YOU DON’T KNOW UNLESS YOU GO, FRI 27JUN2014

Chicken fried steak and eggs, a post-surf breakfast of champions. 

Loc: Undisclosed

Crew: Bri & Gary C.

Time: 0530-0745

Conditions: light overcast, glassy turned light onshore/sideshore, medium crowd, consistent, low tide, 3-4 FT+.

     Where I surf isn’t a secret, but this morning was so good, that I don’t want to do this spot an injustice by naming it, at least while the spree of good swell lasts.

#

     Gary’s already in the lot, no surprise. Even at 0515. No one else is here. You’d think that after a session as fun as yesterday’s that there would be double the crowd.

     Walking down the hill, the wind’s not in my face like it was yesterday morning. In the dark dawn, we can see that the water is glassy. Two surfers are out. A four-foot peak breaks on the outside. The left is walled but the right is lining up well.

     Gary runs out to shore where a swimmer is making his way in. Gary runs out to a surfboard that’s floating in the water and guide’s the swimmer towards it. He lost his board.

     The surf is more consistent than yesterday, and I have to duckdive rows of whitewash just to get out. It’s low tide, but the waves are breaking far out.

     We’re paddling out together, but Bri gets pushed south to the next lifeguard tower. Not an easy morning for big buoyant boards. Gary and I are side by side, but not for long. He takes his first wave, and right behind it is one of those four-foot rights that I had seen from the shore. The sky is still dark, and the face of the wave looks like a dull grayish green. Dropping into the wave, the smooth face builds before me. I can’t even describe the quality. It’s not breaking like Trestles or HB. It’s not even breaking the classic way that this place is supposed to break. All I can say is that it’s so damn rippable. After my first snap, I’m propelled down the line again, the shoulder getting smaller after each turn until I ride out of my third. Now I’m far away. The two surfers that had been initially holding down the spot are mere dots from where I am. So is Gary. Such a long ride requires such a long paddle back.

     And a lull? No. We had paddled out together, but it’s so consistent that we don’t see each other for another fifteen minutes. Immediately, not even back at my spot, I turn and go on another right. Two turns this time and another long ass paddle back. I don’t even know where Gary or Bri are.

     When we finally meet again, we can only give shit-eating grins and shake our heads. Really? Is it really this fucking good right now? And yet, only five of us are out. Yesterday there were so many people early, and the day that everyone chooses to sleep on it, it’s firing.

     The wind turns a little sideshore going into the second hour, but the lineup is still uncrowded. The guy who had lost his board paddles past me.

     “No leash, huh?” I say.

     “Shit,” he says. “I surfed yesterday evening, and it was crap. I didn’t think it would be this big and breaking this far out. I’ve already had to swim back for my board twice!”

     He takes the next wave, a left. The lefts aren’t holding shape as well, and he tries to kick out, but the lip rejects him. Down he goes, and off to the races goes his board, all the way to the inside, sending him for a nice cardiovascular swim.

     “I don’t even care if it gets crowded now,” says Gary. “I’ve already gotten so many waves!”

     We have so many waves to ourselves that we’re already drained, so drained that we start making mistakes, either due to the combo of overexcitement or surf-worn muscles.

     Gary’s hamstring keeps cramping up on him. He’s in the lineup grimacing, digging into his muscles and stretching his leg on top of his deck. He shows me his board. There’s a nasty pressure ding. He had put his elbow through it.

     And me? I underestimate the speed on some of the drops. I should be fading out, but I stay too close to the face, and I can’t steer out. I poorly ride two perfect bombs.

     At 0700, there’s a little crowd now. The same faces I had seen yesterday are here, but much later. What’s funny is that the surf looks completely different from what it had looked like an hour and a half ago. It’s still fun right now, but they’ll have no idea what it was like at first light. It was so much better.

     Even with the rising tide, there are some freak bombs close to five feet. Bri has inside position on one of them. I lose sight of her as the lip starts to curl over her. She’s late, she’s not gonna— but she does. She goes all the way past the next lifeguard tower. Gary takes a bomb right too, a ride so long that I only find him ten minutes later when he’s waving at me from nearly two towers down.

     I force some lefts even though they’re not breaking as well, and I practice some layback turns. I don’t want to call them layback snaps because I’m not fully committed on the “laying back” part. The lefts are closing out more, but the face are so big and pumpy that they’re a good set up for frontside carves. From pumpy speed and a good bottom turn, I climb the face, reach back with my inside arm, lean back slightly, and whip my tail into a tight arc in front of me, but I don’t ride out of it. Since the left is closing out, I choose to bail after the maneuver and get back outside.

     I do another layback again on a closeout left. I get good torque on the tail, but the base of the wave bottoms out, and I can’t stick the landing on my 5’9 Motorboat Too. “It’s the Indian, not the arrow,” so I can only blame my lack of balance, but I’d need more board to stick a critical landing like that.

     And that’s how pumping the surf is. I could have easily used another board today, something better for all this water moving around.

     The waves get a little soft by the time we leave, but the surf is still consistent and fun. Catching our last waves in, Gary and I can’t help but claim the session with a high five. How could we not? It’s not even 0800 yet, and we’re surfed out. Walking back up the hill, we pass a guy in a van who’s just pulling up now to surf.

     Gary treats Bri and me to breakfast. It’s one of those days where the surf was so good that a post-surf breakfast is mandatory. He says it’s for my graduation, but it’s more than that. We get to share our waves of the day over coffee and food, get to hear more stories about how he grew up with Rick and the rest of the WHC. It’s the afterburn from a good session that Bri and I still ride, eyes alight while listening attentively to Gary’s words while chewing on jelly-covered toast. Without a 0445 wake up, none of this would have been possible. 

He's not sad, just drained. El Maestro himself, Gary AKA Balls Deep, getting his huevos rancheros on. 

AN UNEXPECTED SOUTH BAY FIRE (double sesh), FRI 07DEC2012 EVE

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 1215-1615, 4 hrs.

Crew: J

Conditions: 4FT+, high tide, consistent, light onshore wind, still clean, peaky, fun, and sunny with partial clouds.

     I’m mad . . . my fucking board broke. Randy buckled the Lost board, the JS’s tail is cracked open, and now this. I have no more boards. I think about school. I originally scheduled part of my day to at least start on my last research paper, but instead I take heed to Mentor Rick’s teachings or his way of life: when it’s good, you have to paddle out no matter what.

     My classmate Cassady calls, asking me if it’s any good. I can’t shut the fuck up in describing how fun it is. J calls me after. He says he woke up late and is heading to the beach. I give him the same report and tell him I’ll meet him in the water.

     I bought this FCS putty from a surf shop and use it to fix the JS. It’s a shoddy repair, but it will seal it and keep the water out. I have another packet of oatmeal just like I had for breakfast this morning; it’s the only food I have at home.

     An hour later I score VIP parking by the lifeguard station. Fuck warming up, I just want to get back in the water. J is here, and there’s no telling when this window of good surf is gonna close.

     As I paddle out, I notice that the tide has come up a bit, there’s just a little ripple in the water, and the surf is just a little less consistent. I turn and go on the inside, but it’s a closeout. It was a dumb move, so I tell myself to be patient.

     Once I get to the outside, I see J to my north. I wave him over. The last time I surfed with him was over the summer when Bri and I had our campsite. It’s been too long. We catch up on our lives, but we’re soon distracted by oncoming waves.

#

     So what can I say? Now, two research papers later, a finished semester, at 0131 in the morning, sitting in front of my student desk with a dry mouth, and wearing my crusty ass shorts, I remember this session and wonder how to write it. Let me start by saying that the forecast was off, way off. It was the hidden/unnoticed swell. We surfed for four fucking hours without it getting crowded. I would compare this day to the first time I surfed with Klaude and Nicky on an epic day at 26^th  years ago; it was just the three of us from the DRC that morning, the day I really feel like KK and I bonded. The only thing different from that day is the crowd and the size, but still, epic today by the consistency, thin crowd, and wave quality.

#

     I haven’t used the JS in a while, and I’m immediately biased against it. I know I can get backhand snaps on it, but my forehand on this board has been slow to progress.

     On one of my first rights to start round two, I get a deep bottom turn and try to hit the lip really late. I pull of the turn but fall on the reentry. With the 6’3 length of the JS, whipping that nose around with quickness is hard not to notice. When I paddle back, J says, “Hey, you’re starting to get some spray.”

     J . . . his nickname is bionic J because for some reason, even though he doesn’t look like a beast, he still manages to paddle into waves when he looks like he’s scratching out. But today he is more in the right place than he is bionic. For some reason, the best waves come straight to him, and he is always in the right spot. He gets the longest rides all the way to shore, disappearing and only returning to the lineup after I’ve had at least three more waves to myself but not near the quality that he is getting.

    

Wave of the day:

     A long, tapered, left-hand shoulder pops up. I’m way on the shoulder not near the peak at all, but the second I pop up, the section builds, nice and tapered. I’m pumping down the line but pumping with speed. I don’t remember the JS being this fluid. Once I’m going fast, I climb the face and stomp on the tail to get a deep carve on the face. It works. I don’t know how I looked doing it, but it felt fucking outstanding. I pump again, getting an ending carve to finish off the wave. A guy paddling past me turns to me and says, “I saw that! That was a good wave.”

     “Thanks,” I say.

     “Yeah, man. I seen the look on your face when you got it and when you ripped it.”

     I don’t think I “rip” anything, but it’s nice to get noticed for something like that.

HUNGER:

     The last hour, all J and I can talk about is food. I’m starving. He’s starving. We compare meals. All he had was a cold slice of pizza when he woke up, so we’re both not doing so well on fuel. My muscles are cramping and my stomach hurts. I think about what would satisfy me this instant. Seafood Town in Torrance comes to mind. I imagine that large plate of beef chow fun and walnut shrimp before me. Then I think about Chinese Buffet in Torrance. Buffet . . . I need all you can eat right fucking now.

     We make a pact to stay until the sun sets, but at 1600 the onshore winds finally take toll and make the water choppy. We leave. 

BEYOND STOKED

     After we change, we head to Havana Sandwich Company in El Segundo. Shan meets us. After our Cuban grub, we head next door to Mandy’s for some apple pie ala modes and a banana split. God I love the South Bay, especially this El Segundo community. I used to live here; I wish I still did. I play with the thought of living around the corner, how nice it would be to do all this on foot, to just retire in an apartment on the next street over. One day . . .  

#

     We could’ve kept on going, drinking at some of the little bars, but I had work the next day. After all, that whole day was dedicated to surfing. That was the last time I hit the water. By this time last week, I was up writing a research paper. But just that epic session, the swell that nobody knew about, it was just unreal to be out there all day, in the afternoon when the wind usually sucks, and to have it good with only a few guys out. That session has sustained me since. I remember that left, the speed I had on the JS, that carve on the face without losing momentum. . . . I just can’t wait to do it again. 

Checking out the surf on Friday the 14th. No bueno.

Even Rick's not feeling it, but he wanted to at least check out the drained-out tide.

Waiting for the next swell

DAYS OF THE ZIPPY FISH PT.3, SAT 27OCT2012 MOR

Loc: Rosecrans

Crew: Bri

Time: 0900-1100

Conditions: 3 FT, high tide, offshore, consistent, minimal crowd, sunny, hot.

     My alarm goes off at 0600, but my room is so fucking cold. Next to Briana’s warm body, it’s hard to leave the covers. At 0700, I give up on hitting the snooze button and just shut off my alarm entirely. With the cold and my surf-worn body combined (also with Bri who doesn’t want to get out of bed) there’s no way I’m waking up.

     At 0815 I open my eyes. Bri is up too. Disappointment overwhelms my face. It’s do or die time, that moment when you have to decide: to surf or not to surf. A minute longer without a decision is a refusal. I reach for the blinds and open them. It’s broad daylight outside. “Fuck,” I say. “I didn’t make my commitment with Klaude.”

     Bri turns over and says, “You didn’t ‘make the commitment’ that you were going to meet him.”

     “That’s not the point,” I say. “He’s out there right now. I should be out there too. We always surf local on the weekends.”

     “Okay,” she says, “Let’s surf.”

     I’m filling up my hot water jugs when Bri starts saying how tired she is and how she has a lot of stuff to do before work. I give her the option: you don’t have to come if you don’t want, but I’m going.

     The wagon already has our boards in there from yesterday, so this morning is just a matter of getting the wetsuits and towels. When we reach 26^th, I don’t see Klaude’s van anywhere. We park at the top lot and walk by the lifeguard station for a look. Bruce is out there as well. I scan the lineup in search of any of my buddies. I see none of them. The waves are breaking close to shore; it’s not consistent.

     I think about the options. I really don’t feel like cooking, wanted to grab some breakfast on the way home but not if we don’t get a session in. “Let’s check out Porto,” I say.

     We hop in the wagon and take the lower road to Rosecrans, where I see an open parking space on the right side of the road. We park on Rosecrans and change without checking the water.

#

     Given the small conditions, whipping out the Zippy Fish again is a no brainer. It’s 0900; we’re late and on the second shift.

     We walk down to the lifeguard station, and it’s like a scene from the summer. People are lying out in the sun, playing volleyball, sitting under their umbrellas, and swimming in the water. The sky’s a piercing blue, it’s offshore, and hot. I’m already sweating in my wetsuit.

     There are some peaks in front of the lifeguard station working, but it’s crowded with surfers. We walk just south of it where there’s a gap in the crowd.

     There’s a peak to our north and south.

     I have a feeling we’re in a bad spot, but I don’t want to be close to anyone.

     We sit during this first lull, not expecting much when Briana turns to me and says, “I’m already stoked.”  

     To our surprise, despite the high tide, some waves are breaking towards the outside. Long, mooshy lines form with tapered shoulders at the end. I kick and scratch, popping up on a left. The ride is short, similar to North Churches’ refracted lefts, but they are still fun: good for a pump and down the line distance into inches of water. I kick out too late and roll onto the sand.

     Briana has a hard time catching them; she keeps purling. I tell her that it’s probably because she doesn’t have momentum. I look out on the horizon and see a bump. “This one,” I say. “Go.”

     She turns around and catches the wave going left. Again, going down the line just like yesterday.

     I wouldn’t call the session a buffet, but it’s definitely not boring. I pick out most of the lefts, and our desolate little spot doesn’t have much competition. Even though I can’t get any turns down, the waves are still fun, especially on a day when it’s supposed to be flat.

     Bri and I both get our fair share. “See,” I say, “and you would’ve been in bed knocked out right now. I would’ve came home, told you about the surf, and then you would’ve said, ‘Oh, that’s nice, glad you had a good session,’ but you wouldn’t have been able to relate how it actually was out here. And now look at you . . . you’re catching waves going down the line. Aren’t you glad you came out?”

     She smiles and lifts her eye brows. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”

#

     After Briana snakes a guy going right, we let the current take us south of 34^th. Even though the tide is going down, the waves start backing off at our peak. We see a longboarder close to the next tower with a peak all to herself. We paddle over and share the spot.

     Both of us get more rides, and I don’t have to watch her; she’s doing her own thing and I’m doing mine. The weather’s so warm that some old dude is barebacking it. I keep glancing at 26^th, seeing the crowd of surfers in the distance, wondering if any of my homies are there.

     We surf for two solid hours. Still beat and sun burned from yesterday, we catch a wave in and rinse off by the run path. The wind is still calm as it was when we arrived with a fresh new lineup of surfers taking over for the third shift. 

     We polish off the session with breakfast at Mandy’s Family Restaurant in El Segundo, both aware that we made the right decision not to sleep in. 

SURF GHOSTS, SUN 23SEPT2012 MOR

Crew: Bri, Jonathan M, CC, Cheryl, Klaude

Time: 0800-1000

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, overcast, cold, inconsistent, occasional walls.

“I used to surf”:

     I forgot where I heard this, but someone said, “If you say, ‘you used to surf,’ then you never really surfed at all.” Mind you, I’m aware of the exceptions, God forbid someone sustain a life-changing injury, forcing someone to never surf again, maybe even a career move away from the ocean; that can’t be helped.

     I don’t want to call myself a surf vet, but I’ve surfed long enough to lose some surfing buddies, or to at least see them come and go because it was just a “phase” to them. I’ve had friends surf for the wrong reasons too, like image for example. For them, it was “fuck fundamentals, I just want to rip.” And then they went straight to the shortboard, barely able to duckdive or turn, lucky if they could go straight. Some friends thought surfing was actually easy and quit after a short-lived experience. Some just flake-out and shoot a text now and then asking where I’ll be surfing “tomorrow,” and of course, they never show up. I’m paraphrasing my friend Klaude here, but he put it in simple terms:

Basically, if you do “surf,” then we’ll see you in the water no matter what. There’s no need to plan an event in advance or even make a phone call. The act of surfing itself will see to it that your connections stay strong, but if you don’t show up . . . then we’ll never see each other.

     I also read an article in a surf magazine how marriage is a huge career ender for surfers. I have this friend that I used to surf with religiously; he even ripped harder than I. We actually started the DRC surf group together with Cheryl. He did everything: martial arts, fencing, boxing, surfing, and weight lifting, and then . . . he got married.

#

     Briana and I wake up a little earlier to hit the surf. If anything, I really need to get some face time with Klaude since we missed him yesterday. My friend Jon that I haven’t surfed with in over a year called me last night too, said he wanted to get some surf in before work.

     I find free parking on Highland Ave. It’s a little walk to 26^th, but it’s manageable. Cheryl’s supposed to be coming today, so I bring the DK out one more time along with the board bag it came in. Before Bri and I leave, I see that Jon texted me. He said he’s waiting in the lot. I shoot him a text back, telling him that I’ll meet him by the tower.

#

     On the way down the hill, we spot KK with a friend I’ve never met before. I sneak up on him on the sand. He’s teaching his friend Leslie how to surf today, so he’s got his instructor hat on.

     “I seen Jon in the parking lot,” he says.

     “What, parking lot? He’s not coming down?”

     “No,” he laughs, “he said he’s waiting for you.”

     “Wut?! You gotta be kidding me. I told him just to get his ass down here. I ain’t going back there.”

     KK keeps laughing. “I don’t know . . . maybe you should.”

     I walk back up to the lot, but Jon’s not there. I spot his car but no Jon. I return to the tower, and I spot him just south of it in the lineup.

     He can’t fit into his wetsuit anymore, so if he wants to surf, he needs to start coming out while the weather’s still warm. He’s wearing trunks and the O’Neill rashguard I bought him for his birthday . . . two years ago?

     Bri and I paddle up to him. KK chooses to go more north to another peak.

     Jon and I surfed Porto when we were barneys. It was a big west swell. I couldn’t even make it out, but he did. He wiped out on a set wave and almost drowned. In fact he shaved his head that same day. For him it was a life changing experience.

     It’s an overcast, foggy morning, similar to the day I mentioned above. I’m watching Jon on the 6’6 Merrick MB that I sold him for $100. It’s a thick, meaty board. I’m stoked to see him catch some waves. His instincts are still there, paddling with good timing, but he’s a little slow standing up . . . naturally.

     I introduce him to Bri.

     “Yeah,” says Jon, “it’s pretty fun out here. Lucky it’s small so it’s not too hard for me.”

     We laugh. I show him Cheryl’s fish and tell him about my recent revelation about fish boards. He brings up his old Simon Anderson Fish that he used to have, the one that buckled right here at 26^th on a big day when I was in Iraq.

     “I have to work on Saturdays,” he says, “but I’m working on this project right now, but it’s not ‘til later, so I can paddle out early on Sundays.”

     We exchange waves. It’s not standing up as much as yesterday. I can’t even see Klaude anymore, and none of the other boys are around. I either scratch out or go straight. Briana sits more towards the inside. She turns and paddles into a little two-footer. It doesn’t have much shape, but she takes it all the way to shore. We both watch her. Jon turns to me and says, “Hey, she’s pretty good, huh?”

     “Yeah, she’s learning pretty fast.”

     “Well, I gotta catch one in.” He catches a wave to shore, walks to dry sand, and then he turns around and waves. It’s the same smile he had years ago, just on a different face and a different body. I wave back. He turns and disappears into the fog like an apparition.

#

     Bri and I paddle north, more towards the tower. We see Klaude. He’s teaching his friend at a crowded peak. Bri and I maintain our spot. Within minutes, Cheryl and CC show up. They stretch on the sand for a while before paddling out. Finally, Bri and Cheryl get to meet.

     “Jon was here,” I say to Cheryl.

     “Awwww, when did he leave?”

     “Maybe like fifteen minutes ago.”

     “Awwww. Hopefully I’ll catch him next time.”

     Right after they show up, Klaude leaves. With the rising tide, the waves get a little bigger but walled. I have trouble finding anything with shape, so I pull out of a lot of waves. CC on the other hand . . . man, she’s like reborn or something. I don’t know if it was her travels around the globe this past summer, but she’s charging hard. Even on the nasty closeouts, she’s going for them. I’m stoked to bring Briana into our surf group, especially around the female side of it. CC brings positive energy, hooting us on all of our waves, whether we eat shit or not.

     The conditions get a little sketchy for Bri. She waits for me on the sand. I say my goodbyes to Cheryl and CC. On the sand, I leave the DK Fish in its boardbag for Cheryl to take home, but I don’t realize that I leave my sandwich bag with all my wax in it.

#

     This time, I take Bri to Mandy’s in El Segundo for breakfast. Again, everything looks good. We split some pancakes and order some skillet dishes. As usual, the customer service is on point, making sure that our water and coffee never get low. It’s a nice way to end a session and a weekend of surfing. Tomorrow it’s back to business.