CHURCHES CAMPOUT WEEKEND PT.IV, FRI 26JUN2015

Wakey-Wakey

Loc: Del Mar Jetty

Time: 0730-0930

Crew: Rick, Gary, Juan, Dave T., Bri

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

     This is Juan’s birthday weekend, and the surf’s unfortunately not cooperating. DMJ is Rick’s, Juan’s, and Gary’s favorite spot. Open and less crowded punchy beachbreak. I can’t blame them, but today it looks like a lake.

     We all sit and wait. Gary’s on his pill board, and he gets the first decent ride of the morning, connecting a long left from the top of the jetty all the way to the inside. We’re all getting waves, but they’re lacking umph. It’s hard to get man turns in there. On the Becker, Bri’s the one with the highest wavecount.

     For some reason, every time Juan or Gary catches one inside, a set wave always pops out the back for me. After their waves, they look out back and call me into the rogue waves, waves I can’t even see.

     I want to say that I rip these waves, but I’m off. Some of them stand up and offer some rampy sections. I pump and try to set up for carves, but my man carves turn into sloppy check turns. My layback carves aren’t sticking, so I’m blowing them on the finishes.

     I end one of those lefts with a floater. Dave T. points at me in approval in the distance. Minutes later, he’s grimacing in pain on the shore. Stingray.

     Bri, Juan, and Rick had been collecting sand dollars when we first got out, but now we’re a bit weary.

     “There’s a huge one underneath you,” says Rick. I look down. A brown ray’s underneath me. It’s the size of a spare tire.

     After the sesh, we tell Dave to soak his foot in some hot water. He has his daughter’s with him. Daddy’s tough. He opts for a bandage and some Advil.

PT.V

Loc: Churches

Time: 1250-1430

Crew: Bri & Gary

Conditions: 2-3 FT, light onshore, sunny, inconsistent

     Setting up camp is a motherfucker. I don’t want to get into it, but by the time we unpack, set up, are forced to move, and set up again, Bri and I are toast. We snack on some bread rolls and water in the process. We’d like to grab a bite to eat somewhere, but we’re so hot that we have to paddle out again. Plus, the tide’s coming in. The surf looks decent, but who knows for how long?

     Bri and I hit the water first. My forearms are burnt from yesterday’s two afternoon go outs. Didn’t even think about sunblocking my arms. My thighs are burnt, too, where my springsuit cuts off.

     The surf is softer and smaller than yesterday. I catch a right but have to really pump and hop hard to manufacture some turns.

     Bri’s all right, right board as usual.

     Gary comes out, and with his company a few random sets appear out the back. It’s a long wait for the sets, but they’re there.

     Gary’s best wave is a long left all the way to the inside. I get a few lefts, too, but nothing really stands out.   

     After the sesh, Bri and I head out to La Tiendita to eat a late lunch. When we get back, Rick’s adamant about going in town to catch the U.S. versus Colombia soccer game, so we head to O.C. Tavern. It’s my first time here. The food’s a little pricey, but it’s nothing unexpected. Since we had already eaten, Bri and I order two sundaes and a coffee, which comes out to twenty bucks.

     The rest of the night, it’s story-telling time. The panel of mentors tell their surf tales of days past, Mexico, the legend of Ricky Bronson, and just talking surfing.

     When Gary talks waves, he gets into it and mimics pumping on a wave with his hands that makes him look like he’s hula dancing. It’s quite the show. I thought he was the only one, and then Dave T. gets in on it, too, mimicking backside snaps. My brother once told me how he and his friends don’t share their surfing with others. His friend Daz had told him, “It’s like talking about going to bed with your wife. You just don’t do it.” So I appreciate that these guys don’t mind sharing their surfing with me. It makes one vulnerable, exposing his surfheart on his sleeve.

     “You know who the king of bottom turns was?” says Dave.

     “Curren,” says Gary.

     I try to stay awake and wait for them to turn in before I do, but I can’t. I fade out, leaving the panel while they’re still going strong. Too many stories with too much history they have with each other. I hope one day to rack up as much XP under my belt, too.

CLOSE, SAT12OCT2013 MOR

 

Russ getting barreled

Loc: DMJ

Time: 0630-1030

Crew: John A., Gary, Russ, and a bunch of Russ’ friends.

Conditions: 3-5 FT+, overcast, offshore, CROWDED

     It’s day three of Staycationing. I slept a little better last night but not by much. When we park at DMJ, I tell everyone about how I only brought one wetsuit, and how I’m not looking forward to putting on a cold, wet one.

     “Use my three two,” says Russ. I decline, but he insists, so I get to sample some of Quiksilver’s latest technology.

     The surf look small, and the grey sky looks so ominous that I have a feeling that the wind’s gonna turn onshore and repeat the end-of-days conditions from last night. The tide’s even higher this morning, and the peaks look jumbled and soft. There’s already a crowd here, and more are arriving. It must have been really good yesterday.

     We all sit, stuck in a lull, while oTHer guys start paddling out straight towards us. Russ turns around, and he has this disgruntled look on his face, like the way someone looks like after burning his toast. John comes off of camera detail and joins us. Most of the waves are only breaking on the outside, and the decent waves are only breaking in one spot, so everyone is locked in and waiting. Getting a wave is hard. I’m in position for a good left, and I get bagged by two guys; it’s a double fuck of a ride. What’s worse is that the guy who snaked me doesn’t even look up or acknowledge. It’s just another jackathon for him.

     I paddle away and sit closer to John A.

On, Part II:

     The tide’s getting lower, and the outside waves start to break. I get a couple small waves, good for some single shot carves. On the inside, I see John take a little three footer. Its shoulder is tapered down like a drooping, laundry line. He sticks his hand in the wave’s face and rides just in front of the pocket.

#

     We’re both sitting for a wave. A juicy one sprouts up. He says, “Yeah, Matt!” This morning’s a little nerve wracking, as the size and the tide are beginning to work in unison, so these waves are meant for pulling in. I’m a little nervous, but I tell myself that I have to go. It’s good practice for the winter.

     The wave stands up, steep and critical. I get the drop, reminiscent as last night’s Lowers’ session, and make it down to the base of the wave. The section builds as I’m on the shoulder. However, it’s so fast that I have to pump to keep up with it. Suddenly, the face stands up and above my head. Miraculously, my body’s developed some kind of instinct. Instead of freezing up, I put a hand in the face like John did and do some light, subtle pumps down the line. I expect the lip to plow into the side of my head but it doesn’t. I’m not getting barreled, but I’m right outside the pocket. Then the next section stands up so fast. I go from being in the pocket to being way behind it. My natural instincts abandon me. My subtle pumps can’t keep up with the wave, but they still work on auto pilot. The wave swirls over my head, and for the first time, deep as I’ve even been, for at least two seconds, I am looking through the swirling eye inside the barrel. The bright opening at the end reflects light from the outside which makes the inside, white wash surrounding me shine back in silver streaks. The opening gets smaller. I want to make it out, but all I can do is hold my line. I don’t bail but get clobbered at the end. When I resurface, I’m so eager for recognition. I find Gary in the lineup and paddle back towards him to tell him about my wave. While heading to John, some guy tells me that he saw me getting barreled. “Yeah,” I say. “But I didn’t make it out.” It’s my wave of the day, wave of the trip. I want another one so bad. I’m so close.

     John’s on the shoulder, watching me on my next attempt. I drop in late but manage to pull in. This wave isn’t as delicately set up as the last. Instantly, I’m in a fast, white-washing slot. I see and hear John rooting for me through the opening, but I get side clobbered by the lip. Tumbling on the inside, I resurface unscatched. John is yelling, “Yeah-haaa!” with two fists clenched and held up towards me.

     I go back to my car and switch to my quads. When I come back, the waves are even better. I hear someone in the lineup say, “Every wave is a barrel right now.” The waves are fast, pull-in-only rides. I try. For the rest of the session, it’s wipeout central for me. I eat it and get worked on the inside. So many guys are going for the waves, and I have to turn around and ride the white wash in on one occasion to avoid getting run over. I duck dive a set wave, and it yanks my board away. It forces my head into the sand, pushing my chin against my chest. In dark silence, I feel and a hear my neck pop and crack.

     Now the “barrel experts” go to work. All around me, guys aren’t making it out of the barrels. Gary, even John don’t make it out. Towards the Jetty, I see Russ on a backhand left. He’s not super deep, but he’s getting covered. The wave looks like it’s breaking in slow motion. Perhaps it’s the calmness in Russ’ face that’s doing this. Another guy gets a backhand slot. I see him from deep inside, pumping and then stalling just at the right spot so he’s not too deep. He stays covered up until he chooses to penetrate out the back. It’s a reminder of how much more I still need to learn.

     It’s funny how the longer you surf, you realize how much you didn’t know back then, but at the same time you realize how much you still don’t know. I know that getting barreled isn’t just about pulling in and waiting for it to happen, but this is where I lack experience. I need to learn how to think and be “active” in the barrel, mainly being able to still pump in a compact space, something I’m not used to. I’m still at that stage where the rushing sound of water inside the tube makes me clench, making me believe that I’ve lost the ride when all I need is to do one, little thing differently. But still, I’m getting closer. I’m stoked off of that wave this morning. I hope to get closer this winter. I’ll have no choice but to.

     On the inside, I try to catch a wave on my belly to shore. I purl doing this. Stupid. Noobish. The fin hits my thigh. I feel bare skin. I cut Russ’ wetsuit. FOCK!

     When everyone’s back at the parking lot, he tells me that it’s okay and that he’ll just bring it to the repair shop. And now I’m on a long drive home. I stop by the Long Beach Poetry Festival and show my face for a half an hour, and then I go do some grocery shopping. Bri calls me from New York and tells me that she’ll be flying in early. I spend the rest of the day cleaning the apartment and cooking into the evening.

     So . . . my staycation was a success. Every session wasn’t epic, and it was lonely at times. Failed by humanity, I was dropped in on and had my car scratched. Aside from some throaty barrel attempts I paid my dues in wipeouts, tenfold. But yet, it feels nice to be back in my small, studio apartment. Ghirardelli dark chocolate brownies are in the stove, Bri’s here sitting next to me, and we’re sipping on Aruban beer. I’d surf every day if I could, but sleeping in the back of your car to attain that surf can get old. I can appreciate hot pho on a cold night, but I also appreciate the creature luxuries of my TV and my feet on the coffee table. All Staycations come to an end, and this “end” is a good one.

WELCOME TO DMJ, SAT 05OCT2013 MOR

All photos courtesy of Gary's daughter and Russ' wife

Loc: DMJ

Time: 0715 - 1230

Crew: Rick, Gary, Russ, Matty C., Nate

Conditions: 3-5 FT, sunny, strong offshore, hot

Pre Blog:

     Yup, DMJ’s, Del Mar Jetty. Rick used to tell me to keep this place a secret. In reality, there are only two surf spots that I know of, worthy of confidentiality. One is Choco Point, the sand bottom, left hand point break in East Java that I had surfed this summer. The second is a spot north of L.A. that really isn’t much of a secret either, but I know how much this place means to Rick, so I’ll keep my lips sealed. DMJ used to be on this list, but I’m officially removing it. Maybe people in the South Bay don’t have the means to frequent it so much, most people don’t have the military ID to get on base, but I know for a fact that all of Oceanside knows about this place’s potential.

Wake Up:

     It’s 0430 when my alarm goes off. Rick had texted me last night, saying that he’d pick me up at 0500. All my gear is prepacked and ready to go, even my lunch for the day is in the fridge.

     Bri’s taken a vacay with her aunt, so I’m taking this surf trip solo. By 0505, I’m loading my gear into Rick’s van. We head to North Torrance to link up with Gary, his son Russ, Russ’s wife, Gary’s daughter, and Russ’ friend Nate. The 405 South is closed at Palos Verdes, so the detour takes up some time. Palm trees sway in the darkness as clouds of dust sweep through the beams of our headlights. I hope the winds aren’t going to mess the surf up.

    

DMJ:

     We stop off at the Chevron outside Camp Pendleton to meet up with Russ’ other friend Matty C. Rick’s talked about Matty since they scored here last time. He’s a ripper, short of going pro because of bad knees. When we arrive on base, the wind is still howling. I walk out to the beach with Russ and his friends. I can’t help but feel like an odd ball out. I know that Rick and Gary, those old Venice guys, do rip. It’s a reality check whenever I surf with them (It’s good to surf with guys who are better than you, so they say). Looking out at the break, there’s a small crowd spread throughout, but it’s still a quarter of what the crowd might be back home at 26^th Street. But the tide looks high, the surf swampy, inconsistent, and barely three feet. The bigger waves that do roll through are walled up.

     I walk back to the van where Rick and Gary are already changing. I keep my thoughts to myself. It won’t be big today, just a clean, small, inconsistent morning.

     I whip out my backpack and grab the FCS trail fins that I recently bought from Khang to make my Mini Driver into a quad—an experiment.

Round One:

     The water at DMJ is usually cold, so I only bring my Hurley 3/2 full suit. Rick and I warm up on the sand watch Russ and Gary start pump down the line on some racy lefts. The surf now looks better than it had when I first looked at it. Some four footers start rolling in too, and then some bigger walls. I get that empty-stomach feeling from anxiety. Suddenly, I feel the need to time my paddle out right.

     This spot isn’t a secret. If it was, there wouldn’t be this many people here. Still though, this isn’t much for a weekend crowd by SoCal standards. I time my paddle out well, only duckdiving some whitewash. Right when I reach the lineup, a small, inside wave comes to me. It’s only three feet, but when I pop up the whole section lifts, giving me a rampy face to pump down. I’m all rail on my pumps, a different wave from 26^th altogether. I get some carves with this quad setup. For some reason, I’m reluctant to push too hard on the tail because I imagine that the fins will slide out, so I hold back a little. Three turns. Not bad for a first wave.

Russel pulling in

 

Gary slashing

Rick, backside attack

 

Me, not doing shit on this wave. . . =(

     After that, I realize I had been fooled. Larger sets start breaking off of the jetty. The swell is making the top of the waves warbley like thin sheet metal caught in a tornado. The set waves where we are start coming in in massive lines. Walls. I had been talking about getting barreled, but I’m not going on these closeouts.

     My brother had told me a while ago that he wasn’t sure if he was going to switch to quads because they don’t do well on late take offs. So this set wave comes. I’m a little deep, but I’m paddling for it. I see Rick way down the line on my shoulder. I’m kicking and scratching, and I feel the offshore wind holding the wave up. I’m popping up, the lip is curling, but I’m not sliding down the face. Now there’s weightlessness beneath me, and I kick my board away as I air drop down.

     It’s embarrassing. The girls are on the shore on photo detail, and I wonder if they got this shot. Gary paddles up to me and says, “You air dropped that one, huh?”

     “Yeah,” I say, with a fake smile.

     “Sorry I went on that one,” says Rick. “I was on the shoulder.” It’s no matter. I can’t even blame it on the quads. It was too fast; I was too deep. Minutes later, the same thing happens to Gary.

     The crowd gets thicker. Matty’s throwing up some spray high into the air, ending his rides with three-sixty air attempts. I work the inside and get a good handful of waves, back to back. While everyone sits further out, Rick and I are taking these for ourselves. For the first time, I feel the difference with the quad setup. Even though these waves are racy, as soon as I get up I am making it down the line fast, much faster than I’m used to, so fast that it feels awkward setting myself up for the carves. I dump all my speed for at least one finishing turn at the end. It feels good, so many quality waves all to myself.

     The bigger waves are hollow but fast and walled. We all try to pull in but no one makes it out clean. The water temp is hot; I’m burning up in my full suit. Some guys are out just bare backing it.

     After two hours, everyone starts rotating out for beer and snacks. At the three hour mark, I go in, eat half a pizza slice, and drink some water.

Round Two:

     It’s 1100. Gary’s the only one on the sand. Everyone’s gone out for a beer or a food run. The crowd has thinned out, and the wind is still offshore, but the sun’s onslaught is wearing out my skin. My forehead and face are so hot. There’s only so much that my sunblock can do.

     When I paddle for waves my stomach starts to cramp. I should’ve waited a little longer. I think about all those safety messages that I used to read as a kid, something about not going into the pool right after you’ve eaten. I see why.

     I still get some fun rides though. One of the set waves holds shape, good enough for a solid carve and a little snap on the closeout section. But despite my snack and water break, I’m tired. I scratch out on waves that I was able to get earlier, and my wave selection gets poorer. Now everyone is back on the sand watching. I feel the pressure to do something good, at least one solid turn. They’re all rippers, so I suspect that they’re talking, judging. By 1230 I’m beat. Either there aren’t as many good waves or it’s just me. I catch a wave in and kill the pizza in my lunch box.

Judging:

     On the sand, Matty’s critiquing the surfers. “Come on, man. Do something,” he says as a guy pumps down the line. I recall that I had some waves like that earlier, where my waves broke section on section, and I had kicked out. What was he saying then? “Check out this guy. All stylish. Like Mark Richards.” This is another reality check for me. I wonder what they were saying about me. I shouldn’t judge anyone’s surfing anymore. “Look at this guy. Awww, he lost his speed. His stance is too wide.” I’ve been guilty of this too in the not-too-distant past. I don’t want to be guilty anymore. Stay humble. Stay stoked.

#

     I return to a hot and silent apartment. I open up the windows and turn on the TV for some background noise. Football’s on, but I’m not interested. Bri’s usually home, anticipating my stories for the day. She might not even absorb anything I’m saying, but she’s there to let me dump the day’s activities on her. I want to tell her about all the fun, little inside waves that I got, how the quads worked so well, and how I got the wipeout of the day, but I can’t.

     I look at my phone. No text messages, no email, no voicemail. She’s on a cruise in the Caribbean. I know she’s having fun.

     I open my fridge and find that it’s barren, so I go to the commissary to buy groceries, but it’s closed because of the government shutdown.

     After a trip to L&L, I sit on my couch with my gaming headset on and chicken katsu for company.