ESCAPE (double sesh), TUE 26AUG2014

Loc: Churches to Lowers

Crew: Solo

Time: 0700-1000

Conditions: 4 FT+, walled, consistent, crowded.

     With my mom’s passing, things have been pretty hectic. Once all of the big items were moved out of my mom’s apartment, leaving only minor items and a cleaning job to do, my sisters and I decided to take a day to handle our own neglected errands. For me, it meant paddling out. With the biggest south swell to hit SoCal in years, I hoped to score. I imagined pristine conditions with scattered peaks everywhere, especially Middles. But . . . I also knew that it would be a gamble. The swell would be coming in south east, meaning that the shape could be walled. But what do I know? I’ve been wrong in forecasting wave quality this whole summer. It seemed like a gamble worth taking. Plus, I really wanted to paddle out and just be by myself to reflect on my mom.

     The night prior, I had packed everything in my car for a night’s stay, even a twin-size sleeping mattress that my mom had stashed away in her closet. I was ready, not to just car camp it but to do so comfortably.

     I left El Segundo when it was still dark out. All I had to do was get in the car and go. I had missed the feeling of hitting the freeway in the dark early-morning hours. Yet, I felt more alone that I ever had before. The idea that my mom wasn’t a phone call away anymore was still hard to accept. Whenever I wasn’t with her, I knew that she was always “there.” But now she wasn’t. When I thought about her, I pictured her the last time I had seen her, on a grocery errand. The quick way I had hugged her and said goodbye. The routine pitter-patter hug I would get back from her, and the urgency she had to hurry and put her groceries away so she could get on with her day. I’d see her again, I had thought, as always, for another grocery run when she would need it, a small fix around the house, maybe a screen door or her surround sound would act up. But that was the last time. 

#

     Exiting Basilone, I get a quick Glimpse of Lowers. Plenty of people are out. A wall swings in through Middles. Doesn’t look like there’s shape.

     When I get to Churches and park, the surf doesn’t look as big. Four-foot waves are coming in consistently, breaking best at the top of the wave, the main point. The waves appear to be sectiony, but they hold shape enough to gain distance and crank a couple turns on.

     So far I’m not sold on the surf, but I’m here. Conditions could get better. The swell supposed to peak tomorrow. It could be epic by the end of the day.

     I’m not in a rush to change, so I take my time. Sunblock, wetsuit, warm up. I paddle out at the bottom of Churches and sit with a few other stragglers, hoping something will swing wide. Usually I’d be antsy, but I just sit and gaze out. Mom. . . The waves are gonna have to come to me today.

     When the sets come, they come in huge walls a foot bigger than I had seen earlier. I paddle into my first right, but it runs away fast and sections off. My next two waves the same thing. Closer and closer, I get to the main peak. Sitting wide south of it, I watch a couple perfect rights roll in. There are good waves today, but only breaking best in the prime locations, and this morning it’s packed with longboarders.

     Instead of sitting with the pack, I paddle north of it just south of Mons Pubis. Middles looks like shit, but there is an E-Z UP there with a whole crew of longboarders. Everywhere that is breaking has heads, but I somehow manage.

     I snag a couple rights that pop out of nowhere. Thank goodness I have my quad setup. I draw a highline going right, making it past a spilling section. I bottom turn and get one solid backhand hack. It feels good, kicking out of the wave, paddling back. There are so many people and only a few are getting waves. I got one.

     But other than a few random rides, it’s hard to catch anything with shape. And now I’m here again, like so many times this summer, sitting and waiting for the good wave that never comes. After catching nothing but closeouts, I call the morning session. Fuck it. I’m gonna be here tomorrow anyway, so why push it right now, especially if the surf might improve.

    

The State:

     After drinking some really strong tea back at the car, I rummage through my cooler. My sisters and I had to clear out my mom’s fridge. One of the items I took was a pack of Fig Newtons. I had recognized the pack as being one of the items that my mom had bought when I took her grocery shopping. Sadly, out of the two rows of newtons, she had only eaten a third of one row. When we had gone through her apartment, it was like being a crime-scene detective. What were her last moments like? How much had she eaten from the groceries we got on the last run? There was a fresh pot of rice cooked that she had never even had a chance to dig into yet. Okra on the stove.

    Now I munch on the Fig Newtons. I’m not a fan, but today they are nourishing the hell out of me. Sitting in my car with the sun beating down on the white roof of my wagon, I’m reaching into the yellow wrapping, plucking out a newton. I wish my mom would have eaten more of them instead of leaving behind so much. I would’ve been happier to see maybe half of one row left, but there are so many. The groceries. She barely went through them before she passed. The abundance of newtons left. A reminder of how quickly her life had expired after I last saw her.

     I walk to Old Mans hoping that I’ll find Mecca—big lefts peeling at the northern most break into the military campgrounds. When I get there, it looks like windblown shit. It’s smaller and just as sectiony with little dribbly shoulders. But again, I’m here to get centered. Waves are just a consolation. I finish off my bearclaw donut and tea and then head back to the vehicle.

     The best part of the trip isn’t in the water. Thus far, it’s sitting in my chair, on the sand, under my beach umbrella. I fade in and out of a nap before falling into a sleep-like trance. My body is so relaxed that I should be sleeping, but my eyes are open and I’m fully conscious. It’s like I’m in a dream state but awake. Onshore wind kisses my face and keeps me cool. The umbrella keeps the sun off my skin, protected. In front of me, I can make out the waves above the sandline. Surfers ride the high-tide inside waves, pumping as far as they can before kicking out. I sit, frozen, like a stone on the sand, stalling, waiting for the late afternoon for the surf to get better.

#

NO ESCAPE, TUE 26AUG2014

Loc: Middles to Lowers

Crew: Solo

Time: 1530-2000

Conditions: 5-6 FT+, walled, consistent, ridiculously crowded.

     Churches looks like complete shit. To think I had cursed this morning’s conditions. Walls roll in like mini tsunamis, clearing surfers in their path.

     I paddle from Mons to Middles, catching myself a little too close to shore a couple of times, having to dart outside to duckdive the sets. Miraculously, a smaller wave, a left, comes my way, and . . . it has a tapered shoulder forming at the end. I can’t believe it. I paddle and pop up, and it stands up right away. I get to my feet just in time and set my rail to go down the line. It’s a Jalama-quality ride. First maneuver is a tight frontside cutback in the pocket. I redirect and pump twice before getting a wide arcing carve. I hit the last section, which is now a petered out two-foot shoulder, but I still hit it regardless. Three turns. Best wave of the day.

     I continue my paddle towards the top of Middles, wondering if I should have just stayed there to wait for another.

     At Middles, I’m around a small pack of surfers. They’re waiting. We’re all waiting for something with shape. Walls roll in. It’s okay. I feel as if I have an edge because, remember, today’s not completely about surfing. I’m here to reflect.

     I’m a statue on my surfboard, letting the closeouts pass, staring out at the horizon. Mom. She’s really not home. If I called, no one would pick up. Every wave I catch is a closeout.

     Over the horizon, the sun is finally getting low. Underneath it is Lowers, and, of course, it’s working. It’s the only place working, but, as you can imagine, it’s fucking crowded. My technique of sitting wide is what half of San Clemente is doing right now. But . . . I can rely on the sunset. The darkness. When the light starts to wane, people will leave. That’s when I can have my chance. That’s when I’ll score Lowers.

     I creep towards it, but we all know how this works. You stare and paddle towards Lowers long enough, and you’ll find yourself there. So now I’m just outside of the main peak. Waves are swinging wide, but they are so big that surfers who are sitting deep can get into them. The main take off is so congested. I watch three or four guys on the same wave.

     “Hey!” yells a guy going left. A grom is in front of him. They both eat shit.

     A high pitched voice replies, “What are you doing?! Get out of here!”

     So many waves I watch pass. But now the sun is setting. Its little crescent giving a bright-orange goodbye like a sad smile. Still, I wait it out. I have the edge, the edge of time. I can sit here forever. I don’t care. But . . . people aren’t leaving. It’s still crowded. I have no choice but to sit at the top of the wave. The wave . . . is getting bigger. The swell is finally filling in, a prequel to tomorrow’s swell of the decade.

     “Did you just yell at some kid?” says a surfer. He’s talking to Yeller, the guy who had the altercation with the grom earlier. “Was that you? I saw you two split a peak. You went right, he went left, and then you swung back around and went left.”

     Yeller paddles away. The guy follows.

     “Why don’t you go in and apologize to that kid?”

     Yeller shakes his head and doesn’t say anything. He tries to paddle away, but the guy follows him where he goes.

     “No? You don’t wanna apologize to the kid?!”

     An outside set comes in, washing everyone up. Good. Now I’m at the top waiting for mine, but it doesn’t come. One by one, like an army of immortals, each surfer regains his spot in the lineup, and then it’s Suck City all over again.

     Now the lights at the nuclear boobs are on. The sky over Camp Pendleton is purple. Yet, motherfuckers, they’re still out here. I see the faces of desperation around me. Other cats who had hoped for their opportunities to shine, just like me, waiting for their one wave to make the Lowers sacrifice worth it. And it’s still crowded.

     When the next bomb rolls in, I’m sitting deep on the left. A guy on my inside tries to go, but I know he won’t make it. He can’t. This wave is too big, easily overhead, and he’s too deep. I pop up and go anyway but find myself sliding down a dark vertical face of water. The wipeout is violent. Even way outside, I touch bottom. Panicking, I kick as hard as I can to the surface, hoping that there isn’t another wave. When I reach air, the rest of the set comes in. I didn’t give respect to the ocean. With the swell coming in full force, the lineup goes from trying to score a good wave to just trying to make it out in one piece.

     I turn and go on an inside wave, but it’s so dark now that my timing is off. Late, I eat shit on a right. Through the tumbler once more. It’s either belly ride it to shore or paddle back out towards the dim horizon. The black dots of wetsuits are now faint. But . . . it can’t be for nothing. I’ve been out for four hours, and I’m not gonna end it with a cherry on top?

     I paddle back out. The looks of desperation now turn into looks of worry. The set takes too long. I paddle towards the middle of the wave, and then the bomb arrives. The exploding white wash is two storeys high. I point my nose to shore, and I’m engulfed in foam and pulled down under. Now further in, I hold onto my board on the next one. Who gives a shit about a Lowers’ wave? I’m out of there. I smile as I approach the cobblestones. Other surfers are doing their balance dance over the rocks towards the sand. I cant my board at an angle to slow myself down, but I’m going so fast that my speed barely dumps. The water in front of me starts sucking off of the rocks. What had looked like a lot of water is now suddenly drained. I lean on my right side to keep my board afloat above the rocks. My right arm and leg are hit by a barraged of blunt-edged rocks, like being kneed and elbowed by a Muay Thai Kickboxer. After thudding my way to shore, I check myself for wounds. My board’s fine. Other than a small cut underneath my fingernail, the only thing bruised is my ego.

#

     I’m back on the 405 North towards El Segundo. I couldn’t find it in me to sleep in my car. The surf sucked. If it sucks now, it’s gonna suck tomorrow, especially if it’s not holding size now, just imagine. . .

     I feel even more alone driving home in the evening darkness. It’s not just my mom. Since she passed, I’ve been with my sisters every day, clearing out her apartment. It’s too soon to be alone.

     I reach over for the package of Fig Newtons, scraping the ribbed plastic container as my fingers search for one, but all I find are crumbs.

MY ENDLESS SUMMER, (double sesh) PT.8 SAT 02AUG2014

Are you curious as to why Klaude's so hungry? Read and find out!

Next One

Loc: Churches to Middle Trestles

Time: 0730-1030

Conditions: 2-3FT, overcast, empty.

Pre Blog:

     Klaude had told me that he really wanted to surf Trestles. I pleaded with him on how the shape there hasn’t been “classic,” and that there isn’t much swell on tap for the weekend anyway. Bad call was what I was thinking. And then he said, “I’m going there no matter what, even if I gotta make the hike from Cristianitos.” And then I got to thinking, When’s the last time I surfed down south with Klaude? He’s missed a lot of camping trips because of work, traveling, and eye surgery. Going south would be a gamble, but maybe Klaude’s stoke and luck might bring forth some decent waves. And it’s not like we’d be camping. We’d only be going for the day.

With the Flow:

     It’s 0530, and my wagon is packed with me and Bri’s surf gear. I had told Klaude that I wanted to be on the road, wheels rolling, at exactly 0530. I text him. No response. I call him, and his voice is so creaky from the other side of the phone that I know that I had just woke his ass up. “I’ll see you when you get here,” I say.  

     I’m anal, and anal people don’t like being behind schedule. My normal impulse would have me pretty upset to start the morning, but I remember that the surf isn’t supposed to be that good today. What are we rushing for?

     Bri and I watch a surf flick until he arrives.

     Exiting Basilone Road, we see that Middles looks like a lake. There is a small crowd at Lowers, all sitting stagnant, waiting for waves. Churches looks dismal, too. It’s overcast, the tide is low, only a few heads are out, and the waves are barely two feet.

     “Small kine,” says Klaude.

     I’m not too disappointed. My expectations were low heading here. If anything, the purpose of the day is to hang with Klaude, finally get him down south, dead or alive. While watching the water, a right sprouts up and peels at the main point. A couple more follow. They are barely three feet, but the shape is there. It looks fun. Plus, Christina had loaned me her Zippifish yesterday before moving to Australia. I got the right equipment.

     Unfortunately, the screw to Klaude’s board’s center fin is stripped. He can’t get it out, can’t put in a fin, and he also doesn’t have his quad setup with him, which means that we’ll have to share the fish if any of us want some decent rides.

     At first we paddle out at North Churches. I get waves right away on the blue Zippi, Big Blue. I don’t know how thick it is, but it’s a 6’0” and extremely buoyant. Of course, Bri’s fine on her NSP, but Klaude’s not looking so hot on my Motorboat Too that he’s borrowing. It’s just not big enough for the surf, but we end up swapping boards.

     From here, I can only go straight on my board, but I’m stoked to see Bri and Klaude get so many waves. The surf isn’t that great. The waves aren’t all lining up, as there are some closeouts, but we have this place practically to ourselves.

     Halfway through the session, I suggest we paddle to Middles.

     “Looks like the same shit over there,” says Klaude. He’s not going. And then Bri heads over to him, says she’s gonna paddle to Middles, and then they both begin paddling.

     The paddle to Battle Positions, or the “Battle Paddle,” isn’t too bad. As we get closer, we see that some of the rights there are actually holding up. And if Churches had a minimum crowd, then this spot is damn near barren.

     We get mostly rights with occasional lefts for the rest of the session. The sun finally burns through the overcast, but half of the horizon leading out to sea is still covered with dark clouds. It’s summer time behind us and winter out in front. The wind dies, turning the reflection off of the ocean into a dull grey. We can barely see the waves until they are close.

     I can’t recall a memorable ride for this first session. All I can say is that we all got waves and surfed until exhaustion. Even with Klaude and me sharing a fish between us, we still got our fair share.

     “Last one,” I say to Klaude.

     “You mean ‘next one.’ There’s never a last one. Always a next one.”

     He catches his next one in on the fish, but then he comes back out, unstraps the leash, and slings the Zippi my way to make sure that I end it with a good ride, too.

#

Loc: Churches

Time: 1500-1830

Conditions: 2-3FT, overcast, empty.

Brunch:

     Denny’s. I order two different breakfast entrees off of the four-dollar value meal. Too easy. Too cheap. Too delicious. This is surf-budget dining at its finest. Klaude orders sandwiches with fries, oatmeal, and . . . a fricken milk shake. Why are we so hungry?

     The place is packed. We make friends with the older couple sitting next to us. The guy keeps spewing off about fascism. Not sure what the whole deal is.

     “Here, take a slice of my sandwich,” says Klaude. “And some fries.”

     I’m so happy. How’d he know that I was still hungry?

Magic Hour:

     We’re parked in front of Churches, waiting for the tide to top out before we go back for seconds. Luckily, I still have a deck of cards in the car from the last camp trip.

     N.W.A. plays on my stereo. Bri shuffles the cards. Pusoy Dos it is. Klaude whips us the first two guys, holding onto his most lethal five-car arrangements until the very end, when Bri and I are forced to pass on every hand. It’s not until the third and last game that I catch onto his evil ways, thus defeating him in the process. It’s time.

     Klaude decides to ride his Neckbeard with a quad setup but doing so with my normal-size Futures fins as the trailers. He’s even willing to ride it as a twin, but I suggest that he doesn’t.

     With more volume, we hope that his board does well in the sub-three-foot surf.

     It’s back to North Churches again, and this time there’s a little pack there, but I know how this crowd usually does it. Churches is famous for its long rights. Lately, more people have been sitting a little west, past the main peak, to get the rights that sometimes line up and peel down the whole break. What I like to do is sit much wider, even more west, to pick off the lefts, and sometimes a right will even come through.

     So we paddle out and sit. Bri takes off on a wave, thus starting her campaign of nonstop surfing. Literally, from here on out she only ceases her paddling when she’s on a wave.

     The wind’s a little more onshore. The clouds are darker and thicker, shutting out the sun for the remainder of the day. Rain drops ripple the water’s surface, not hard but visible enough.

     Klaude catches waves on his Neckbeard, but the waves are still a little too small for his board. It’s hard to get any turns and do anything else but go down the line. I trick him into making him think that I want to sample his board, when I really just want to make sure that he gets to ride the Zippi.

     The second session starts off a little more inconsistent than the morning, and even though Bri’s on a rampage, she paddles all the way out to Middles solo to see if it’s better.

     Now Klaude and I are on our own. I see him get one of his best waves of the day, a frontside right on the Zippi. He flies down the line, drawing a wide scraping arch on the face of the wave, throwing some mist out the back. As the tide lowers, the surf picks up in size a little bit more. I actually catch a left on the Neckbeard, getting two good pumps before bogging out on the turn. After a few more waves, I realize that this fin setup isn’t working too well for the board. I can’t explain it, but the turns just feel too loose and not tight enough for agile power.

     When Bri paddles back, she’s exhausted and elects to head back to the car to change, so I trade boards with her.

     Now I’m on the NSP and Klaude’s on the fish. We both have the right equipment. Out west over the horizon, the sky below the overcast is pink, as if the sky were wearing a baby T-shirt, exposing its pink belly. Also, the surf turns more consistent with the tide going even lower. The weather scares off any possibility of an evening surf invasion.

     Klaude looks at me and says, “It’s that magic hour.” From here, I get the best surf that I’ve gotten in a while. Back to back waves on the NSP. It’s only a 6’8 funboard, but you can ride it like a longboard. I walk the nose and throw in a little gangster lean. I can’t cross step for shit, and I probably look ugly how I use the length of the board, but it feels right. I’m having so much fun. I can’t quite hang 5, but I get so close several times, just inches away. Immediately off popping up, I just walk to the nose and hold a high line, each wave just as fun as the one before.

     We switch boards again, and the NSP looks like an awful lot for Klaude to lug around. It’s not that he can’t surf that board, but it’s probably been a while since he’s ridden something that big.

     It’s already 1800 by the time we switch boards again. Klaude’s eyes are bloodshot red. “Either I’m getting lazy or I’m getting tired,” he says. He has this glazed look over his face with his mouth hanging open. Both sessions we’ve surfed, never overheating or too cold, just perfect overcast conditions to make a surf marathon out of it.

     “I’m exhausted,” says Klaude. “Next one?”

     But it’s too early for next-one time. There are still waves. They are even getting better. No one’s out. “Next one” turns into three more waves. When we’re finally out of the water, I feel the tightness in my neck and shoulders for the first time. As much as we’d all love to surf until sun down, it’s time for us to go.

Post Surf:

     It’s a silent drive to HB, vibing out to some Pandora on the way. We get some 50% chicken pho for dinner. For Bri and me, I only pay $7.54 with a two-buck tip. God, I love Vietnamese food.

     From there, it’s Dough Boy’s Donuts in El Segundo for an ice cream dessert and a donut. Only $5.54 for all three of us.

     We can only talk about how perfect the whole day was. Klaude showing up late still worked out fine. The surf forecast was accurate, but it was probably more on the “fair” side than “poor.” The lack of crowd due to the funky weather ensured we got the best waves. And the overcast? I don’t think I’ve ever had an all day overcast surf trip that went so well. It was actually nice not having the burning sun on my face all day. No neck tan! The boards. Without the right boards, we wouldn’t have had such good sessions. Gotta thank Christina for that.

     It was only a poor-to-fair day, but from the way that we feel and the amount of waves that we had all caught, it might as well have been an epic one. Oh, and Klaude was right after all. If it wasn’t for his “do or die” attitude to go to Trestles, Bri and I never would have even gone. We would have had no idea. Instead, we would have pictured small, shitty, onshore surf in our minds. Clueless. No idea at all.

FRANSAUCE’S RETURN PT.IV, (double sesh) WED 09JUL2014

Loc: North Churches, Middles, Lowers

Crew: Bri, Francis, Alex, Rick

Time: 0630-0900

Conditions: Light overcast, consistent, warm, sectiony, 3-4 FT+.

     “It was a raccoon,” says Francis. I saw it. It had something in its mouth and carried it away.”

     “How big was it?”

     He holds out his hands much wider than its body. “At least fifty pounds,” he says. “It just looked at me all pissed off and walked off slow.” Francis imitates it with a mean walk-by.

     I call Rick. He’s late. He’s supposed to be here to set up his daughter’s birthday party campsite right next to ours. I tell him that we’re heading towards Middles and that we’ll meet him there.

     On the way to Middles, I stop and paddle out at North Churches. The left is working the best that it’s been since we’ve been here.

     My first wave solidifies the trip. It’s what I’ve been looking forward to all along, to get a wave at my favorite spot here, a frontside wave, a LEFT. The incoming tide makes the shape a little soft. It doesn’t take much water here because the left lines up into deeper water, but the wave stands up and still holds shape, a little soft but still skatey. I get two front side turns and end it with a baby floater. Stoked.

     The only problem is that everyone is on it today. It’s even more crowded than yesterday. A Japanese contingent of five surfers takes every good wave, one by one.

     Bri’s frustrated with the crowd, so she sits right on the border of Churches and Middles, really taking the ones that swing wide.

     Alex and Francis aren’t surfing aggressively, but they position themselves at the take-off spot the whole time, staying in prime contention for waves. But not me. Too claustrophobic.

     Bri and I paddle to Middles. One of the cleanest A-frames I’ve seen the whole trip rolls through. I take the right, getting one turn before it closes out.

     We run into Lori and Kurt.

     “I saw your friend Rick,” she says. “About an hour ago.” She points towards Lowers. “He paddled over there.”

     I track Rick down, and then I see his bald head. He’s doing battle at Lowers, much better than I had yesterday. He’s on two waves but kicks out for guys already on them. But he gets an unmolested right all to himself. It’s a small one, but he surfs it well, throwing out buckets the whole time.

     We all join at Middles. Unfortunately, the incoming tide already makes the spot inconsistent, so we call it an early session and head in.

     Breakfast is pancakes, eggs, and sausage. I feed everyone. Soon, Rick sets up camp and his daughter and her teenage crew show up.

     Alex is an extremely handsome man. Coast Guard. Male model material. I introduce him to the teenage girls as my male modeling friend who is taking a break from his photo shoot. I also say, “And he has very nice abs.” Alex, who’s standing there shirtless, doesn’t see this compliment coming. Four sets of eighteen-year-old eyes look down towards his six pack and package. Alex . . . you’re welcome.

#

     Alex takes off to catch the Argentina vs. Netherlands game, while Bri, Francis, and I opt for an early afternoon surf session before the tide kills it once more.

     We surf north Churches again, where the Japanese contingent still remains. It’s good for the first hour. It turns a little inconsistent. More people leave, and we have it to ourselves.

     Francis rides the Kadowaki single fin, styling on his rides. Not as many turns this time, but hot-dogging poses. He surfs it well.

     I’m here for the lefts, getting my turn of the trip, frontside pumping and getting a legit forehand snap right in front of Francis. He cheers me on. I’m going to miss how much he pushes my surfing.

     It’s an early end to the afternoon sesh. The sun’s still nice and high. We kill a beer at the showers, a classic tradition started by Fransauce.

Chef Briana, propane stove extraordinaire. 

Seba is late for the surf, but not late enough to take off his shirt! Seba, Francis, Alex, Rick.

     Alex returns. My buddy Sebastian shows up to hang out. Rick gets the grill going. Bacon-wrapped hot dogs. Alex ends up roasting marshmallows with one of the teenage chicks by the grill. They whisper softly to themselves. Why, if Alex were a lesser man, he’d . . .

     That night, once all is settled, the moon nestles behind some low-lying clouds, but its light is still bright. Our once-quiet campsite is now filled with teenage giggling, the annoying kind.

     This time, we bring our beach chairs out to the sand. We’re the only ones on the beach.

     “What’s your best wave this trip?” says Alex. We all take our turns. Next is the Best-Non-surf-Moment category, and we go over that, too. My favorite memory is that night at Jack In the Box, just seeing all my friends and my woman so stoked over the day’s events.

     It’s our last night here, and we try to milk it as much as possible. The moon only peeks out for quick moments at a time. Still, if we stay out here and refuse going to sleep, we can make this whole trip last just a little while longer. 

FRANSAUCE’S RETURN PT.III, (double sesh) TUE 08JUL2014

Surf Recon Bri doing the afternoon surf check.

Loc: North Churches, Middles, Lowers

Crew: Bri, Dais, Francis, Alex, Lee

Time: 0700-1000

Conditions: Sunny, consistent, warm, sectiony, 4-5 FT+.

Pre Blog:

     For the life of me, I can’t remember exactly where the session started. I want to say that we had started at North Churches, but I only know for sure that we did surf Middles, so that’s where this journey begins.

Bump In the Night:

     Last night, we heard a crash outside of the fence. I hoped that it was just Francis. I could’ve checked, but I was fucking tired, and I did not feel like climbing out of my inflatable mattress.

     When we woke up, I found our food cooler had been knocked off of our picnic table and was on the ground.

     “The trash, too,” said Francis. I looked over. Something chewed through it and made a mess.

#

     The five of us paddle out at Middles, just south of a rock formation that I had once named Battle Position, but since then its bunker-like exterior has not withstood the test of time, and it looks more like a rock mound now.

     Consider it the bottom of the wave at Middles, while the top of the wave lies in front of a building that sits on top of the cliffs, just south of Lowers.

     If the surf has backed off, it only has by a hair. But the shape has improved a little bit. At least not all of the waves are walled, as there are some with shoulders. But I’m not necessarily having the greatest time, so I push it further north. I push it to Lowers.

     Every time I surf Lowers, I get so damn frustrated. I sit wide, hoping that random set waves will swing my way where I sit all by my lonesome. Of course nothing swings wide enough to avoid the proverbial bastard on the inside, taking off right at the peak.

     I sit with the main pack. In front of the main pack. Still. I’m not made to surf here. Too tight. Too compact. Too competitive.

     I resort to sitting on the inside of Lowers with some other stragglers, and of course, that’s when the sets start coming in. With a crowd behind me—buddies, pressing parents, and photogs—I duckdive the waves while surfers take off right in front of me.

     “I just want one,” is the mantra, and I finally get one—a small, three-foot, insider. It drops me off closer to Middles where I can lower my head and paddle away.

     But approaching Middles, I’m met with smiling faces. Dais looks stoked. Francis’ face is bright and smiling.

     “Some good ones here,” says Francis.

     Maybe I fucked up. Did I abandon my Battle Position too early? And then Francis sells it, frontside rights. Back to back even. He’s surfing so well, reminiscent to a Rick Amador show when he’s surfing El Porto, wrap-around cutbacks the whole way. Bri scores. Dais scores.

     “I’m going in,” says Alex, and then he takes off on a bomb right, single-fin pumping on a huge white-wash face. Only feet behind him, close enough to piss on his ankles, is a Japanese surfer in a pink wetsuit. Pinkie doesn’t call Alex out of it, and Alex continues to ride his wave so focused, with a look on his face like nothing else in the world exists.

     For lunch, we head to Duke’s in San Clemente to watch Brazil get spanked by Germany. How sad to see all those Brazilians crying on their home turf, seeing their team get annihilated. The horror!

Session 2:

     Dais leaves to work, but his coworker Lee shows up to hang for the day. He’s a longhaired musician type, and he has a five-fin medium shortboard.

     We all paddle out at Middles before the tide tops out. Again, the sets are walled, but there are some shoulders here and there. I take off on my first left. Lee’s on my outside. He takes off too. He creates a wake on the already-fast section, so I have no way of catching up to the face. He rides the wave all the way inside. When he comes back, he paddles up to me and says, “That was probably the best wave I had in my life.”

     We surf for a couple of hours, but the high tide changes the shape for the worst, and the size still isn’t tapering down.

     There’s a cleanup set for like six waves. I’m furthest out. I duckdive every single one cleanly except for the last one.

     There’s another cleanup set before we leave. I’m right beside Lee when we prepare to duckdive it. Instead, Lee slides off of his board with speed, like he’s in fear for his life. He pushes his board to the side, puts his hands together, and dives under the wave. I duckdive, weary of catching his surfboard on my head. I come up clean.

     “Hey, dude,” I say. “You gotta hold onto your board.”

     “Oh,” he smiles. “Yeah, I’m so used to longboarding, you know. I didn’t hit you did I?”

     “No, I’m fine. It’s not ‘round’ here, so you can duckdive it. You’ll be fine. Just hold onto it.”

     Back at the campsite, Lori and Kurt stop by and invite us over for a bonfire.

     After Lee goes home, the four of us head over. Even though it’s warm, the fire is nice and comforting. We learn all about our local pals from Manhattan Beach.

     Kurt is retired Air Force, and he surfs here all the time. “I once lived here for a whole year,” he says, motioning to his camper.

     He’s originally from Oahu, so he, Francis, and Alex hit it off very well.

     Lori’s daughter is on Rising Star on Fox, and they ask if we’ll vote for her.

     Kurt is a man’s man, offering up more beer. Francis is the only taker. We leave before 2300.

     Back at the Churches campsite, we’re much more remote. There are no campfires here or families moving about. The sky is darker. The moon isn’t full, but it’s so bright that it casts a light over everything, and it renders our propane lamp unnecessary.

     “I haven’t been able to just relax and surf like this in so long,” says Francis, looking out over the ocean. Moonlight reflects off of his eyes.

     We’re all tired. I tuck Bri into bed and then come back outside to join Alex and Francis. They’re sitting away from the tents and the trees, completely exposed to the moon’s glare. I pull out a chair and sit beside them. 

My iPhone camera doesn't do this moon much justice, but here it is.

FRANSAUCE’S RETURN PT.II, MON 07JUL2014

Loc: Churches, Middles, Old Mans

Crew: Bri, Dais, Francis, Alex

Time: 1630-2000

Conditions: Sunny, consistent, warm, walled, sectiony, 4-5 FT+.

     Bri and I sleep in a little, thus leaving at 0600 with the sun already shining brightly over the 405S. After so many dawn patrols, leaving this late feels like a travesty, but we’ve been surfing consecutive days, almost two weeks at this point, and before this long camping trip, we’re already fading.

     Upon reaching the campsite, we can see sets right in front of us, just yards away from where we’ll be pitching our tent. Suddenly, I don’t feel so bad for showing up late. Magicseaweed.com had forecasted the swell at four-to-seven feet. I’ll have to say that they’re pretty damn close. There is size, but . . . the shape is terrible. If Churches isn’t holding shape, then that’s a pretty bad sign. Middles probably isn’t either, leaving just Lowers with the shape. And then, of course, there’s Old Mans.

     Instead of paddling right out, we set up camp. Francis and Alex, who are driving to meet us from a wedding in Corona, tell us that they’re stopping in San Clemente for breakfast before showing up.

     When they arrive, we can tell they had a rough night. They look at the surf and don’t feel the urgency to get out. I don’t blame them. Neither do I. Approaching noon, the shape hasn’t improved, and there’s no sign of it backing off.

Afternoon surf check with Dais, taking a photo of him taking a photo. 

Bri making the call on North Church's lack of shape.

     Dais shows up. Alex takes payments on my reclining beach chair and racks out. He’s done. Francis racks out in the tent. Bri lies on the sand to read a book. It’s just me and Dais at the picnic table.

     “I’m just taking it all in,” he says, sitting with perfect posture beside me.

     I take it in too. No matter how many times I’ve brought my laptop, a book, or a magazine out here while camping, I’ve never been able to take my eyes off the ocean.

Dais waiting for a decent window of surf. Alex waiting to get over his hangover. 

Francis isn't posing, he just looks this HAWT while he's sleeping.

#

     By 1600, I’m antsy. The shape hasn’t changed much, but I’m expecting the incoming tide to soften things up, maybe open up some shoulders. Alex is lagging behind a little, still hazy from the night before, so the rest of us paddle out at Churches ahead of him.

     Like old times, The Sauce and I make our way out to the lineup, stopping towards the inside, sitting south from the top of the wave.

     “I like to sit here,” I say. “Wait to see if we can score this spot before going to where it’s crowded.”

     Even though I paddled out here first, there’s something about Francis’ energy that attracts the cleanest peak that I’ve seen all day towards him.

     I’m too far inside. I’d be late to turn and go. On my Lost Mini Driver, Francis has perfect position on the peak. I duckdive the wave, resurfacing just in time to see a bucket thrown out the back. Before positioning myself for the next wave, I get a glimpse of how the rest of Francis’ wave is lined up perfectly.

     The next wave is walled. I pull out. So does the longboarder next to me. I go on the third wave of the set, and it sections out. Meanwhile, Francis is inside, trying to make his way back from a long ride.

     We have to paddle towards the top of the wave, the main peak where everyone is at. The smaller waves have some shape, already affected from the tide, breaking a little fat. But the sets are pure cleaners, pushing everyone inside or making those who are outside feel spared.

     I get my wave of the day right here, a bomb that doesn’t peel perfectly, but holds shape long enough for some distance.

     I want to put a little extra mustard on this ride since The Sauce is here. I want to show him that, like him, I’ve been surfing too since he’s been gone.

     Carefully, making sure that I don’t get so excited that I blow the ride, I bottom turn and set up my backhand hack on this great blue face. I do a stalling snap at the lip, weary of a poor reentry. I pull it off. Flying back down the line I get one more snap before kicking out. Dais gives me a little clap as I make my way back.

     Then Dais. He gets one of those in-between-sets waves that’s nice and shouldery. Bri and I watch his head break the waveline as he goes right. It looks like his ride should end, but he keeps going and going.

     We paddle to North Churches. There is zero shape here. Don’t ask why we keep going north towards Middles. We can see that there’s no shape there either, but we keep paddling. Once there, there is nothing but walls. The paddle out seems further. The shape toothier.

     “I’m gonna go to Old Mans,” says Bri. Just then, the next monster set sends us darting towards the outside. Bri doesn’t make it, and she ends up back on shore.

#

     We head back to camp to rehydrate. Alex isn’t here. We look out at Churches but can’t spot him.

     Reaching Old Mans, the tide is making things a little soft, but some of the lefts are still shortboard rideable. Regardless, there is shape here.

     Everyone gets a second wave-of-the-day helping. Dais’ C.I. Average Joe board is working well in this softer surf, able to compete with the longboarders. He’s not only going left but right too. I’ve never seen him catch so many waves in one session.

     Bri gets a bunch of waves all the way to the inside. The whole session, I see her pop up, disappear, and then kick out after her long rides.

     Francis more than makes up for the lack of shape at Trestles. I’m jealous that he’s making my surfboard look so damn good right now. Left, going backhand, I watch him take off on shouldery waves, cranking clean backhanded snaps, two-to-three turns.

     I do okay, but not as well as everyone else.

     I tell Dais that we’re leaving when the sun goes down. Once it does, Bri, Francis, and I head back to camp while he stays out there for more. On the way back, we run into Lori and Kurt, and older surf couple who are part of the Manhattan Beach Ohana at our local break. I guess everyone is trying to get some of this south swell.

Now why would these guys be so happy over Jack In the Box?

     That night, we head to Jack In the Box for dinner. I watch my friends, stoked, red eyed, and giggly as they point towards the menu.

     Francis opens up a small box, stuffing his face. “Mini churros,” he says.

     Not an elaborate meal by any means, but fitting for the mood. We go over our waves, the cleanup sets, and how we lost track of Alex somewhere.

     “This was the best session I’ve ever had,” says Dais. I can’t say the same for myself, but it really makes up for it when one of your friends had such a good time, a friend who you’re genuinely stoked for. 

Junk food always tastes better after surf. Actually, any food does. . .