HB’s UNDERDOG WAVE, SUN 15MAR2015

I know it doesn't look like much, but . . . it was REALLY fun.

 

Loc: Huntington Beach, Bolsa Chica                   

Time: 0945-1230

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 3-4 FT, offshore, hot, consistent. 

Board: Lost Mini Driver

     Bri has the day off. It’s her only full off, so we have to make it worth it. First, we sleep in. With a high tide in the morning, there’s no reason to dawn patrol it. Second, we’re escaping the South Bay and going back to HB. Obviously, not back to Brookhurst. I’m thinking Bolsa Chica first and then The Cliffs if Bolsa isn’t working.

     Upon reaching the state parking entrance, we’re faced with a long line just to get in. When we reach tower 20, the whole lot is nearly full with only a few empty spaces. I see the replay of yesterday morning coming into effect. It’s too crowded. Everywhere is crowded. With all this gorgeous weather and Surfline’s pumping-up of the swell, of course everyone is at the friggin’ beach.

     I park next to a beat up sedan. A dark bolo-head guy walks up to it. Holy shit. It’s Mario from 26^th Street, a South Bay guy who I frequently run into at Bolsa for some reason. “It’s fun,” he says. “I’m taking a break.” He pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

     Someone from the field of cars calls out his name. Holy shit again, it’s Ripper Roy from Manhattan Beach, too. Fuckin’ A. South Bay guys here at Bolsa. It must be good. Roy says that this is his second sesh too, and that he’s about to paddle back out. They both sell it. Yesterday was even better.

     Bri and I walk further south towards a gap in the lineup. It’s more inconsistent here, but the breaks in front of tower 20 just have too many people, longboarders, shortboarders, SUP’s, body boarders, you name it.

     At first, I wonder if I’m on the right board. I don’t really see big peaks coming in. I catch my first left. It’s three feet and racy, but I pump, make some sections, and end with a baby floater. So it’s three feet and fun. Still shortboardable, just not ideal.

     My next right races away. On the way back out, Bri’s on the 6’8 NSP, trying to pump her huge board. Even though she struggles to turn that beast, she’s surfing more top to bottom. A leap in her progression. When we’re both out back again, she gets a lot rides.

     And even though I had thought the waves weren’t ideal, sets start coming in. Not gnarly, but four feet. The lefts are standing up, not barreling but vertical rippable. For the first time in a while, I’m getting some legit shortboard time, getting some wraps and snaparoos. Mimicking my deep pumps from Churches two days ago, I’m in tune on the open face, pumping on the Lost Mini Driver, setting myself up for something. No airs. Just turns. Even with the crowd, I’m able to get my share of waves. Even though there are more people here, I’d rather deal with this than with the aggressive crowd at Brookhurst.

     All around me, the place is packed with people who just want to paddle out and be in the water. It’s funny how Bolsa is known for being the soft wave of HB, yet here I am, having an even better time than I had yesterday. Who cares if it’s probably a foot smaller here?

     My wave of the day is on a set that breaks far outside. I’m too deep for the first one, so I let it go. The second wave approaches. I’m in perfect position for it. Timing it right, I slowly steer my board into position. “You have to go,” says a random surfer from the inside. I pop up on the high line, pump, drop down, bottom turn, and get a solid rail-to-rail carve. It’s the first shortboard rail-to-rail action that I’ve had in a while. It’s hard to describe the feeling, but the satisfaction is far greater than a mediocre turn. I just feel it, hips and shoulders, on the rails with a full rotation and then coming out of it angry, just aggressive and hungry for more.

     At the end of my third turn I hear Roy yell, “Yeah, Matt!” I shoot him a shaka on the way back out.

     After the session, we head to Westminister for Pho, but not before driving the coast a little bit. There’s a line to part at The Cliffs. Everywhere, the water is still glassy. Even at noon and on a drained tide, waves are still breaking. It’s just perfect. As sunburned as I already am, I could easily park and paddle back out for the rest of the day.

BAD JOKE, WED 04MAR2015

Damn, you. . . Damn, you. . . .

Loc: Bolsa Chica                                     

Time: 0830-1030   

Crew: Cassady

Conditions: 2-3 FT, offshore, inconsistent, swampy. 

Board: Motorboat Too

     Today was supposed to be the day. With Surfline forecasting south-facing beaches at 4-5 Occasional 6ft, how could I not be stoked? To make up for last Tuesday’s missed opportunity to surf good HB, I damn sure wasn’t gonna miss out on today. I had even planned to meet up with my buddy Cassady who lives in Long Beach.

     I’m out the door at 0550, and it’s still not early enough. The horizon’s already a metallic orange, bright enough to be in the water. First light’s much earlier now.

     My first destination is the HB Cliffs. Despite being late for first light, I must be early because barely anyone is parked here. The wind is light offshore, not a cloud in the sky. Save for the sub sixty-degree air temp, it’s a perfect day. I step up to the railing to have a look at the surf, and nothing is breaking. Tide. There’s just too much water on the surface. Nothing but shorepound action. No one is out right here. Further south, a few heads sit closer to Goldenwest.

     I drive further south to take a chance on Brookhurst. On the way there, I see some waves breaking at Goldenwest. There’s a lot of activity at the pier. However, the surf has that mooshy teepee shape. The sets are bigger, but they’re breaking section on section. It’s not classic. No legit peaks.

"And that's when Donny realized that he might have been better off staying local."

     The feeling of getting skunked officially sets in when I do reach Brookhurst. Same story here as the pier. Yet, guys are out. The end section of a wave has a racy shoulder. It looks doable, but it’s not what I expect when it comes to this place, especially with the given forecast. I can’t blame Surfline. It did say “Slow morning” because of the high tide. I just hoped it wouldn’t be this bad.

     So I find myself at Bolsa Chica, taking advantage of my state pass. It’s shorepounding here, so I bust out my book that I had brought with me and kill some time.

     After struggling to stay awake through my book, Cassady arrives a little after 0800. “We could surf here or check out The Cliffs again,” I say.

     “Nah,” says Cas. “I’d rather surf here for a half hour. I have a meeting at work.”

     We’re in the water by 0830. The window should be better. The tide’s going down, and there’s enough swell to start pushing through the moosh. Immediately, I get a couple of fat shoulders. They turn racy, and all I can do is pump for distance and finish with some baby floaters. Cassady, on his longboard, milks the whole half hour, getting fun rides.

     “It looks like there’s potential,” I say. “Maybe another hour?”

     When Cassady leaves, I have the whole break to myself. A few guys sit two towers south of me. My spot shuts down. It seems to be more consistent where the other guys are. I paddle over, and either the waves break too far out or they’re too soft and break late. Even with perfect conditions, me burning hot in my wetsuit, negative wind, sunny skies, and a hyped-up south swell, I cannot get a turn for the life of me.

     Guys show up for surf checks on the sand and leave. It’s fucking 1000 now. The tide should be better, right? It’s gonna turn. The window’s gonna open. It’s gonna get good.

     By 1030, I’m so fucking frustrated. Out there with the seagulls, I have a good sit down with myself. I’d like to think I’m a dedicated surfer. It’s my lifeblood. Maybe not on a charger or international scale, but at least for an average local guy, I’m a fanatic. I’ve earned that. But its days like these when I feel like a joke.

     The demons come out. What am I doing with myself, my life, sitting here waiting for the good wave that isn’t coming. Or maybe it will. Later, the tide’s gonna get lower. This spot’s gonna be transformed, littered with peaks. I could stay and grab breakfast somewhere. Coffee, finish off my book, check it again around lunch time.

     I willingly do the paddle of shame to shore. Driving home, I have a hard time finding the right music to fit the mood.

BRI’S SESSION, SUN 01FEB2015

The best way to cap off a three-hour surf sesh. AYCE sushi.

 

Loc: Bolsa Chica
Time: 0930-1230        
Crew: Bri, Cassady, Kami
Conditions: 2-3 FT, mid tide, uncrowded, consistent
Board: Pill & Zippifish

     Since Bri works two jobs now, it’s rare for her to get a full day off, but today she does. We had planned a surf day for her, and the call was to surf HB.

     We do it right this morning, sleeping in and planning to catch the surf when the tide’s on its way down. Also, with the Super Bowl on deck, we hope to catch an uncrowded session.

     I take the Studebaker exit and work my way towards HB on PCH. I like stopping at the HB Cliffs / Dog Beach to see how the surf is there before heading towards Brookhurst, but when we reach Warner we see that PCH is closed.

     Would have been nice to know this intel earlier, but there’s a marathon or a race going on. Hundreds, maybe thousands of runners are on PCH. Since I have a state parking pass, we enter Bolsa Chica. It’s either bypass PCH to get further south or surf here. We do a surf check at Tower 20. The waves are still fat from the tide, but there is shape. Bolsa Chica it is.

     I call my friend Cassady and tell him where we’ll be. It’s too mooshy and small for the Motorboat Too, so I whip out the Pill that Gary had let us sample, and Bri paddles out on the blue Zippifish. We’re not expecting much surf, just a fun small session.

     Within minutes of reaching the lineup, we’re in prime position for some long open shoulders. Signature HB style waves, even on the high tide, they are standing up a little more than Porto.

     Even though I’m using a composite set of FCS GMBs, the Pill is turning so smoothly. On punchy three-foot faces, I’m wrapping this board around doing solid cutbacks. Since it has such a full shape, I’m getting back to the open face so easily. The thruster setup is so responsive. I even walk the nose to get past some sections in front of me, longboard style, and then shift back to the tail to crank out more turns. Although, I can’t really get snappy turns because of the full round tail, but it’s still such a fun board. I’ve never ridden a board that can ride both like a long and shortboard, just such good balance for all around fun surfing.

     Cassady and his girlfriend Kami show up on longboards. Cas is a purist, so no leashes for them. He’s my former MFA classmate, so we have a good time catching up. They surf with us for an hour before leaving for a Super Bowl party.

     “Your guys’ stoke is so infectious,” he says. “We need to paddle out with you guys more often.”

     We make a tentative plan to hit Trestles next weekend before they part.

     Bri and I switch boards, and she does pretty well on the Pill. She catches a right, and I watch her pump to the open face from behind and cutback a little.

     The Zippi is another story. Being back on this beast is like catching a second wind. I can catch anything on this. With the lowering tide, the waves get a little racier, but the twin fins are so fast that I can pump so far down the line before cutting back. The turns on the fish aren’t as smooth as the thruster setup on the Pill though.

     At 1230, three hours later, we’re done. It’s on the way to Maru Sushi in Westminister. My buddy J had turned me onto this place. It might be a nice replacement for Zenko Sushi in Mission Viejo. There’s only one way to find out. I worry about a Super Bowl crowd, but the place is empty. Immediately when we get our first order, I can tell that the quality here is subpar from what I’m used to. The muscles are drenched in sauce and have a strong after taste. The mackerel is hard and looks like it’s been out for a while. Little subtleties like laps in presentation turn me off. Sloppiness. I hate to be a sushi snob, but I can’t help it. Yet, for eighteen bucks per person, it’s a good deal for a quick AYCE fix.

     We pick up some coffee at Lee’s Sandwiches, grab some Aloe Gator sunscreen at REI, some wax at Surf Concepts, and then stop off at El Porto before heading home. It was such a good day, cruising to Cali surf tunes (Tame Impala channel on Pandora) on the way home. Bri had said that she didn’t want the drive to end. Sitting on the sand, we watch the drained out surf at 45^th. Guys are milking it, even getting three hits, but we’re not paddling out again. Tomorrow the surf is supposed to be poor-to-fair before picking up again into Tuesday. Perfect excuse for a lay day. I have to let my body rest some time.

     Also, the surf session itself and the equipment we used, I feel lucky to be able to use different surf craft and feel the difference between twin fins and thrusters. Back then I wouldn’t have been able to appreciate the difference in responsiveness through the turns or the speed I can get on each setup.

     When I get home, I look in the mirror and see that my face is still smeared with white Vertra. The tan line on my neck is horrific; I’m two different people. With eyes bloodshot red, I can’t help but smile at myself. They are all the signs of a good day of surfing.

 

 

I REMEMBER “SHIT”, SAT 15NOV2014

Loc: Bolsa Chica

Time: 0900-0930

Conditions: 2-4 FT, no shape.

     With me leaving to Japan in eight days, Bri and I plan to surf Orange County together. For one, she has a hair appointment in the afternoon, so I figure we could get our surf on, since it’s supposed to be good, then we can eat afterwards, and then we can go to her appointment while I take a boyfriend nap in the car.

     It’s a no fuss no muss kind of morning, so I don’t even trip on the text messages that I’m receiving. Dave T. sends a pic of Manhattan Beach of what looks like an overhead closeout barrel that’s barely makeable. And then there’s Manny’s text of another barrel at Zuma. Bottom line is, South Bay is firing. There’s swell.

     But this morning’s more about quality time, so we get up, eat breakfast, lethargically load up the wagon, and then head south on the 405.

     First we pull into Bolsa Chica. It’s overcast but offshore and glassy. Plenty of surf signs this morning, as the lots are littered with cars. Surfers are walking to and from the beach with boards in hand, and more people are lining up to enter the state beach.

     We park and take a look at our usual Bolsa Chica break. It’s consistent. There’s definitely activity in the water. Four-foot lines are rolling in all the way from the outside, but fuck . . . the sandbars are still pretty bad here. The quality isn’t there. The shape, the waves just aren’t peeling with open faces to crank some turns on. Maybe on a longboard, you can at least get some distance, but it’s not what we came here for.

     So we make the drive further south. The jetty at the end of Bolsa is packed. At Seapoint, we can see the HB Cliffs. The shape there is a little better but still not at its potential.

     We make it to Brookhurst, and the wind here is onshore. The shape is better, but it’s smaller and choppy. Fuckin’ A. After taking a couple days last week and getting skunked on Friday, this is a hard pill to swallow. Do we surf in choppy onshore shoulders or bigger offshore waves with shitty shape?

     Stubborn as hell, I drive us back to Bolsa. First I stop at the cliffs, but I remember that I didn’t pack water jugs this morning because I didn’t think we’d need them.

     The crowd at Bolsa Chica has thinned out. There’s barely a fraction of the amount of people that we had seen here about thirty minutes ago.

     Pulling out my Lost Mini Driver, I notice two rail dings that I never saw before. Fuck me. Bad luck with dings this year. Motorboat Too it is.

     And there’s nothing worse than sitting in the lineup knowing that the surf will not be improving. There is no window to wait for in hopes that it will get better. The waves don’t break until the inside. Popping up, the waves race away and closeout. It’s choppy. A few other mules are close by, waiting for the wave that never comes. It’s a thirty minute session. All that driving. The skunk. Once it gets a hold of you, there’s no escape.

     So of course, I was moody the rest of the day. Poor Briana. I love her. It wasn’t her fault. You don’t want to see me when I haven’t gotten a good session in a while. Despite me being a pouty bitch, the rest of the day was cool. Bri spotted for pho afterwards, and her hair stylist took her appointment early.

     Now that I’m writing this in Japan, I wish I would have appreciated her more that day. 

MY ENDLESS SUMMER, PT.11 WED 06AUG2014

The Stingray Session

Loc: Bolsa Chica

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 1-3FT, inconsistent, glassy, uncrowded.

     The swell is supposed to be up a little bit, but looking at the surf at Bolsa, the forecasts may have been a little off. We push it further to the south end of HB. The swell here is hitting about a foot bigger, but the waves are breaking section-on-section, and I’m not in the move to surf closeouts, especially after Monday’s fun session and the drive just to get here.

     The sky’s overcast, compounding that gloomy skunky feeling inside. Nope, the drive hasn’t been worth it thus far. We stop at Goldenwest for a quick peek. It’s a little bigger than Bolsa, but there’s more wind here, making the shape a little crumbly. Even though Bolsa doesn’t have size, we head there for the quality.

     As much as I’d like to use my Motorboat Too, the conditions here are too small for it. When waves do come, they are clean and decent, but the few heads in the water are just sitting there stagnant, so I know it’s inconsistent.

     Bri opts for the 6’8 NSP while I break out the 6’10 Becker. There’s a small pack in front of Tower 20, but we paddle out just south of them, so as not to interfere with their peak. Upon reaching the lineup, a set comes in. Bri catches the first wave. I catch the second. Even though my wave is barely three feet, there’s something about the length and volume of my board. The wave is small and a little sectiony, but I pump down the line so fast, my full rails getting me to the open face. As the wave closes out, I do a foam climb with such ease that I’m surprised that this big board can yet be so maneuverable.

     The surf turns more consistent for a moment, and the people in front of Tower 20 begin to sneak over towards me and Bri, but the closer they get, the more they’re in the way. Going down the line, they are forced to kick out for us.

     Then things slow down again, and an enveloping lull keeps everyone still. On the inside, two fishermen have their lines cast out. No one else is paddling out, just the same three other guys who have been out since we got here.

     But the sets do come, and when they do, they have good shape. I can’t get crisp tight turns, but forcing all my weight on the tail for torque, I can whip the nose around, throwing out minimum splash at least. The board’s width makes sticking the floaters so easy. And then I get a right, two sluggish backhand turns. I’m surprised that I don’t purl.

     Standing on the inside, I’m pretty stoked. The tide is going down, the surf is getting a little better, and I’m getting the set waves. Smiling, I stare out over the blue horizon for the next lumps coming in. I grab my board and just then, it feels like something sharp stabs me in my right big toe, just underneath the toe nail. The pain is immediately excruciating. Wincing and whining like a bitch, I frantically climb on top of my board and paddle out and away, eyes tight and jaws clenched. Stingray is the first thing that comes to mind.

     I cradle my foot and rock back and forth. A wave comes. I miss it, almost getting run over by a longboarder. I imagine that the flesh underneath my nail is jacked, but instead there’s a small puncture wound on the tip of my toe. It bleeds profusely. I’ve never been stung by a stingray before. There’s no barb in my foot. The wound is small, but it hurts like a motherfucker. Looking behind me, I see the two fishermen on shore, so I assume that maybe one of them had hooked my toe on accident.

     Bri comes over. I have to try and put on my tough guy act, but I’m visibly struggling. “Maybe we should go,” she says. Of course I’m stubborn. By all means, I can’t go when the surf is getting better. If my toe is in fact cut by a fishing hook, I should be fine.

     Dealing with the pain, I catch more waves, making sure my feet don’t touch the sand on the inside, and I’m actually surfing well. However, the pain in my toe gets worse. It’s throbbing, and the sensation even spreads over to my middle toe.

     Still in denial, I switch over to the Motorboat Too that I had left on the sand, but it hurts so much now that I’m surfing like shit. I have to get out.

     I hobble on the sand towards the showers. The fishermen watch me as I walk behind them. They look away when I look back, but they track me once I pass them. Maybe they know. Maybe fishing right there behind me attracted a lot of stingrays.

     I rinse off at the shower, and the cold water makes the pain worse. Bri offers to drive, but I tell her I’ll be all right. We hit traffic on the 405 North. Bri falls asleep. It feels like such a long drive because the pain just pulsates, disappearing and then throbbing hard.

     Once we get home, Bri fills a basin with hot water, and would you believe it? The pain subsides immediately. I’m so drained from the sting that I pass out on the couch while sitting there with my foot soaked.

     There’s a first time for everything, and I hope that the second time never happens again. Lesson learned. Stingrays . . . you gotta respect those little fuckers. 

MY ENDLESS SUMMER, PT.9 MON 04AUG2014

New Swells

Loc: Bolsa Chica

Crew: Bri

Time: 0730-1000

Conditions: 3-4FT, consistent, light crowd, light onshore.

Pre Blog:

     Even though KK, Bri, and I scored at Trestles on Saturday, my plan to surf this week is to stay closer to home, meaning dawn patrolling anywhere from Bolsa to Newport. As much as I love Trestles, some of the last swells haven’t had “classic” shape, so I figure it would be better to hit some HB sandbars. With new south swells on Monday and then Wednesday throughout the end of the week, I hope that staying closer to home pays off. After all, it doesn’t hurt to change it up.

Bolsa:

     Instead of taking the Huntington Beach exits, I prefer to exit the 405 S at Studebaker and take PCH to Huntington. My fellow surf blogger Pabs (R.I.P.) had recommended this route, saying that he enjoyed taking the scenic route to the surf.

     This way, I can stop at Bolsa first to see what the surf is doing. If it’s at least three feet with decent shape, I usually stay there. If not, then it’s southward I go, checking out The Cliffs, Goldenwest, the pier, and so on.

     When Bri and I reach Bolsa for a look, we see some small scattered peaks. Then the set comes in, four-foot sectiony peaks everywhere with some shoulders mixed in. Not all of the waves have shape, but there is definitely activity, definitely worth calling the search to an end and suiting up.

     The last few days have been overcast, but the sky eastward over PCH doesn’t have a cloud in it, and the sun’s rays uncomfortably heat my face as if it’s seeking revenge. I cake on extra Vertra.

     Bri’s transitioning down to one of my old big shortboards, a 6’10 Becker.

     Since I had so much fun on her 6’8 NSP, I bring it on the sand while starting my session with my Motorboat Too.

     When Bri paddles out on the Becker, I can tell that she’s not gliding over the water as fast as she usually does on the NSP. She makes it over a couple of waves, but the current carries her a little north. I walk down the beach a little before paddling out, which leaves me in perfect position in front of the lifeguard tower.

     With this odd high low-tide thing going on, it’s not varying much between two and three feet this morning, and I wonder how it will affect the waves.

     But right away, even without the big sets, consistent three footers roll through. Being picky, I chase down the lefts on every peak that’s in reach. Some of the waves are sectiony, but I snag a couple that have decent shape, either practicing some floaters or getting a couple of turns. On one I connect two turns, but they are snappy and not solid rail-to-rail carves. The waves are fun, but the faces aren’t really open and slow enough to pull those off. Instead, it’s mainly a morning of pumping to the end section for a final maneuver.

     I watch Bri, and she actually makes the transition to the Becker pretty well, catching a good handful of waves. When I ask her how it feels, she says that it’s looser and faster, but that there’s still enough volume for her to do whatever she wants on it. “Two of the hardest things,” she says, “is duckdiving and popping up, since this board is smaller.”

     I try to explain how to duckdive to her. She practices in between sets, struggling to submerge that weight under her. Maybe her body isn’t built for the upper body strength required to duckdive a big 6’10. She’ll figure it out eventually. . .

     I’m late popping up on one of the smaller waves, so I grab rail and force my nose down the line. Just then, a little bit of water throws out over my head. It’s a tube, but I hadn’t expected it, and my late popup has me eating shit. It was still nice seeing the potential of these waves. Bolsa is known for being smaller and weaker, but I like this spot because it’s mellower. I chat a little with the people around me and say good morning when I can, an old lady body boarding, an old guy longboarding, his wife. It reminds me of HB’s version of 26^th Street Manhattan Beach.

     With the lowering tide, the waves begin to stand up a little more, and then I start purling. Three waves in a row, my timing is off. I try my best to compensate for my late take offs, but upon popping up I feel like I’m sinking my board too hard and eating it on the drop. I’m thrown off so much that I sit at the bottom of the peak and let everyone sit up top while I sort things out. Am I too heavy? I have gained some weight, back to about 173. I need my Lost Mini Driver.

     Bri’s catching waves well, but she keeps getting worked on the inside. She keeps saying she can’t duckdive the board.

     The onshore wind picks up a little, which makes the peaks break a little faster. I switch to the 6’8 NSP and try to do a repeat of Saturday’s hot dogging session, but the waves I catch are closeouts. Since Bri looks defeated, I offer to swap boards with her.

     I haven’t used my Becker board in a while. It works well at Trestles, but I’m not sure how it will handle this peaky beach break. Right after switching, a peak forms on the outside. I’m in perfect position for this four-foot left. The volume creates so much stability that it slows down time on my pop up. Its full rail sends me down the line, making the first section and getting a little floater on the second. This board feels good.

     Bri gets out of the water. While I’m solo, I get another good left, and some fat asshole on a longboard drops in on me. I yell, “Ho!” and swerve towards the beach. He doesn’t even look back and just keeps going. What a dick. I try to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he had been waiting for a while.

     When I’m back on the sand, I see him snake another guy who’s on a fish. Fish guy bottom turns underneath Fatty, pushes Fatty’s rail out of the way, and surfs past him. Fatty kicks up his longboard, and Fish Guy has to hold his hand out over his head to keep from getting hit. What a fucker. Fatty and Fish Guy exchange some words.

     What a delicate balance it is. Admit it, you’d like to punch someone who snakes you in the nose, but then again, we have to share the ocean. Snaking’s gonna happen. If you’re aggro, it’ll catch up to you one way or another. I don’t want to be known for being “that guy” in the lineup, but I did kind of want to see Fatty get his ass kicked.

     Back at the wagon, Bri tells me that she had a frustrating session, getting worked on the Becker and then having poor positioning with the NSP. I explain that she’s been spoiled surfing Trestles lately, and that it’s a big change to start surfing beach break again, plus she’s on a new board.

     After changing, we head back out to the tower to “drink some tea.” The effects start coming on. The overcast is completely burned off. The sun is hot on our backs and on the sand under our feet. The morning crowd is gone, leaving only four people out. Yet, sets keep coming in. The wind has even settled down, too. It’s that ten o’clock hour when traffic and social life just seems lighter, when you feel you should be with the masses elsewhere, but instead you’re here, on a beach while everyone else is at work.

     “You wanna paddle back out?” says Bri, on our way back to the car.

     I turn around and look back. The inside is a bluish green from the sand churning up. Very light triangles of texture form on the ocean’s surface as an incoming wave bends the water. The water looks cool. I could trunk it.

     “Do you?” I say. We continue walking. I look down at the sand, listening to the sound of our shoveling footsteps.

     “No, we’ll be back here tomorrow.”

     Starting the engine, I know Bri is right, but I still have a hard time leaving this place. 

THE FRONTRUNNERS, THU 03JUL2014

Loc: Bolsa Chica

Crew: Bri

Time: 0645-0845

Conditions: Overcast, light south wind, consistent, 2-3FT+.

     Walking on the sand, out to the shoreline, we see small two-foot peaks rolling in. My initial reaction is to push it a little more south where it will be bigger, but then the set shows up. Scattered peaks everywhere, solid three feet plus.

     “Let’s paddle out,” says Bri.

     There are only a few surfers out. We can have this to ourselves.

     Changing at my car, a couple cars pull up. Surfers get out to check the surf. They leave.

     I sample the old school Tokoro that my brother had given to me years ago, my primary board before I got the Motorboat Too. I’ve been dusting off my old quiver lately, and I’m hoping to reestablish a relationship with my beach-break Tokoro, hoping that this morning’s surf is big enough to get redialed.

     I’m antsy and so impatient to get a wave on it. I move around too much, going for a small wave when a bigger one breaks out the back.

     This board is thin and narrow, but it has more rocker for waves that stand up more. From what I remember, it works well in punchy HB surf. I go left on my first wave, and right away it feels sluggish. I don’t have that drop-in speed that my groveler gives me, that extra volume, compacted in a short thick board. I’m slow going down the line. I try to turn but fall backwards. On my next wave, I go down the line, trying to keep up with it.

     I hold my rails and feel something jagged on the right side. The fiberglass on the rail is broken like a shard from a bone. I must get out.

     On my MB Too, I screw in the AM2 Futures setup to see if they work better than my Black Stix for these punchier HB waves. Truth is, today isn’t big enough to really make a difference. There’s the occasional four footer, but for the most part, the waves are three feet and playful.

     It was empty earlier, but by 0730, the place is packed with mostly longboarders. I still manage decent rides, getting some frontside carves and a decent rotation on a spilling white-wash section. Heat winner today is Bri, though. After said wave, she catches the second wave of the set, taking off next to the peak on a bomb right, four footer easy. Her popups aren’t lightening quick, but she’s getting much better, and if she’s getting up fast enough to ride these waves, then she can probably surf south Huntington where it’s a little bigger.

     She had even called out a wave that I had tried to take from her earlier. “I want it,” she said, and so I backed off. I admire her for that. She’s getting aggressive. She’s getting better.

     Before the wind gets stronger and makes things choppy, we had scored a decent window for surf. Bolsa likes the low tide right now, and when we had first shown up, it was clean. The waves were lining up all the way to shore, not big enough to barrel but for sure rippable. And to think, these are just the forerunners of the incoming swell. We’re expecting more size too. It’s gonna be a good weekend. 

WEST COAST WALLS, TUE 31DEC2013

 

Loc: Bolsa Chica

Crew: Bri

Time: 1100-1300

Conditions: 4 FT+, walled.

     Rick had called me this morning at first light, telling me that Porto was big and walled. I thanked him for the info and went back to sleep. I don’t mind challenging conditions in the surf, but I’ve surfed the South Bay long enough to know how those “walled sessions” go: sitting out at the lineup, dodging walls, finally getting frustrated and paddling into one just to go straight, and then getting worked on the inside. Over it.

     Since I have to pick up my brother from his son’s house in HB, I make the call to check Bolsa instead. Now Bolsa is ripe with surf signs. Even on the freeway there were dozens of cars with surfboards strapped on their roofs. Imagine what it’s like to live somewhere without surf where such a sight is rare, while we SoCal’ers take it for granted.

     The parking lots along Bolsa Chica State Beach are packed, and surfers can be seen from PCH going to and from. My favorite parking spot is taken and just about every other one for that matter. It’s the most crowded that I’ve seen Bolsa this year.

     Bri and I walk out to the sand for a look, and . . . the surf is just a hair better than Porto. To think that I expected the sandbars here to be much better, but there is so much west in the swell that it’s still walled here. However, there are some shoulders.

     A pack of surfers sit in front of the main life guard station. A clean right breaks and peels. The break in front of us, my break, is more on the walled side.

     “It’s a little smaller and softer here,” I say to Bri.

     We change and paddle out at 1100, and the sun is so high that it’s evident that we’re on the late train for surf. With the tide dropping, I’m not sure if the surf will improve or not. 

     We time our paddle out well and avoid getting worked, but once the sets start rolling in, I realize that it’s not much smaller than Porto nor less walled.

     The sets lift us up and bring us down. Out back more are coming. I’m still within my comfort zone. Another foot would be another story. If anything, I’m concerned for Bri. I would hate to have a huge longboard strapped to my ankle in these conditions.

     Despite the walls, we both fair well on the surf. Bri gets a right that holds shape. She gets another one, and a guy hoots her into it. Although, she draws a low line on a fast section, which causes her to fall behind and lose the wave, but I applaud her for trying.

     Later, she has a critical drop in on a set wave. It’s a late take off. She pops up, but it closes out. Once her popups get faster, she’ll be able to take off on more bombs.

     Surprisingly, I get a long, sectiony left that I do two floaters on. I also get a single-shot right on my backhand. More than I expected on a walled day.

     After Bri goes in, I’m in the water with five guys. A lull sets in, and a guy in a speedboat goes cruising by with the stereo blasting, and all we can hear is: “Your love is like a wre-e-ecking ba-all!” We all look at each other and smirk. Fuckin’ Miley Cyrus has to be part of my last surf sesh for 2013.

THE BOLSA GAMBLE (double), THU 31OCT2013

Loc: Bolsa Chica

Time: 0715-1015

Conditions: 2-3 FT, sunny, sideshore, glassy, inconsistent, swampy

     I should really dedicate this morning to doing homework, but Surfline is calling today’s forecast Fair to Good, so I have to go. If today is supposed to be better than yesterday’s score then I have to pull my surfer card and throw out my student one.

     I show up at Bolsa just after first light. I have to because my first class today starts at 1100, so if I want a long, solid session then I have to be here early. Yesterday looked fun despite the high tide when I had arrived around 0900, so with a little rise in the swell, the surf should be good.

     The first thing I notice when I step out of my car is the wind. It’s slightly offshore, but it’s coming in at an angle from the north. The water’s choppy and swampy, but it looks like some peaks are trying to push through it. It doesn’t look as good as yesterday, but I have to have faith. In an hour it should be firing. 

     I change and paddle out in my 4/3, feeling glad for the investment in this wetsuit. One longboarder is to my south and another guy is way to my north. Again, I have this spot to myself.

     Despite the tide and the texture on the water, I manage to get some decent rides. The backwash makes the peaks stand up on the outside, and then I have a long, racy line to work with. I have my thruster setup today, so I pump down the line and set myself up for some single shot turns. The only problem is that the waves are so swampy that they are gutless, not pitchy and punchy like yesterday.

     I had expected the surf to get better, but it doesn’t. Even at 0900, the surf is still swampy, more inconsistent even. Proof of this is the lack of surfers in the water. People arrive and then leave. Fuck.

     At 1000 the conditions clear up. The wind turns offshore, the sun comes out at full strength, and the water turns glassy. But still, the waves are inconsistent and slightly walled. Fuckin’ A. I would’ve skipped class if the surf was good, but it isn’t. Surfline was off. I’ve been bamboozled.

     Back at my car, changing, I see a couple guys show up to look at the surf. Before they leave I hear one of them say, “Yeah, yesterday was way better.”

DESPERADO (evening session)

Loc: Palos Verdes

Time: 1700-1800

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 1-2 FT, glassy, inconsistent

     Despite the shitty surf this morning, the conditions are so wonderful that I can’t stand the thought of spending the day indoors. After class, I wait for Bri to come home. When she does, we eat a light lunch, pack our gear, and head to El Porto in hopes that the good conditions will equal good surf.

     The surf is shit. At 1600, the tide is still drained out. The onshore wind is strong, making the surf choppy and walled. I squint and try to make out some decent rides out of the waves. Lines are coming in. There’s potential, but . . . all the surfers out there right now are just desperados, going straight on the closeouts.

     In desperation, I drive to The Cove, hoping that the low tide and lines coming in will transfer into some kind of surf over there. When we get there, there are only three surfers out and with good reasoning too. Fucking flat. Eh . . . there are some little lines out there. I think they might be bigger in the water. “Let’s do it,” I say to Bri.

     “Really?” she says. “There’s nothing out there.”

     It’s funny how glassy PV is despite all the shit surf everywhere else. The water here is so clean that we could be in an entirely different region somewhere, a land without wind. We do the trek down the hill and paddle out. Fuck. The surf looks much smaller in the water. I catch one closeout. Bri gets about three waves, but it’s even hard for her to get them. To end the session, I have to paddle in. It’s that hard to surf on my shortboard.

     So that’s how the Halloween session ends. We go back to El Segundo and have dinner at Mandy’s. I’m surprised at how packed the neighborhood is with trick or treaters. I tell Bri that I’m nervous that we might get visitors and that we don’t have any candy. “Trick or treaters don’t go to the outskirts of neighborhoods,” she says. “Especially not apartments.” And when we get home, our street is a ghost town. No one knocks. Bri is right.