still stings, so I have to redeem myself here. This is my local break.

     The large quads have drive. I’m on the open face pumping, trying to speed through that curtain as it chandeliers over me, but I get pinched again. Resurfacing, I get worked by the sets. Again I try, again I get worked. I’m so frustrated and mad at myself, and then another clean tube, just like the one I had seen earlier, breaks just to my south at 26^th.

     At this point, I realize the humble-pie situation, take a bite, and swallow it down hard. It’s not just the waves that aren’t shaping up for me. It’s me. The Indian not the arrow, also not the terrain. I’d like to think that I’m a decent surfer. Sometimes my ego gets out of check, and I consider myself advanced. Nah, I’m still intermediate. There’s a lot I’m not doing right.

     Leaving the ocean, the water looks totally different. It isn’t the well-groomed lines that I had seen earlier. The surf has gone sectiony. The late first shifters have called it early.

     Driving home, I’m at odds with myself. I could have held on longer trying to get tubed. But I tried, didn’t I? I still paddled into some decent bombs, although I paid for each one in the impact zone afterwards. My brother once told me that “it will just happen.” So here I am again, probably putting too much pressure on myself as always. At least it was a morning that most surfers opted not to even get wet. I went out. Hopefully that counts for something.

SHOWING UP, WED 04FEB2015

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0700-0900        

Conditions: 4-5 FT, crowded enough, semi walled

Board: Lost Mini Driver

     After not having surfed my local break for about five days, it’s time for me to make an appearance to maintain my “local pass.” Of course, the high schoolers are out in full force, taking up the main peak. The other surfers, who don’t want to deal with the groms, have paddled out slightly north in front of the brick house. When I get to the shore, I opt to paddle out south of the tower, towards Marine, into no-man’s land, since it looks walled and inconsistent there.

     Even though I had seen some lefts breaking here earlier, mostly rights are coming through. The sets are walled and a little dumpy, at the limit of my comfort threshold. Even though I get pounded in the impact zone a couple of times, I manage to hold onto my board, no matter how jostled I get beneath the surface.

 

Etiquette:

     This skinny older guy in a blue wetsuit is sitting outside. He paddles for a right. I paddle for it, too, as I watch him going for it. He drops in, so I pull out. Three strokes later, I look back to see that he had kicked out. Okay, no problem, I’m thinking. The second wave of the set is approaching, and of course, we are both paddling outside for it. What does Skinny Blue do? He paddles towards my inside and goes for this wave. I pull out again, saying, “Fuckin’ Greedy!” as he blows by me. Fuck. I can’t tell you how annoying this is. Reader, I’m sure you’ve been there before.

     The third wave of the set is a little smaller, but I catch it. It lines up nicely all the way to shore and peels with an open face. With aggression, I let out all my frustrations on my backhand snaps. Since I got the quads on, I get that extra grip at the top of the turn, getting that solid power arc and pausing at the accentuation mark, Michele Bourez style. Three turns. I’m not so mad anymore.

 

Luck:

     I get corralled in by two shortboarders and a longboarder, some guy who’s decided to wear trunks today. Either he’s hardcore or an idiot. Either way, his balls are bigger than mine if he can handle this cold water without a wetsuit.

     Since these guys have taken over my spot, I paddle north to get away from them back to no-man’s land. Just then, a right pops up, and Boardshorts is in perfect position for it on the shoulder. I dart for the shoulder as fast as I can and end up taking off a little behind the peak. It’s a critical late drop, but I make it, and get three turns.

     Now I’m sitting south of those three guys, having just caught the right, and, fuckin’ A, a left pops up right in front of me. Fuck it. With one of the shortboarders looking right at me from the shoulder, I pop up at the peak again and take the left. Dang, I guess I’m the one who’s being greedy.

 

Fuckin’ Stocky John. . .:

     So I see Stocky John in the lineup. I haven’t seen him all morning. I ask him how the surf was yesterday. He said that it was fun and a little bit smaller. Fuck. I had skipped the last two days because of the fat morning tide, expecting it to be too swampy.

     We both paddle north, and a heaving right comes rolling in. I mean, wave of the day status, big and open-face rippable. I’m going for it. So is Stocky John, but he’s way too fucking deep. I’m just about to drop in, and we both have eye contact, staring at each other with eyes wide. He pops up. Just as I pull out, I see him get obliterated by the lip on the bottom turn.

     You see, I’m anal about etiquette. In this case, maybe a little too nice. I hate getting burned by people, so if anyone is on my inside going for a wave, I just pull out. I try to avoid, at all costs, ruining the section for someone or getting in someone’s way. However, since me and Stocky John know each other, I expect that we’d have the proper etiquette for each other, like, “Dude, I’m too deep. GO!” But he had gone anyway, knowing that he was way too far behind and that I was in a better spot.

     I don’t want to give him a hard time about it, but I do want to say something, at least a, “What happened?” Am I being a dick?

     Waiting for him, I look back at the shore, and see that he’s leaving, after having been out for barely a half hour.

#

     Back at the car, I give Klaude a Vox, letting him know what the conditions are like. I haven’t surfed with him in a while. It’s tax season, so he’s been really busy. I also haven’t surfed with my other DRC homies in a while. Dais, Khang moved to the East Coast, and Cheryl doesn’t even surf anymore. I know one day life is gonna get busy for me, and I won’t be able to be a surf bum anymore, but until then, I’m glad that I can show up at my local spot as much as I can.

OUTGOING SWELLS, THU 29JAN2015

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach          
Time: 0700-0900        
Conditions: 3-4 FT, overcast, offshore, cold
Board: Lost Mini Driver, medium quads

     It’s a replay of yesterday, but many things are different. Bri’s in the upper 26^th Street lot while I’ve cheap-assed it on the hill. The surf is smaller with a high tide, but there is actually shape. I meet Bri in the lot. Tom, who I haven’t seen in a couple weeks, is parked here, too. So is Collin.

     “There’s a good peak at Dockweiler,” he says. “I passed it on the way over here.”

     I’ve heard of secret peaks around there, but knowing me, I’m always gonna surf here regardless.

     Walking over The Strand, we see the left working in front of the tower, shoulder high, soft but rippable. The high schoolers are selling it.

     Young Mike’s out in front of the brickhouse. He and a John John Florence lookalike are surfing another left. I had a feeling today would be like this. With the outgoing swell, things usually tend to shape up better here.

     Still, there are some cleanup sets, but smaller than yesterday. Manageable.

     Bri and I paddle out and join the brick-house pack. Fuck it’s cold. It’s definitely still winter water conditions, at least for SoCal. Struggling, I have a hard time catching a first wave. I almost catch one, but Imitation John John is on it, so I pull out. Bri goes late on a right and disappears. I see her later getting worked on the inside.

     I finally catch a left, and it’s in front of Young Mike again who’s paddling out from the inside. I want to surf this wave well, but I’m forcing it. My pumps are awkward, body too stiff and upright. I’m trying to do a replay from Trestles and spring up out of the bottom turn. I do and begin my wrap with speed, but I lean too far backwards, and my board doesn’t follow, so I lose it. Fuck, it was a rippable wave too. I turn around. Bri’s still getting worked, now all the way in front of the tower.

     The current’s a little unsuspecting, as I’m dragged south, too. The groms are leaving. Tom’s by my side. It should be “go time” with waves all to ourselves, but as history has told, the kids have taken the waves with them. Just a slight change of tide has made things walled again. Not gnarly walled but no shape at all.

     Bri leaves. I look at Collin in the distance. He throws his hands up in frustration. The waves are long with hints of shoulders at the end of them. Some look like they won’t break but double up when they hit the sandbar. Positioning is hard. I finally get a decent right. My first snap is sluggish. As walled as the sets are, the inside is still fat. Could’ve used my Motorboat Too today. I try to really use my rail on the bottom turns in hopes to create more speed, but I’m slow. I end the wave with three turns. Still not bad.

     And as the old swell leaves and the new one comes in, the shape improves. My wave of the day is a runner of a left. I pump down the line the whole time to set up for one G-force carve. I go rail to rail, deep, even getting the board perfectly positioned back under my feet, but I get lazy. I expect the wave to push my board and redirect it, but I eat shit instead. All I needed to do was use my hips to ride out of it.

     I’m out of the water at 0900. Looking at the break from the shore, it a whole other day from this morning. The peaks are coming in more scattered. The other locals have crowded the brickhouse: Roy, Ross, Toru, Costco Kim. Even though I didn’t surf my best, I’m happy at this sight. I have a lot to look forward to tomorrow.

 

THE TIP, WED 28JAN2015

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach          

Time: 0700-0830        
Conditions: 4-5 FT+, overcast, consistent, walled
Board: Lost Mini Driver, medium quads

     I’m still in bed, and Bri’s just about ready to walk out the door. I’m taking a steaming hot morning piss when she does. 0615. Good timing for a legit dawn patrol. I’m halfway to the surf when I get a Vox from Bri—It’s big and walled. When we get there, we both watch from The Strand. It is walled. Looks like the high school surf team is having a class contest or something because they have different colored jerseys on. As walled as the conditions are, they’re going for it, pumping down the long dredging faces trying to turn closeouts into something flashy. We see two shoulders the whole time.

     “I’m not paddling out,” says Bri.

     I tell her I’m heading back, too. She leaves, but I stay and watch it a little longer, even walking backwards back to my VIP parking spot. I should go home. Plenty of things I can do today. Why paddle out if it’s walled?

#

     My wrist feels much better after the dirtbike spill. I’m duckdiving with much stronger grip. My judgment must have been good because I don’t get worked by a set. Young Mike is out here. So is Collin. We’re out in front of the brickhouse. No other locals are out. That’s a bad sign.

     The surf’s not as big as the peak of the last swell, but the sets are still long and dumpy. I paddle over the set waves, seeing them stretch out in both directions. I’m looking for anything with a shoulder, and that’s when a big right comes.

     Spectators for the groms are on the shore, so I go for broke, paddling in, grabbing rail, and just pig dogging, but the wave isn’t going round enough. Plus, I’m too low on the wave’s face, and the lip lands just outside of me before I’m gobbled up. I do these kinds of attempts a lot, and I don’t know how I always come up unscathed.

     Another shoulder pops up. It’s a left, and it’s the best shaped wave that I’ve seen thus far. About head high, I turn and go a little late. The base of the wave bends, so I just pull in from the drop. Young Mike is on the shoulder pulling out for me. I hunker down, see the lip begin to swirl, and then I vanish in the face of the wave.

     Resurfacing, the wave’s long gone. The inside is roaring soup. I paddle back. Young Mike’s right there, and there’s an odd silence between us. I had just ate it in front of him.

     “Fuck,” I say. “I should have made it out of that.”

     Mike turns to me and says, “You need to get more square on your board.” He touches his chest. “You’re leaning too far forward. If you want to make it out of a barrel next time, swing your hands forward, I’ve been doing it too, and you can kind of steer.”

     Eh, I’m a little embarrassed. It does bring things into perspective. Seems I can only get barreled on A-frame HB peaks, but I just can’t seem to pull it off in the South Bay.

     I catch the next right. The wave starts off with a decent shoulder, but as I’m sliding down its face, the shoulder just grows and stretches out into a closeout. Instead of pulling in, I straighten out.

     The few morning takers move in on the 26^th Street tower once the kids leave, but we don’t fare much better. With the lowering tide, the surf gets even dumpier, no hint of shape anywhere. I call the session after an hour and a half.

     Back at my car, I see three missed calls from my sister and one from Bri. Fuck, I forgot that I was supposed to take my sister to the airport.

AT THE RIGHT SPOT, THU 22JAN2015

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach, 26th Street

Time: 0800-0930   

Crew: Klaude

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, sunny, warm, offshore, high tide

Board: 6’0 Lost Mini Driver, medium quads

     At 0600 I turn off my alarm and close my eyes, a vicious gamble for one who had planned to dawn patrol six hours ago. Yet, there’s a chance that I’ll shake the sleep trance off, open my eyes once more, inhale deeply, take in the silence, and sit up out of bed. I open my eyes. 0717.

     There goes the window that I had hoped to catch, critical today with an easing swell and a six-foot plus high tide. Klaude said he’d be out there. I picture him getting out as I’m just walking on the sand, Klaude throwing up his arms saying, “What the fuck?” Main thing is that I show up and surf. You always regret it when you don’t. At least I do.

     To my surprise, I score VIP parking on 27^th Street. Usually Vietvet Mike parks here, but for some reason, while every other street spot is taken, this one is vacant. Right when I pull up, there’s a long peak breaking. It’s soft, but there are shoulders at the end. Surfers are on them, ripping. It’s a mashed down A-frame. There’s a main pack in front of the brick house. I already know I’ll be sitting wide south of them.

     When I get to the lineup, the ocean goes stagnant. I search for Klaude but don’t see him. 33^rd Street has peaks. Marine has a left that stands up. The next wave breaks at the brick house, and everyone’s on it. A right finally swings wide. Sliding down its face, I see the shoulder stand up and start to stretch out, but it’s not going round, just spilling. I chance a springing pump off the bottom turn and am surprised at how fast I climb the face, but I climb too fucking high and lose the wave. Lost turn.

     The high tide begins to slow things down. I’ll be lucky to get a decent wave. I missed the good window. Someone’s paddling up to me. It’s Klaude.

     “I don’t know what happened?” he says. I paddled out, got a three-turn wave, and then everyone paddled out.” It turns out that Klaude had only been here for a half hour.  

     We paddle further away from the pack and sit on 26^th. In the short distance south, we see the lefts in the Marine area. Klaude paddles towards it and says, “I’m gonna get on that. Can’t just look at it anymore.”

     I paddle with him but notice a bump out the back, so I swing back around and paddle towards the outside. Lucky me. It’s the first wave of the next juicy set. Even though the peak is more north, it’s stretching out so far that I’m right on the shoulder. Dropping in, the shoulder stretches out, but its face is holding. I bottom turn and crank out a solid backhand snap. Going down the line, I wind up once more. A second, a third on the inside. Wow, fucking three turns. Didn’t expect that. I see Klaude in the distance, scoring my wave a 6.

     And for some reason, even though the tide is getting higher, I just somehow find myself in the right spot at the right time, unfortunately at Klaude’s expense. We’re at odds. He sits inside, a wave breaks outside. He sits outside, a wave breaks inside. I’m at where he’s not, so I get at least three decent waves in a row. Even the insiders are fun. Other than a left-hand cutback, my best waves are on the rights going backside.

     “If I’m on it, just go,” I say to Klaude.

     “Nah, I’m all right,” he says. He wears an unsatisfying smirk.

     Just then, a peak starts to stand up on the outside. We both paddle for it and then say, “Nahhhh,” because it looks like we’ve been faked out, but then it hits the sandbar and stands up even more. It’s a right. Klaude’s on my outside. I paddle into the wave with Klaude right in front of me. “Go!” I say as I kick out. From behind, it looks like a decent wave, a little racy but open. He bashes the lip as the wave closes out, going down with it.

     When I’m all done and changed back at my car, I sit on the strand and just soak in the moment. Everything is perfect. The offshore breeze is light. The sun and the air are warm. Soft glassy peaks still break, still providing good rides for the third shifters. Other than the slight patter from joggers, all I can hear are the waves breaking. Even though I’m no longer in the water, for some reason, I just don’t want to leave.

SHOULDER SIGHTINGS, WED 21JAN2015

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach, 26th Street
Time: 0715-0915   
Conditions: 4-5 FT+, sunny, semi walled, consistent
Board: 6’0 Lost Mini Driver, Thruster

     Bri and I had driven to HB on Monday, and the surf was shit. Even in the late morning, the high tide had the waves breaking close to shore. No classic HB peaks either, just coming in too lined up. We were going to paddle out, but I forgot my wetsuit like a fucking dumb ass.

     The biggest day of the swell, yesterday, I woke up to look at the surf cams. It looked doable, but I didn’t expect there to be shape. Plus, I was unmotivated. It was too easy to call a lay day, do some errands, and sleep in a little. By the end of the night, I felt like a regular bum. Worthless. I wasn’t even a surf bum anymore. Being a surf bum still gives you a sense of accomplishment. Purpose. It was time to get back into the groove.

#

     Of course the tide would be killing the surf, so I had set my alarm at 0600. I hit the snooze button, cancelling out last night’s motivation to dawn patrol. Lame one on my part. So I late-train it at 0645, finding free parking on 27^th Street. I can see the break in front of the tower, and it’s a swarm of high-schoolers. It must be slow because everyone’s stagnant. No one’s caught inside or going to and from. They’re all just waiting. And then, peaks start sprouting up. A little long but with shape. After breaking, they moosh out a little, but some kids are getting nice rides. For the first time in a while, my local break has legit shape.

     I dawn my used 3/2 Quik Cypher that I had bought from Gary’s son Russ. It’s a large short, so squeezing into it is a lot easier, but I do note how the suit wrinkles around my chest from the extra material and my inability to fill it.

     Stocky Jon and Robert are watching the surf on the strand.

     “Paddling out?” I ask.

MET QUOTAS, SUN 18JAN2015

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach, 26th Street

Time: 0900-1030
Crew: Bri
Conditions: 4-5 FT, sunny, cold, walled, consistent
Board: 6’0 Lost Mini Driver, large quads

     The morning after Klaude’s party, Bri and I paddle out on the second shift at 26^th. I’m a little reluctant to surf because of the lack of shape. Bri’s even more reluctant since she had heard about my beatings on Friday.

     It’s a morning that we’re supposed to meet some of our friends that we had just seen last night. KK didn’t commit to coming, but he hinted that he would. Cheryl, who has a back injury, said she would come, too, just to hang out. Of course, after most late-night gatherings, filled with mirth, no one paddles out, and I can’t blame them. For Bri and I, especially I, have no life this Sunday, so why not go for it?

     It’s a bright and sunny, cliché in any book, but it’s true. Everything’s bright in the late-morning sun. The strand is packed with weekend walkers, joggers, worker-outers, everything! So it’s a surprise that the lineup’s not too packed either. There are people, but the crowd is manageable.

     We try to pick a good spot to paddle out, which is a challenge because a set rolls through, making the inside row upon row of churning whitewash. Despite the torrid inside, it’s smaller than it was on Friday. “You’ll be fine,” I tell Bri. I must say, after getting my ass kicked on Friday, I’m pretty confident about this morning’s paddle out. I think that’s what ass whoopings are good for. Today’s walled, but it’s smaller, so I know I’ll be fine.

     I paddle out first and stop short in the impact zone, waiting for Bri to catch up. Every time a wave breaks on her, I expect her to get dragged back, but she turtle dives the 6’10 and resurfaces unscathed.

     It’s a picky session. We let the sets go by, and I paddle into closeouts that might have a chance for distance. Meanwhile, Bri tries to catch the in-between waves, but they’re too small. She scratches out, turns around, and sees that she’s in the impact zone for the incoming sets.

     Putting my good-boyfriend hat on, I point out waves to her that are rideable. I even take a right and get one snap before it closes out. When I get back to the lineup, she paddles for a left, but the wave looks too soft. I’m thinking, If she had her NSP she’d be able to catch it. I know how that Becker feels on soft waves. You paddle your ass off, and then it doesn’t—

     But Bri puts in an extra paddle and the wave lets her in. It looks soft from behind, but I watch as she goes down the line, shoulders to head exposed from my perspective. Good.

     It’s hard to find shape for the rest of the session. I catch a couple more closeouts. Our metered spot is only good until 1030, so Bri and I head in.

     At the showers, we go through the normal I’m-glad-we-paddled-out banter. After all, it is a nice day. I did get one turn, reached my quota, and Bri even got a good wave in walled conditions.