ANNUAL JALAMA TRIP PT.2 (double), SUN 09AUG2015



Russ and Gary, eyeing some pillow tops.

 

Time: 0645-1000

Crew: Rick, Garr, Russel

Conditions: 2-3 FT

     On the way to Cracks, there is only one guy out in the lineup. Either everyone got drunk last night and is hungover, or people decided to skip out on the surf for good reason. It looks like peaks are rolling through, but when we get close up we see that the tide’s making it soft and that the swell’s backed off from yesterday. Of course as the saying goes, We came here to surf, so we paddle out. A few surfers are watching it from the sand, taking their time changing, half committing, half ready to leave. A few guys walk towards Cracks and leave before reaching it.

     Some waves are breaking through the tide, but they’re breaking close to shore, worthy of a turn or one wrap.

     “You cut back into nothing,” says Russ.

     Still, I’m struggling on my equipment. Russ had even let me use a set of his fins. For all I know, I may be the issue right now. The Indian not the arrow, right?

     After an hour, Russ and Garr call it. “Breakfast burritos,” they say. I understand. They have their wives and kids here, the whole setup. Why burn a whole morning for tiny surf?

     Rick stays a bit longer. A few other people paddle out. Rick has a paddle battle with three other surfers, basically the whole lineup. Man, I shouldn’t be shocked by how aggressive Rick is. He’s surfing Jalama like he’s surfing Porto.

     A young buck snakes him, a kid I recognize who was here last year. Maybe a local. Rick paddles up to him and says, “If you wanna shoulder hop, I can shoulder hop all day with you.”

     “Who the hell are you,” says the kid.

     Two other locals, on big fishes, paddle out, unsmiling. Rick goes for it anyway, paddling back to the top and taking another when it should be another guy’s turn. A guy drops in on Rick understandably.

     By 0900 Rick heads back to camp. Keeping the East Java momentum, I plan to surf until I’m either exhausted or until the surf disintegrates. The lineup gains some new heads, but the crowd’s still manageable. I’m frustrated, trying to stick those frontside snaps instead of glitchy nonfluid arcs.

     At 1000, someone calls my name from shore. I turn around. It’s Gary. When I paddle in, he says that Rick needs to the keys to my wagon. “He’s leaving with my daughter,” says Gary.

     Rick had said that we might have to caravan back with Danielle and her friend, but I didn’t think he’d be leaving this early. I know I still want to surf. The consequence will be a long solo drive home, but it’s a nice drive. I should manage.

     Out in the lineup, I see a dorsal fin heading north. It doesn’t look like a dolphin, but I wait for the fin to pop back up again for verification, but it disappears.

     Twenty minutes later, the park ranger is driving up the beach, stopping every surfer he sees. He stops near Cracks, talks to a surfer, and then he starts yelling at everyone to paddle back in. On the sand, the ranger says that a shark was spotted close to shore, and he’s asking for witness statements.

 

86'd from the ocean

     Walking back to camp, I try to snap a couple pics of some waves, but the peaks still look soft. I hate to call the session early, but I’d hate to get bitten, too.

 

Small but fun

 

#

Time: 1430-1600

Crew: Garr

     They lift the restriction, but I’m not too eager to paddle back out because I imagine the leftover surf has dwindled too much. After taking a nap, the overcast burns off, and sitting at the campsite gets a little stagnant, so I walk out to the water with Garr and his granddaughter Harper. The wind looks good, and the surface conditions are clean, oddly enough for the afternoon. I start to walk towards Cracks and notice three people bobbing in the lineup as some waves pass. This could be a mirage, but I’m willing to take my chances.

     When I make it back to Cracks, I see two of Gary’s other homies who had joined us yesterday. Two older vets who surf Lowers. It’s mid tide and going higher, so the waves are short and fast teepees. Looks fun enough to paddle out, so I go for it.

     The surf’s inconsistent, but a few rare gems pop up on the outside. I look like shit on my turns, so my new missions is to try and get slotted on the inside section. I suck at barrels, but I feel good setting up. On one slotty section, I’m too far in front of the pocket and miss getting shampoo. On another, I force stall with both hands, but the pocket’s just not offering a slot. Still, though, it’s a fun way to salvage a bad performance.

     Gary shows up a half hour later and surfs until the waves start breaking too close to shore. We avoid tar patties on the way back. The only surfers left in the water are in front of the north end of the campgrounds at the river mouth.

     Gary’s wife and Russel ask if I’ll be staying for dinner. I know if I stay that I’ll end up spending the night. I hate to ditch Garr and company, but I had only intended to stay one night with Rick. Also, I still really haven’t even been home yet.

     I feel like I have enough energy for the drive, but I start nodding off before I even get off of Jalama Road. I park at the McDonald’s in Goleta and nap for an hour. When I wake up, I go inside and order a large coffee and a cheeseburger. I get a couple stares. I haven’t showered, plus I’m the darkest guy in here. Easily darker than any other Asian for miles. My shorts and shirt give off a smokey campfire odor. I wonder if anyone thinks I’m a transient.

     Traffic’s wide open until the 101 and 1 junction. After a slight crawl, the freeway opens up again. Even though I struggle to make the drive home, Jalama is definitely close enough to make a good day trip out of with friends.

     My key jiggles the door knob to the apartment as I unlock the door. Bri says, “Yayyy!” on the other side, as she rushes to open it for me. Even though I had landed on Friday from Java, I now officially feel like I’m home.

ANNUAL JALAMA TRIP (multiple), SAT 08AUG2015

Time: 0800-1430

Crew: Rick, Garr

Conditions: 3-4 FT, Occasional 5

Board: Motorboat Too, EA450 Black Stix

     I wake up at 0330. Amazing. I should be dead to the world after the travel from the last three days. When Rick had invited me to hit up Jalama, my first instinct was to pass, but after texting my brother, he told me I should go because Jalama is a once a year trip for the WHC, so last night I stripped and waxed the Motorboat Too in hopes for action.

     At 0420 I pull up to Rick’s, and Mr. Dawnpatroller is

already in the driveway with his gear staged on the sidewalk. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since stepping off the plane.

     Last year’s trip to Jalama felt like a really long drive on PCH, but this morning’s drive on the 405 to the 101 is fast. By 0600 we’re at Albertson’s in Goleta, picking up rations for the weekend. A little ways into Jalama Road, and we lose cell reception. It’s a windy drive. Cars behind me put on the pressure to speed up.

     “Slow down,” says Rick.

     Finally reaching the coastline, we contemplate on pulling over for a surf check, but we stay the course in case there’s a line to get in. Looking back, Rick and I get a quick glance at a set. Stoke levels are rising.

     We pay the ten dollars, park, and take a look at the main beach. I can already tell that it’s not as big as last year, but it’s rideable. Just like last year’s Jalama insertion mission, we bring our snacks, surf gear, and I bring my chair while Rick opts to forego his. The walk is long and warm. It’s 0745, so the sun’s already shining over the cliffs onto the tide line. We pass empty peaks that are breaking a little too close to shore and offering short tubes. In the distance, Cracks is full of black dots in the lineup. That’s where we wanna be.

     The water’s clean. Close to twenty people are out. Even though the surf has decent rippable size, the peaks are still a little soft. I can’t claim to know this break, but based on last year, I think it needs at least a solid four-to-six foot south swell for it to really show its potential.

     Paddling out in my 4/3 wetsuit, I feel restricted. Just paddling in this thing is a workout itself. How did I ever do this before? The water’s freezing up here, cold enough for me to delay any duckdives and keep my feet out of the water as much as possible. After ten minutes, I get acclimated. I can only imagine how gnarly this place must get in the winter with head high north northwest swells. Maybe 5mm wetsuits around that time.

     I’m fine with surfing here in the summer. Like last year, everything is pristine. Perfect glassy cold beachbreak peaks roll in, but it’s so crowded that I have to sit wide for a while. I’m the only monkey in the lineup, and everyone here looks local. I can just kind of tell. Plenty of them are older and grizzled, some on longboards, but most of them are on big fishes.

     Rick and I are the outsiders. Even though I had paddled out before him, he maneuvers to the main peak and sits with the crowd. Not sure about the initial impression I’m making for myself. Part of me wants to get a good set wave. After all, I just came back from Indo. I should be able to rip it on a left.

     Frustrated, I paddle past the main peak and sit wide on the other side where there are a few rights. My first wave is steep and short, but I crank out a single backhand snap. It’s my first right in weeks. Usually I’d feel good about a single-shot wave, but the experience doesn’t last long enough.

     In the distance, Rick gets a long left. We meet again in the middle. A few people leave, creating a little more breathing room. Finally, I get my first left, and . . . I eat shit. Next wave, I bottom turn, top turn, and it just feels like too much of my rail is straight out of the water, like only the tail area of my boar is submerged. The low nose and low tail rocker on the Motorboat Too doesn’t seem to be jiving on this wave. The peaks are just too steep and rampy for it.

     Regardless, I do the best that I can. I pump through long sections, wrap the board around to force some cutbacks, and try to hit the lip. Unfortunately, my surfing just feels clunky. Has surfing a single wave on different equipment put me out of sync for Cali? I had my suspicions before, but I think I just brought the wrong board. The Motorboat Too has been demoted to just a specialty board for Churches and Trestles. It’s still a good board, but I should have brought my Lost Mini Driver.

     As the people who left make their way down the beach, more people in the distance are making their way towards Cracks. It’s the third shift of surfers, and the lineup gets crowded all over again.

     At the two and a half hour mark, I signal Rick and tell him I’m going in for a snack. I kill a hardboiled egg, a banana, and a handful of baby carrots. Twenty minutes later we’re back out there. We continue surfing, taking breaks, and paddling out again. We hope for people to leave, but the crowd doesn’t thin much. One local guy has long hair with gloves and booties on. His board is long and gunny, way too much board for these conditions. I watch him give up his paddle too early on waves he could easily catch, but there’s this setwave that he gets. Sluggishly on his big board, he drops in, bottom turn, climbs the face, and stalls right where the lip curls over the shoulder. Now, it’s not barreling out here, but there are those occasional slots offered by the pockets, if only for a second. The guy leans towards the face, head dips, and gets a split second of legit coverup. Now . . . I’m absolutely jealous at seeing this, but I can appreciate his technique. Locals know. He was waiting for a wave that was gonna do that.

     By 1330 Rick is done. I’m still in the water and about ready to go in for another snack, and that’s when I spot Gary walking towards Cracks in his blue Quik wetsuit. The heat’s now officially on.

     The tide and the onshore wind come up a notch, finally clearing the lineup. Only three other people are out with us. Despite the change in conditions, the mooshiness and texture over the ocean, the waves are still fun and rippable. Short single and double hitters. I still struggle on my board, but I’m stoked just to be out with these guys. It’s been so long.

     Rick and I have been out here for six hours, catching Garr for the last hour and a half. It’s easy to pass this session on as just another surf day, but it’s not. I just returned from Indo, so this session can’t really compare, but by California standards, I’m spoiled right now. This is a good session. Anytime you can sit on a spot from the morning through the afternoon, catching waves, you’re scoring.

     It’s a long walk back to the car. Gary heads back to camp while Rick and I bust open the coolers. I immediately attack the sandwich I had bought from Albertson’s, a foot long for seven bucks. I offer Rick the other half.

     Walking through the parking lot towards us, I notice a surf celeb. A few groms turn around and start pointing. I throw up a shaka and say, “How’s it goin’, Dane?”

     “What’s up,” says Dane Freakin’ Reynolds. He’s carrying a handful of gear with a twelve pack of Modelos stuffed in there, too.

     Rick’s mouth is full from a huge bite he had taken. All he can do is throw up a shaka.

     “Those look good,” says DFR.

     OMG. Dane Reynolds. I just talked to DANE REYNOLDS!

 

 

MY ENDLESS SUMMER, PT.15 SUN 10AUG2014

Bri took this pic from the cliffs as we were leaving. Smallest day of the swell, but still excellent conditions.

The Jalama Sessions

Loc: Cracks

Crew: Gary

Time: 0630-0800

Conditions: 2-4 FT, soft, inconsistent.

     Last night, some ghetto ass motherfuckers were up late, drinking by the trashcans that are about twenty yards away from our tent. “Tent.” If you see a tent at night chances are that someone’s in it . . . sleeping. Leave it to inconsiderate motherfuckers, little wannabe gangsters at that. Their meeting of the minds finally ended when someone said, “No, fuck that! I don’t play that shit.” I heard footsteps of the guy walking away with a friend.

     “Come back here, Pussy! Say that shit to my face!”

     But now, at 0530, I’m up. Gary’s up. He walks down to the toilets. When he returns, he looks much happier than he did when he had left. I ask Bri if she wants to roll, but she barely budges. She says she’ll sleep in.

     Now, it’s Balls Deep and Donny Duckbutter on a mission to take over Jalama, but that’s not entirely true. . . .

     Once we hit the sand, it’s a slow stroll towards the Y Spot. Other surfers are ahead of us, making their morning hike, too. A few heads are already out. Gary and I don’t admit it, but at least I can say for myself that I’m fucking tired. In my 4/3 wetsuit, my back muscles feel constricted and tight. My left tricep is already burning just from holding the surfboard.

     The march there feels like forever, and when we get there we see that the crowd is rather small . . . just like the peaks. Like yesterday morning, the waves are coming in at three feet, maybe four on the big ones. Surfers start off with one strong entry move, and then most of their waves fizzle out.

     Entering the water, I feel how tight my back muscles are again. I catch a small inside right, but it mooshes out before I can get a turn. I’m not even mildly aware of where Gary is. At this point, I’m not expecting bigger sets or a good surf performance. I’m just out here because it’s Jalama, because this place has given so much over the last two days, and because not paddling out on our last day is like wasting a free meal.

     I sit wide like I usually do. It takes a while, but a four-foot wave comes my way. People are watching. I turn, kick, and wait to slide down, but I don’t. . . . The wave leaves me behind. My timing was off. I blew it. Everyone else watches the wave peel, unridden.

     Gary sits with everyone else. I go there, too. Finally, I get some waves, but I’m surfing like shit. It doesn’t matter that I’m hydrated and well nourished. My body screams REST. Other guys start sitting on me. No respect, but that’s okay. I’m not surfing like I deserve it.

     Towards the last half hour, I get a solid left, but some skinny dude with long hair drops in on me. I’m not in the mood to hoot him off, so I hope he sees me and kicks out. He does a tight cutback in the pocket, sees me, and then kicks out. And of course, the wave mooshes out for the second turn.

     I paddle back out next to him, wondering if he’ll turn my way and apologize. He doesn’t.

     A little later, Gary and I are going for our last Jalama waves. I go right, and Skinny is on my shoulder, trying to paddle into it. When he sees me, he whips his hair and looks away in disgust. Like it’s my fault? Anyway, I ride the wave in, settling for a checkturn to end the Jalama Sessions.

     The idea of leaving such a great surf destination isn’t what’s on my mind. Unfastening my leash, I exhale hard. It’s been fun, but I can’t go on.

     On the walk back, I watch Gary pick through polished sand stones that are scattered along the beach. He picks up the ones with holes in them. I search the shore for sand dollars that Bri had been wanting. I can’t find any. I feel like a bad boyfriend for not searching harder for one since we’ve been here.

     At camp, Bri already has some things packed up. Folding the tents takes the longest time, but we’re on our way within an hour.

Now I know. . .

    Before leaving Jalama, we park by the cliff and take pictures by the cross. We can see Cracks below. The water’s so glassy, and the peaks are still coming in cleaner than ever. It looks bigger from up here. Only a few guys are still out, splitting peaks. They look hollow from here, but it could be a vantage point trick. Seeing the surf, I feel well rested, like I could go for another session. We’re leaving, and the conditions are still pristine.

Peaks, marching in like soldiers.

Could've stayed there for hours, taking photos.

     Crawling through the barbwire fence, our feet crush the gravel as we approach Gary’s Suburban. An empty road lies before us. It’s time to go home. 

MY ENDLESS SUMMER (double), PT.14 SAT 09AUG2014

The Jalama Sessions

Loc: Cracks

Crew: Bri, Gary, and Russ

Time: 0645-0815

Conditions: 2-4 FT, crowded, soft, inconsistent.

     We had pumped up the surf to Russ all yesterday afternoon and evening. Awestruck tales of nonstop rippable peaks. If I were him, I wouldn’t have believed them. Yesterday was a day where you just had to be there to understand. It was a day that Gary, Bri, and I would never forget. I can see it now, us in the future talking about “that day.” Prior to it, the best Cali session that I had ever had was a huge day at Trestles, but yesterday was better because there were both lefts and rights, and the crowd factor was minimal.

     This morning, upon waking up, it already looks like the surf has tapered down a bit. It was expected. As bummed as I should be, I’m not. Sometimes, trips are about expectations. I think the minimum expectations for yesterday only quantified the stoke that developed when the surf exceeded expectations tenfold.

     We head towards The Y Spot a little bit earlier than yesterday, but the Saturday crowd has already doubled. Surfers stand over the cliffs by the cross, checking the surf. The peaks are still clean with good shape, the water even glassier than yesterday, but the size is the issue. This morning’s later high tide isn’t helping much either. Now the tall tales we had given Russ must be even harder to believe.

     I paddle out first, and I get two rights. Both offer decent entry hacks but mush out to nothing afterwards. With more people and longer lulls, getting waves is so much harder than yesterday. Still, I sit wide just south of the Y. Bri has the right board, catching the insiders, but Russ and Gar are stagnant like everyone else, waiting for the set. The surf is inconsistent. It’s hard. Frustrating.

     Gary paddles up to me and says, “I’m kind of over it.” We make the comparison. It’s easily a foot smaller than it was yesterday. “I’m gonna head back to camp and cook breakfast” he says. “Burritos!” He catches a wave in and starts heading back towards camp. A few waves later, the rest of us follow suit.

     Russ’s Channel Islands friends are heading over for a board demo, so he has to get ready for that. Bri and I change, head to the Jalama store, and get some breakfast supplies for Gary.

     So the epic conditions are no more. Limited to one day of firing surf, I’m still stoked for what we had experienced. Sitting up on the bluffs, looking out at the ocean, Bri shoots me a subtle smile. She’s happy. I’m happy. The surf is small, but oh well. Life is good.

#

Loc: Cracks

Crew: Bri & Gary

Time: 1030-1330

Conditions: 3-5 FT, low tide, consistent.

     Bri and I head over to the C.I. demo, which is at the beach in front of the main campgrounds. As much as I’d like to demo a board, the surf out front sucks. Frothing groms sign out boards, surfing the inside closeouts. Even some Euro tourists checkout some boards, riding them on their bellies. I walk to the back of the demo truck and ask the guy if I can check out the boards.

     “I can grab one for you,” he says.

     “Uhh, can I just come up there?”

     “What are you looking for?” 

     I really just want to nerd out to them and see what they have, but I’m stuck. “You guys got the Weirdo Ripper?”

     He pulls one out. I hold it. I wish he would have just let me go up there. I give it back.

     After the lack of hospitality, Bri and I decide to take a walk towards The Y Spot, not expecting much. The main beach break is howling onshore, the surf miserable. As we make our way in front of the cliffs, the wind isn’t as strong here. The water looks much calmer. In the distance, we see consistent waves coming in and a small group of surfers who have them to themselves. 

     Mother of God. We need to get out there.

     Gary has a Modelo in his hand when we reach the C.I. Demo site again. “It’s working,” I tell him. “We’ll see you out there.” Since the surf is smaller than yesterday, I ask Gary if I can sample his Lost RV.

     What had begun as a lackluster day of surf is now a mad dash to paddle out again. How could the conditions have changed like this? The switch happened under our radar, and guys have been scoring it for how long? How long has it been working without us on it?

     It’s a surgical strike this time. No setting up an area of operation (AO), just boards and water.

     When we reach the surf, we see that there’s some texture on the water from the onshore wind, but the shape and quality is still good. The surf has even picked up in size again from this morning. In the ten o’clock hour, we’ve seemed to catch the surf at its best with the tide much lower than it was this morning.

     Bri and I paddle out into a pack of groms, just a fraction of the size of the crowd this morning. There are so many waves. A left comes my way immediately, four foot plus. The RV has so much volume that I’m surprised at how early I get into the wave. Sliding down the face, I get into my stance, but my front foot slides off of the unwaxed nose. I blow it. Resurfacing, I realize that I didn’t take Gary’s wax job into account. Similar to my brother, he doesn’t use much wax. My stance being more novice and wider, I need more wax towards the front of the board. Also, I didn’t think the surf would be this big.

     I surf my next wave more conservatively, being more mindful on foot placement. It’s another set wave, and the mid tide makes the face fast and vertical. I still manage a deep bottom turn and a tight in-the-pocket cutback. Yesterday, I had to work hard for my second and third turns, but the RV’s volume just pushes me back towards the open face, and I get carves with ease.

     Gary’s on the sand warming up. A minute later, he paddles out. “I can’t believe how good it is,” he says. And just like yesterday, the I-can’t-believe-it nods return. On a bomb left, I’m in Gary’s line paddling back out. He pops up and stalls in the pocket to avoid running me over. The wave almost looks like it’s going to throw out over him and go hollow. He waits for me to duckdive before pumping down the line. When I resurface, I see him finish off his wave on the inside.

     Now I’m mad at myself. I don’t need all this volume or the twenty-one inches of width. Too much board. I should have stayed loyal to my Mini Driver. “I’m gonna go in and put more wax on my board,” I say to Bri.

     “You need wax?” says a guy sitting on my right.

     “Yeah.”

     “Here,” he says. “I’m done with it.” He hands me a thick chunk, maybe half of a single bar.

     I thank him repeatedly, saying how I doubt anyone would be this cool in the South Bay. I pass on the next couple waves, applying as much wax as possible, not just on the nose but on the whole board. I still miss my Mini Driver, but the wax helps.

     Gary and I plan out the session, talking about how we’ll surf as long as we can, but we need to make sure that we’re back before the Jalama store closes at 1900.

     The window of super consistency closes. The surf is still good, but it slows down a little.

     A dark-skinned guy with long hair paddles out. He doesn’t smile and keeps to himself. I nod and smile, and he forces a nod back. I don’t know what happens, but a couple of waves later I hear him on the inside, saying, “Go back to Rincon you fuckin’ souther.”

     The grom who he’s directing his tirade to paddles towards me, away from him. Gary’s right next to the Angry Guy. He looks at Gary, either waiting for him to join in or stand up for the grom. The grom paddles past me towards his friend. They chat in lowered voices.

     “I didn’t do anything,” says the grom. “I just went down the line.”

     Now the energy in the lineup is kind of weird, and really, it’s not necessary with this minimum crowd and fairly consistent surf. There’s enough for everyone. I’m also concerned about Bri, who’s working her way towards him.

     A couple waves later, the long-haired dude is going off again, cursing at the kelp, saying, “Let go of me you fucking bitch!”

     As Bri passes him and works her way towards me, she says, “Did you hear that guy?”

     “Yeah.”

     “He gave me props on earlier on a wave.”

     Well, so the angry guy is nice to Bri. I guess a pretty face still goes a long way in the water.

     A couple waves later, Angry Man goes in and perches on his chair on the sand. We had thought that we could surf until sundown, but into the second hour, we all start to get tired. When Bri and Gary leave, I swap out boards with Gary, getting a chance to demo his Channel Islands New Flyer.

     Bri and Gary walk away while I paddle out for more waves. The groms have left for the day, leaving just a few people in the water with me. The wind picks up onshore just a little, but the shape is still good.

     I catch waves just as big as I did earlier, but they feel different on the New Flyer. The board releases much easier on the bat tail compared to my Mini Driver’s rounded pin. That extra torque that I usually have to do at the end of my carves to get some release isn’t necessary on the New Flyer. The dimensions on this board are just as big as mine, so it feels good to ride a board with the same volume but just a different design. Eventually, I’ll have to get a good standard shortboard that’s made to my dimensions.

     I only last an hour surfing without my crew. The onshore wind is officially howling now. There’s chop on the water, and the waves are running away much faster. It’s even harder to duckdive. My hamstring cramps. I’m done. Walking away from the surf, a few stragglers head towards the Y Spot, logging time for their evening sesh. Even though the surf isn’t as good as it was earlier, it is still rideable and worthy.

     I’d like to think of myself as a surfing machine, but yesterday’s epic session has me more drained than expected. Back at the campsite, Bri and Gar are chilling out, chatting with the sun still high and bright in their faces. We have dinner at the Jalama Store again, but this time Gary grabs us a table where we can watch the river mouth break. Even with the high tide, right handers are peeling. The wind has switched offshore. The sun, now lower, casts its golden glow, a classic California sunset. Other people walk their dogs and hike towards the brush. The scene outside of the campsite is so remote—hills, cliffs, and wild vegetation. This is what the real California looks like. 

MY ENDLESS SUMMER, PT.13 FRI 08AUG2014

On a whim and without plans, our three surf heroes head out on a mission, hoping to score a campsite.

The Jalama Sessions

Loc: Cracks

Crew: Gary & Bri

Time: 0700-1500

Conditions: 3-5 FT+, ON FIRE.

Pre Blog:

     Jalama. . . Gary had sent me the invite a little over a week ago, talking about a surf trip to a place from the 8^th thru the 10^th. Central Cal. “Check it out,” he said, sending me links for me to read up on and do my own research, but I didn’t. I took a mere glance at the website. On it, a scenic picture of scattered beach-break peaks with mountains in the background, all glazed with a golden sunset.

     The most research I did was checking the forecast. Surfline had the forecast at “flat” and “none,” while Magicseaweed had 1-2 star ratings with howling onshore winds in the double digits.

     Regardless, I said yes to the invite. I had to. Why not check out a new spot, even if the surf would be shit. Also, it’s a privilege to receive an invite from a veterano like Gary. I couldn’t leave him hanging. I committed to the trip not realizing how it would change my perspective on every California session thereafter.

0200:

     With our gear already preloaded in Gary’s Suburban, Bri and I only have our personal backpacks with clothes and toiletries. After sleeping less than four hours, I still feel pretty fresh for this trip. Start time will be at 0245. I get a text from Gary. He’ll be here in 15 min. I look at Bri and tell her that it looks like we’ll be leaving earlier.

     The WHC don’t fuck around when it comes to dawn patrols and early wakeups. Gary shows up in the El Segundo darkness at 0230.  We load up and start our trek north.

     My cousin Sherwin once told me how he believed that falling asleep in the passenger seat is a bad omen, so even though Gary says that we can sleep if we want to, Bri and I stay up to keep the conversation flowing. On PCH, we pass Santa Monica and Zuma, but they’re covered in a sheet of darkness. I can only imagine what the waves are doing.

     Passing Malibu around 0300, there are cars parked, surfboards strapped to their roofs. I didn’t realize how dedicated the Malibu crowd could be. I mean, spending the night here to catch a first-light session? Gnarly.

     Oxnard is when I start to get tired. Definitely around Santa Barbara is when it’s getting hard to keep my eyes open. Bri points out where she used to live when she had attended SBCC. Right after, she drifts off into a quiet slumber.

     Heading into Jalama, we take an ominous turn off of the 1 onto a pitch black road. I’m tired, so I can only imagine how tired Gary is. We’ve just about exhausted every conversation possible. I’ve heard the tales about his prior trips here: The time that he, Rick, and Russ had come here in the winter to witness row upon row of head-high white-wash lines rolling in with howling onshore winds; the last trip here when Russ was a teenager and the sinful shenanigans that he had engaged in; and how Gary’s buddy had to paddle four miles back to camp to avoid the ranchers waiting on shore for him.

     “You want me to drive?” I ask Gary.

     “No, I’m okay.”

     But I can tell that Gary’s barely hanging on. As the road snakes deeper towards Jalama, we encounter a deep fog bank, no cars in front or behind us. To our left and right are barbed wire fences with mailboxes and dirt roads spread miles apart. We can barely see a few feet in front of us. Gary’s hunched up against the steering wheel, forehead damn near touching the windshield. My fingernails clutch the dash. I’m right there with him.

     I don’t realize that we’re making the last bend towards our destination until I see the dotted lights from the campgrounds. It looks like a hidden civilization in the middle of nowhere. The sky over the hills shows its initial dark-blue hues, giving a first glimpse of the landscape around us. I look at my phone. No service.

     We stop at the entrance. A sign is posted, saying that visitors cannot enter until 0600. Gary hasn’t been here in a while, so he’s unsure on how the current procedures work, but we need to make sure that we’re one of the first ones in line to secure a campsite. We park at the entrance, but a car pulls up behind us. We go inside.

Bri, dressed for the early morning occasion.

     Stepping out of the Suburban is like stepping into a blast chiller. Yes, it’s summer, but the air here is significantly colder than SoCal. With each minute, the sky gets a tad brighter. Offshore winds push at our backs as we stand on the sand, overlooking the surf. Before us, mooshy four-foot peaks break and peel, scattered everywhere, up and down the beach. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets. Bri huddles in front of me, shielding herself from the wind. It’s cold. The water looks even colder. There’s surf, but I’m in no rush to paddle out.

If this were the South Bay, these waves wouldn't be unridden.

0600:

     No one has arrived to man the shack at the entrance. Yet, we don’t want to leave because we need to get a campsite. We read the bulletin board where there’s a diagram of camp spots we can claim if they’re vacant, but when we check, all of them are occupied or reserved.

     “You guys can paddle out,” says Gary, but we don’t want to leave him behind.

     The first dawn patrollers emerge from their tents, powerwalking down the beach and disappearing from view. Other surfers walk off, armed with their boards, backpacks, and chairs. A sense of urgency fills the air. Gary fills out an Iron Ranger Day-pass card and pays the ten bucks. We grab our day equipment and prepare for the long trek, too.

We tried to compare if this walk is longer than Old Mans to Lowers. This walk definitely feels longer.

0700:

     Walking south along the beach, there are different breaks to our right. A tall cliff looms over us to our left. In the distance, a wooden cross stands tall overlooking the ocean. If the atmosphere was desolate and barren an hour ago, there are now wetsuits dotted all along the beach until the very last bend at the end.

I love camping down south, but there's something about Jalama that makes you feel more isolated. 

     “That’s Tarantulas,” says Gary. He talks about the different breaks that are even further south, but they have restricted access.

     The first break we pass has waves breaking on the inside, short fast hollow tubes. A bunch of groms own the peak, pulling in. Some make it out. Most do not. Gary says hi to one of the kids coming out of the water. “He works for C.I. I bought one of my boards from him,” says Gary.

     Our gear weighs us down, but the walk is scenic. Further out to sea is a field of kelp beds. Big blobs of tar litter the beach, accompanied by smooth polished sandstones. Gary picks one up and sends it flying horizontally over the water like a mini Frisbee.

     We find a flat stone against the cliff, large enough to place our packs on. We suit up and set up our chairs. There are about thirty surfers out, but there are consistent scattered peaks, easily three-to-four feet. Now I’m anxious. Here goes another Lowers-like crowd, I’m thinking. I always have anxiety at new breaks. Who are the locals? Is it aggro here? Is everyone ripping?

     I haven’t felt water this cold since winter. Suddenly, I’m glad that I’m wearing a 4/3. Bri and Gary sit with the main peak. I sit further south by myself, hoping I can catch something wide. 

Scattered peaks all day long. Beyond buffet status. Enough for everyone. I only wish that all of my surf buddies could have been here, too.

The Y Spot:

     First off, the surf is supposed to be blown out or flat according to the forecast. Yet, the wind is light and the water is glassy. Aside from the 3-4 FT waves, sets start rolling in at an easy five feet. Bri and Gary draw first blood before I do.

     Gary paddles back out and gives me a nod and wave, motioning for me to come over. I choose not to. Finally, some waves swing wide. Rights. But they are fast, I either go straight or pull out before they closeout. A couple other guys sit wide with me, too. They scratch but can’t get into the waves.

     Bri’s the only girl in the lineup. While all the men pass up on the inside waves, Bri is able to catch them on her NSP. Wave after wave, they turn their heads to see if she gets them. With her delayed pop up, her head emerges from behind the wave, going down the line. She’s scoring, and that’s when I realize that this crowd is much mellower than I had thought.

     By my third wave, I’m getting more comfortable. I’m racing down the line on the rights, setting myself up for at least one solid backhand hack. The rides are short, but I’m getting the best consecutive backhand turns that I’ve had in a while. While everyone else is at the main peak, I hold this spot down all to myself. Landmarking my spot, there’s a formation of bushes in the face of the cliff shaped like a Y. I’m just to the south of it.

      

Dude on Fire:

     The forecasts had said this, and the forecasts had said that, but the forecasts were full of shit. I can feel the light onshore wind, but it’s not affecting the quality of the wave at all. Even with the tide topping out around 0800, waves are still coming in even more consistently. Surfers who had dawn patrolled are returning to camp, either done for the day or to refuel. The crowd is now half the size that it was earlier.

Gary, who has much more patience than I, took this photo of an unridden set during intermission.

     Moving over to the main peak, I’m able to catch some lefts. I can’t help but feel that I’m on the right board. The surf is too big for my Motorboat Too, while my Mini Driver has good entry volume that’s getting me into waves with ease and enough overall volume to move throughout the lineup with minimum effort.

     I think about how I can describe this wave. It’s breaking like Trestles, the rides not as long, but quality equally matched. It’s not hollow, but the waves stand up enough with rippable faces. Over and over again, I take off late, taking advantage of the forgiving shape.

     I catch back-to-back-to-back waves, dialing in my forehand cutbacks. With so much speed on the drops, the first section on every wave has the most “umph” to it, opening each ride with balls-out ripping maneuvers. Even though the second and third turns tend to moosh out a little, the set waves allow three turns. Even the best days I had caught at North Churches didn’t give me this many consistent lefts.

     Gary’s holding his own, Bri’s holding her own, and so am I. There are only three of us, but we’re representing for the WHC and DRC, catching consistent waves. Even a guy who snakes Bri apologizes to her when she returns to the lineup.

     “It happens,” she says.

     “No, no,” says the snake. “That was my fault.”

First Intermission:

     We go in for water and snacks. Initially, I had been tired from the lack of sleep and the drive at first light, but after those first few waves the rush of stoke provided the energy needed. To keep surfing, these breaks are important.

If we had known how much surf we would score, we would've brought ALL of our food. . .

     The crowd thins out even more. I go back out followed by Gary and then Bri. I wish I had a way to describe these waves even more, but they’re all cliché. Reason being there is no change to the quality or surf conditions. The onshores are a little stronger, but the kelp beds keep the surface texture to a minimum.

     If Gary was tired making the drive over here, then he’s Gary 2.0 at this moment. He’s throwing buckets out on every wave he catches. He even tells me that he witnessed Bri throw out some spray on her backhand lefts. With the tide starting to go down, the waves begin to stand up even more. Even the outside sets are inconsequential, easy to duckdive and unhindering in the impact zone.

Intermission 2:

     Gary and I head back to the campgrounds to see about securing a campsite. We learn that we could have written our request on our day-pass paperwork, but since we didn’t we’re behind several people on the list for a site.

     “Maybe we’ll just get a hotel in Lompoc,” says Gary, “And head back here in the morning.” I hate the idea, but it’s our best option if we can’t get a site. Having scored good surf this morning, I hate to leave. I now appreciate the value of having a campsite here.

     Walking back to The Y Spot, we feel the onshore wind much stronger on our faces. Maybe the window of good surf has ended, but the surf has become, believe it or not, even more consistent. The tide, now lower, makes the shape the most vertical that it’ been all day. Bri’s on her chair, relaxing and watching the surf. Only six guys are out. The wind is making the waves break a little faster but not ruining the quality at all.

     We paddle out again but this time I begin to feel it. The waves are getting harder to duckdive. My rear delts and neck muscles are starting to burn. Instead of going on every wave, I pass a lot of them up. Time to conserve. I only go for the best ones.

     The only bad thing I can think of is how, after surfing so many waves, limited my surfing abilities are. The lack of repertoire that I have comes to light, just carves, snaps, and cutbacks. The only variance I have to any of these maneuvers is how much power I put into them. Since I suck at barrels and can’t do any airs, I’d like to think that I’m on my way to becoming a good power surfer, but it’s now noon, and I’ve been trying to power surf since 0700, losing power in the process.

     I switch to a thruster setup, hoping that I can get more arc in my turns, but I find myself falling behind the sections a little more, so I switch back.

Awww yes . . . here's me and my girlish hips.  

More Intermissions:

     We don’t take breaks at the same times. Bri goes in on her own will from being so depleted. I had brought two MREs with me. Bri eats one of them, and I offer the other to Gary. As hungry as I am, I know Gary needs it more than I do because he drove out here. But I’m exhausted. I eat everything else that we have: applesauce, crackers, pretzels, five peanut butter cups, all of our water.

     We’re speechless in the lineup, unable to say anything that doesn’t start with, “I can’t believe. . .” Most of the time all we can do is smile and nod.

All day

     By 1415, Gary heads back to the campgrounds solo to see if he’s gonna be able to get a campsite. He grabs his board and his gear. He’s done. So am I, but I just can’t pass this up. The surf continues to pump, waves go unridden. I must stay out.

     Finally, around 1500 the wind is so strong onshore that the peaks have lost some quality. Latecomers are still paddling out, their faces plastered with stoke. Yes, the wind’s blowing out the surf a bit, but by local South Bay standards, these would be good conditions. Plus, I’m surfing like shit. A lesson a learned from my brother, surfing tired leads to surfing like shit and bad habits, and I am surfing like shit. It’s hard to make it out now. On a duckdive, my hamstring cramps. A little later, my bis and tris begin to cramp, too, a telltale sign that I’m losing electrolytes.

     Bri and I make the hump back at 1530, leaving uncrowded surf behind us. I haven’t eaten much. It’s time to call it a day.

Success:

     Reaching the campgrounds, I see Gary by his Suburban. I shrug my shoulders and nod at him, waiting for the word.

     He grimaces and shakes his head, and then he smiles and gives me a thumbs up, pointing towards the bluffs. “Look up there,” he says. There’s the Quik van, his son Russ’s work vehicle. It’s parked at a campsite. We’re staying.

     The four of us head to the Jalama store and buy breakfast/lunch/dinner and grub over how incredible the surf was.

Russ the Ripper. If it wasn't for his hookups, we wouldn't have gotten the campsite. 

     In the evening, the onshore wind switches offshore again, but the high tide has the breaks swamped out. Even if The Y Spot is working, I couldn’t surf it with how exhausted I am. At the north end of the campgrounds, the river mouth is breaking but nowhere near as good as how he had it earlier.

Best view that I've ever had from a tent.

A lot of people make the trek to camp out at this spot. They know wassup.

     Bri and I set up our tent overlooking the ocean. The sunset’s at our feet. Reflecting on the day, I can’t believe how good the surf was and how long it stayed consistent. Also, we reflect on how we did it right by setting up a satellite surf station at The Y Spot. Never in Cali had I surfed that long with only water and snack breaks. It was still surfable when we left, but we were too drained to carry on. I know the word “epic” gets easily played out. I don’t use it much, but I think today’s surf qualifies. By far, the best Cali session that I’ve ever had in my life. Longest session I’ve ever had in my life. I’m so fulfilled that even if tomorrow’s forecast reigns true to smaller surf conditions, I still have enough stoke afterburn to last me a week.

High tide. High Bri.

     Without Gary’s invite, Bri and I would have just surfed HB again or stayed local. I’d like to spread the word, post pictures, and call my friends. I pick up my phone again. Still no service. We’re disconnected, but it’s okay. I don’t have the energy to describe this experience anyway. 

Firewood, courtesy of Jalama staff.