RICK’S BIRTHDAY WEEKEND PT.III, SAT 08NOV2014

We were up pretty early. 

Loc: DMJ

Crew: everyone

Time: 0700-0900

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

     We’ve all been obsessed about one particular surf spot, a spot where your friends will have a hard time pulling you away from, despite the forecasts and better rational judgments, no matter how obvious. For Rick, his special place is DMJ. Aside from 45^th Street, he’d surf DMJ every day if he could. So on this weekend, even with small surf in the forecast, DMJ is the call on day number two.

     Once again, we’re not expecting much. The swell and the tide are against us. When we make that ill fated turn towards the beach, we can already see that the surf looks like Lake Placid.

     All we need is a little bit of size and shape to have to have some fun this morning.

     DMJ is so exposed. Behind us, the backdrop is open land with mountains in the distance. Cool offshore wind hits our backs. The sun’s out, but it only provides a hint of warmth. There’s a peak wide north of the jetty. There’s a left breaking on the jetty itself, where two guys secure it. The tide’s coming up, so we’re going to have to hit it fast.

Photo by Juan A. 

     I’m first one out, leaving the Lost Mini Driver in the van and opting for the Lost RV again. Paddling out first doesn’t guarantee first blood. Bri gets a wave before I do. Peaks approach on the outside. They look like they’re about to break, but they keep on rolling rolling, and then they finally stand up towards the inside.

     Meanwhile, the top of the wave is working a little better. The two dawn patrollers, who had beat us out here, aren’t giving up any space. Rick finally paddles over to sit on top of them and begins his campaign.

     Birthday Boy’s outdoing us all. On a swampy day, he’s getting good lefts on his Neckbeard, frontside, throwing buckets out the back. Gary’s a close second, milking the lefts as well.

     It’s too much competition where they’re at, having to battle it out with the two guys and then Rick and Gar, so the rest of us sit wide.

     Nate goes switch foot on a left, J.O.B. style, and catches the wave in. Done.

     Daniel may not be heat winner, but he gets the most waves. He sits even further north, sitting deep and catching all the inside waves.

     I’m cold. My leaky Hurley 3/2 is taking in a lot of water. For some reason, the seals start to wear out so quickly. I follow Daniel’s lead and start sitting more inside. I manage to paddle into little lefts, trying to do my best to get some turns. I do . . . meh. I’m not doing much damage today, but I build up my wave count and at least catch something.

     Juan’s on shore, snapping away on his camera.

     Afterwards, we all go to Roberto’s Taco Shop for breakfast. I had vowed to never eat here again. Last time, their chicken burrito gave Rick diarrhea. I had ordered the chorizo burrito, and it tasted like shit.

     Bri and I go for the machaca burrito. It’s not bad. Half way through, and nearly a cup of juice starts spilling out the bottom through the tortilla. Fuck. I should have learned my lesson the first time.

     From there, we visit Gary’s parents in Oceanside and pick up two nights worth of firewood from their backyard.

     Back at the campsite, I’m drained. The drive did it to me, and I was just a passenger. Rick’s reserved the campsite for another night in case Bri and I decide to stay longer. I don’t think I’ll be able to make it. 

MY ENDLESS SUMMER, PT.5 SUN 27JUL2014

Forcing It

Loc: Oceanside

Crew: Bri, Rick, Juan, Allen, Vance, Colby

Time: 0800-1000

Conditions: 2-3FT+, inconsistent, sectiony.

     I really don’t want to drive further south again, especially if the surf might not be much better than it was yesterday, but Rick’s pushing for Oside. No one challenges the call. I’d like to say that Bri and I will just stay here, but I don’t want to be “that guy” who breaks up the group. I love Rick, he’s like a father, and I’d hate to put him in a position where he’d have to go against his initial judgment just to please everyone, so I opt to convoy south with them.

     Upon reaching Oside, the surf looks a little better. There’s a small increase in size, and even though the waves aren’t lining up perfectly, there is a little more activity.

     Bri’s not feeling well, so she’s on camera detail. Vance opts to stay dry, as well.

     A set rolls in shortly after paddling out. Rick gets the first wave, but it’s a short ride. He gets back to the lineup quickly. We’re both paddling outside for the next wave. Need I remind you, Rick had just caught a wave. What does he do? He paddles right out and catches the next fucking one, too, and this wave is a nice down-the-liner. Behind it, there are no other waves coming.

     I’m a bit upset. If I’m gonna get backpaddled or snaked, I’d rather have it be by one of my homeboys, but this one really stings. I just have a feeling that that was my only shot at a decent wave today. I hope I’m wrong. Meanwhile, Rick paddles back up to me, smiling ear to ear.

     Frustrated, I sit at the top of the wave. A rogue wave comes. I paddle into it. It’s good for two deep swooping pumps, but it sections out. Other surfers are here, too, and everyone’s jockeying for position at the jetty. I say, fuck it, and paddle north away from everyone.

     Again, I only get one decent wave that I get two turns on. Other than that, nothing. Just closeouts.

     Back at the van, Rick argues with Juan.

     “Don’t move the boards,” says Rick. “Put them back how they were. They need to be packed in a certain order.” Rick grabs his board and pushes its nose in Juan’s ass.

     While Rick reorganizes the van, Juan rolls up his towel and tries to snap it on Rick’s ass for some brotherly butt revenge.   

     We drive back to the campsite, where we’re pelted with rain on the 5 North. There’s even thunder and lighting.

     After packing up the campsite, Rick invites Bri and me down to Churches to hang out and drink. It’s high tide. The surf is a bit swamped out, but the shape looks better. There could be a good window for surf in the evening, but I’m over it. I tell Rick that Bri and I are hitting the road. Usually, I’d stay, but other than the company, the surf has been unfulfilling. I know that there are people out there who work so much that they wish they could paddle out as much as I have, but I’ve been so spoiled in the past, so I can’t help but bitch. Truth is, the trips down south haven’t been paying off surfwise. Either the surf is walled or sectiony, and I’m left hoping for a decent peak out of the shit bundle. My surf theories haven’t paid off. Both direct south swells and south swells with some angle in them, haven’t been producing good shape. I don’t know what it takes anymore. You don’t know unless you go. Maybe I just need more gambles, but I’m tired of losing every hand. 

MY ENDLESS SUMMER, (double sesh) PT.4 SAT 26JUL2014

Oceanside to Trestles

Loc: Oceanside

Crew: Bri, Rick, Juan

Time: 0700-0945

Conditions: 2-3FT, clean, inconsistent, sectiony.

     Rick had informed me that he’d be camping at San Onofre. The occasion, his childhood friend Allen from Florida would be in town.

     Bri and I leave El Segundo at about 0500 to meet up with the guys in Oceanside. I get a phone call from them when I’m in Mission Viejo. We’re about fifteen minutes behind them.   

     We see them in the parking lot, Rick and Juan. They introduce us to Allen. Their other friend Vance is also here with his son Colby in tow.

     I had just surfed this spot two Wednesdays ago with Al, and even though the forecast that day was small, Oceanside had delivered. ‘Twas one of the best sessions I’ve had in a while, consistent waves with good shape the whole morning.

     On this morning, the surf is dismal. There are lefts off of the jetty breaking rather werbly. The sandbars off to the north aren’t doing much either. Surf syndrome ensues.

     “It’s getting better with the tide push,” says Juan. God bless him. I stare out there and squint, hoping that he’s right.

     Allen decides to sit this session out on the sand. Vance, a Venice Pier veteran and, still, active local, paddles out with his 9’6” at the top of the wave. Stylishly, he pops up and stalls with rear hand grabs before switching his stance. My friend Khang had told me how good longboarding is highly respected nowadays. No, Vance isn’t a team Costco kind of guy. He rips.

     Juan and Bri sit furthest south, where Bri witnesses Juan’s in-and-out tube ride. I believe it.

     Of course, Rick’s Mr. Wave Magnet. I should start calling him Magneto AKA Reptile Rick. Reptile because even Bri tells me that he takes off in front of her on at least three waves.

     I, on the other hand, struggle. At first the waves are fun. Small, but there’s a hint of shape. I pump down the line but the waves closeout too fast. It’s not until the end of the session that I get a two footer that grants me two turns. And that’s it.

     Afterwards, I head into the showers. No hot water today. Someone’s left his Irish Spring body wash next to the shower. As much as I’d like to use some, I’m a bit reluctant.

     We eat at Roberto’s for breakfast, and everyone’s giving Juan a hard time.

     “He used the body wash that was in the shower,” says Allen.

     “Yeah,” says Vance. “There was some white stuff in there, too.”

     A roar of laughter erupts from the table. Colby, who’s twelve years old, doesn’t quite catch on.

     I look at Al and say, “Looks like he was using ‘Spurt Plus.’”

     By the way, Roberto’s breakfast burritos are fucking horrible, at least their breakfast burrito and chorizo burrito are.

#

Unclassic Churches

Loc: Churches to Middles

Crew: Bri, Rick, Juan, Allen, Vance, Colby

Time: 1630-1900

Conditions: 2-3FT+, onshore, inconsistent, sectiony.

     After surfing Oceanside, we go back to the campsite at San Onofre. Our campsite is up on the bluffs, so we don’t get the ocean breeze right in our faces. In other words, it’s scorching. Juan and Colby try to take naps, but it’s too hot to sleep in their tent. Bri and I make due by drinking cold beer and playing pusoy dos.

     By 1600, we can’t take it anymore. I do a surf check. The onshore wind is light, the tide is low, and it looks like there’s some potential for fun evening waves.

     Bri and I paddle out ahead of everyone with Colby, who opts to bareback it. Within twenty minutes of paddling out at Churches, he goes back in to change into a wetsuit.

     Bri draws first blood, taking a peaky left all to herself. I’m so jealous. I paddle further out in anticipation for the next one. It doesn’t come.

     Just as the waves had poor shape at Oceanside, they’re not too hot here either. Both lefts and rights, the waves are lined up too long, not offering up rippable shoulders. The best spot is at the top of the wave, where the right holds shape a little better, but that’s where everyone is sitting.

     Everyone else paddles out to meet us, but the conditions don’t improve. I eye the right at Middles. The shape looks better there, and it’s empty.

     Bri and I make the long paddle there. Only three other guys are here. The only problem is that the tide is much higher than it was when we had first paddled out, so now the conditions are swampy. Still, some decent waves roll through. I catch a left, but the low sun is in my eyes the whole time, blinding me. All I can do is pump. I go far but no turns.

     “That one hold up for you?” says an off duty Marine, who’s sharing the break with us.

     “Yeah, but I couldn’t see shit.”

     Just then, a right pops up in the horizon, and its shoulder is lining up nice and tapered. I’ll have to admit that I’m pretty damn greedy because I paddle out and snatch this one too. Even though it looks like a good wave, it’s still racy. All I can do is pump for distance. No turns once more.

     I sit south of everyone since I had just snagged two in a row, but the surf gets even more inconsistent.

     Back at the campsite, everyone says that Churches got better after we left.

     “I got one of my best paddle outs,” says Juan. “Just driving on the rights, flying down the line.”

     But I? I’m a pessimist at this point. I haven’t really scored here, not in a classic sense at least, for the last four or five trips. That’s a lot of time, money, and gas. I don’t believe it was that good.

     As I’ve said before, “Sometimes the company is more important than the surf,” and in this case, having a beer around the fire with these salty veterans makes up for the crappy surf. Vance has so much local knowledge, being a Venice local. He tells stories about what’s going on with the Dogtown vets. I really don’t want to write the details down because I would hate for Vance to end up in cahoots with anyone. And then Allen tells stories about how he and Juan used to take month-long trips to Baja back in the day, and their misadventures like vehicle breakdowns and surf injuries.

     Juan offers to take Colby down the beach for some night fishing, so Bri and I follow. After Colby loses his hook and Juan catches nothing but seaweed, Juan finally has a catch. I laugh my ass off, watching Juan yell like a girl as he runs away from the waves breaking on shore, and then he yanks on the pole while running up and down the beach, trying to hook his catch. The cherry on top is when he runs backwards with the pole and falls on his ass. The whole time, Colby is telling Juan that he’s probably just caught on a rock, but for me, I feel like a kid watching wrestling. Juan’s performance might be fake, but I don’t want to believe it.

     Burning the last of the firewood, Juan throws in the unused bait, which is a bag of frozen shrimp, onto a flat log that’s in the fire pit.

     “Squeeze some limes on it,” says Vance. “And pour some beer over it.”

     The shrimps look good. Juan pulls one out and asks me to sample it.

     “It’s still a little wet,” I say.

     We all sit, gazing at the shrimp, ready for our midnight snack. The log twitches. Sparks fly. The log falls over, and all the shrimps fall into the fire. 

MY ENDLESS SUMMER, PT.1 (double sesh) WED 16JUL2014

The surf's not always going off when I come here, but I still love this place.

Loc: Oceanside

Crew: Eight-Inch Al

Time: 0745-1030

Conditions: 4FT+, clean.

Pre Blog:

     Upon graduating from school almost two months ago, I had already planned to take the summer off. There will be plenty of time, probably the rest of my life until retirement, to work and be a nine-to-fiver, so I might as well enjoy life while I can. This summer is my last hoorah before life gets too serious. Therefore, I’m creating a series of chronicles dedicated to my unemployed beach-bum summer, my very own “endless summer.”

The Return of Eight-Inch Al:

     So it begins. . . My buddy Al was my roommate in Iraq. For ten months, I had to endure his gnarly farts in our tiny two-man room. Last year we took a trip to Indo together, and I haven’t seen him since. Since he’s in transition between jobs right now, he’s found the rare opportunity to travel south for a couple of days.

Day 0:

     We didn’t surf the day that Al had showed up, which was Tuesday afternoon, but I had made plans to make the best of the day. I took him to our friend’s surf shop, where he was able to rack up on discounts for much needed surf gear. Next, we scored Cabo Cantina’s taco Tuesdays, and let me tell ya, five dollars for all you can eat tacos is a no brainer. Khang even joined us for a few beers.

     Afterwards, I had to make sure that he got some face time with my surf mentor, Rick A. We had caught him at his house without the wife and the kids home, so he had the opportunity to tell Al all about his trip to Costa Rica, which was highly relevant since Al is getting married there next year.

     It was important for me to bring Al back into the fold. We could have easily just went to a bar, drank, came back, and slept early for the rest of his trip, but relationships were at stake here. Who knows when he’ll be able to make it back again?

     Even late at night, with work the next morning, Klaude made it to my pad to say wassup.

We call him Eight-Inch Al. You can kind of see his man bulge. And Klaude continues to morph into a male model since his eye surgery.

The Right Call:

     With only four hours of sleep, we manage to wake up at 0430, car already packed. Our first destination is Trestles, in hopes that the incoming swell will have some early-morning forerunners. One look at Old Man’s at San Onofre tells me otherwise. In the darkness of this predawn hour, I can see that the tide is completely drained out. Little two foot peaks roll in. They are clean, but not what we came here for. I can already see tiny shoulders at Churches dribbling its own brand of white wash. Al suggests we head to Oceanside.

     This is where I’m supposed to say how O-Side is going off, but it’s not. It’s a hair bigger with small scattered peaks rolling in by the jetty, but it’s drained here as well.

     So it’s off to a McDonald’s breakfast, and honestly, I had NO IDEA that their oatmeal breakfast was so freaking delicious. What the hell do they put in there?

Lacking the patience to wait for a set, I snap a quick pick before suiting up.

     The wrong call was Trestles. The wrong call, allegedly, is Oceanside. The right call was breakfast because right now, the surf is about two feet bigger than it was forty-five minutes ago.

     “I haven’t surfed in almost three months,” says Al. “I might be rusty.” He lives in Sunnyvale, and his closest surf spot is Santa Cruz, but he hasn’t had a chance to hit the small windows of surf that NorCal offers in the summer.

     Meanwhile, I’m concerned about my own surfing. I had been expecting small, 2-3 FT surf, so I only have my Motorboat Too groveler, and, from my experience, it underperforms in punchy shoulder-high plus surf. I didn’t even bring my bigger AM2 Futures fins.

     The tide is still low upon walking out. Al asks me repeatedly if the water’s been warm or not. I reassure him that his short-sleeve full 2/2 should be fine. He’s so used to surfing cold water.

     The crowd is thin, with only two surfers just north of the jetty, where we are, and a small handful of guys further north at another peak.

     Walking into deeper water, some four footers start rolling in. After surfing Trestles for a while, Oceanside waves look a lot more menacing. All ego aside, I’m not gonna hold my dick and act like I’m some kind of big-wave surfer. The waves here stand up more and are rounder, making wipeouts a little more consequential and the duckdives harder. I paddle out with a conservative mindset, especially on my small-wave board.

     Most of the waves coming in are long with a declining line, offering a small shoulder. The low rocker surprisingly gets me into the wave much earlier than expected. On the low tide, the wave immediately stretches out into a long pumpable face. I race down the line, pulling off a lackluster check turn on the lip before it closes out. All in all. Not bad. My board feels a lot better than I had expected.

     From there, the waves just get better and better. Al and I begin pumping this swell up. We’re definitely gonna score at Trestles if O-side is doing this.

     My skatey board is working well in these conditions, taking off on a four-foot set and pulling off an opening carve as the shoulder reforms and doubles up. I’m comfortable, bending my knees and sliding down the face as the section before me rebuilds. I get two big swooping pumps just flying down the line. Why not go for an air attempt? I have speed.

     I eye the section in front of me before the closeout and launch off of it, but my fins never break loose, and I flop backwards onto the water with my nose pointed towards the sky, as if my board were a dog being yanked back by its chain. No airs today. Maybe none for another ten years. Maybe never. Although, it is fun to push your surfing and try different things.  

     Al does pretty well, getting his surfing redialed again. He gets some long lefts, and then he just starts going for everything, even the closeouts. I try to tell him to be pickier, but he just can’t help himself.

     The sun comes out by 0945. So do other surfers. An army of groms assault the break on their foam boards. And you’d think that the surf would get better with the tide push, but it doesn’t. The small rise affects the surf with swampy like conditions. The lines get longer and offer up less.

     We leave the water by 1030, and I’m surprised to see that the tide isn’t that high, yet the surf is so affected right now, lullier and smaller than it had been earlier.

     Regardless, we’re stoked. What had looked like a case of the skunks turned out to be the excellent start of a surf trip. O-side was the right call.

#

Loc: Churches-Middles

Crew: Al, Khang, Sebastian

Time: 1630-2030

Conditions: 3-4FT+, onshore, walled

"Dude, I totally wanna do you tonight."
"Me too!"

Gotta have the beer in hand during surf recon

     After checking in to our campsite, Khang joins us. We watch the surf the whole afternoon, even go on a recon walk to check out Middles and Lowers. The verdict. . . Lowers is the only spot working. We’ve been bamboozled. Oceanside had been so good earlier. Trestles had to be just as good, was what we had believed. But at 1630 there’s no sign of the shape improving, bigger waves, or calming wind. Our best bet is to paddle out and hope for conditions to change.

     We hit the top of the wave at Churches first. A shortboarder is on a right, connecting all the sections of a racy wave. There’s chop on its surface, but he’s pumping down the line and managing it well. He ends the ride with a small, backhand cutback, rebounding off of the whitewash. There might be hope.

     Once out there, I get some similar waves, just chasing the sections and going down the line. For forty-five minutes, the three of us secure this spot. For forty-five minutes, we don’t get one quality ride. Even though the tide is low, the inside mooshes out, too weak to carry our boards further.

     I hate it when Churches and Trestles aren’t working. It’s not what we come here for. Not worth reserving a campsite, loading up my car, driving the distance, and staying for a couple days for.

     “I’m gonna check Middles,” I say. I’m so disgusted that I don’t even want to make the paddle. I catch a wave in and make the walk.

     Looking at the surf is like walking through a war-torn city. The shape here is worse. Just long crumbly lines of three-foot closeouts. I reach the battle position and stop. Nothing’s happening here. There’s Lowers in the distance. Despite the onshore wind, the gold and blinding light reflects off of the A-frame peaks. The black outline of a surfer is getting frontside cutbacks on a never-ending right. Dozens of black dots paddle back out for more waves. Lowers is the treadmill that never turns off, the wave that never sleeps. The biggest lie in surfing. The most rippable and accessible wave that is so competitive that it’s inaccessible. I can go on and on.

     I turn around to head back to the churning shit surf, which is Churches, but I notice Khang just making the paddle to Middles from Churches. He didn’t opt to walk. He waves at me from the distance. As much as I don’t want to surf here, I’m so stoked to see how motivated my buddy is. I’ll have to join him.

     It gets a little bigger. Four foot closeouts with a face that might hold up for a quick turn before the lip crashes. Sets start coming in. We’re darting outside. Yet, no shape. Yet, there’s Lowers in the distance. Perfection in the palm of my hand, looking at it from here.

     “I’m going to see if there’s anything swinging wide,” I say to Khang, before paddling over there.

Wave Thievery:

     Oh Lowers, how I love and hate you. Mostly hate. It’s like walking through the Amsterdam Red Light district without any money, armed only with a throbbing boner. I see your waves and want them badly, and so do the other hundred guys here.

     I sit wide. So do some others. The looks on their faces are defeated and apprehensive. Fists clenched on their rails, unable to paddle back in and unable to move closer. Nothing swings wide, and when a wave appears like it will, there’s always someone at the main peak that paddles into it first.

     The pack. The uninfiltratable pack. Guys who I had just seen on the right-hand waves paddle past me over and over again, still scoring. The middle and inside of Lowers is packed too, a clusterfuck of surfers who settle for the smaller ones. But what does that make me? Clinching my rails, sitting on the outside, I am a mere begger. I can’t even compete for the scraps. I’m not competing. I’m just hoping that a crumb will fall off of the table and land before me.

     Another surfer paddles past me and doesn’t look at me. He probably doesn’t even see me. I’m invisible. And the look of determination on his hard-edged face just shows that he knows he’s going to get another wave.

     I think about my brother’s advice: Always sit on the peak. I think about Rick and Gary, those old school Venice guys. They wouldn’t be out here on the shoulder if they were here. So I paddle. I compete.

     The current keeps the main pack paddling north to stay in place. It almost looks choreographed. Synchronized surfing.

     The sun’s rays are so blinding that everything is aflame with orange. The surfers backs are shadows. It hurts just to look towards sun, so we all face south towards the sea, waiting for the peak. We all sit during the lull. One guy starts paddling. Everyone starts paddling again.

     I’m faced with the same dilemma I’m always faced with surfing here. If I sit tight in the pack, I feel so claustrophobic. If a set wave comes, I don’t want to get run over or be in anyone’s way. So I sit further out, but now I’m out too far for the waves coming in.

     I try to turn and go, but I’m out positioned. I see the same guys returning from the inside, ready for the next meal. Meanwhile, I can only watch more waves come and go, putting up a pathetic attempt to scrap for it, only for “Christmas not to come this year” every single time.

     Everyone paddles against the current again, a surf migration of arms and planks to move twenty feet just to get pulled back. I see the same kid who was sitting wide when I had first got here. He’s in the same place, same position, same look on his face, the open-mouthed grin filled with metal, not frowning nor smiling, just frozen.

     Paddle back. Fuck this. I hate this fucking place. No waves  there. No waves here, at least none that I can catch.

     I’m sitting at the top of the wave but wide and off to the side. A wave passes me. Behind it, a massive wall of water stands up on the far outside. When I say far on the outside, I mean it is fucking FAR. I can feel the air suck out from all around me. We’re all thinking the same thing. It’s a rogue wave, the set of the evening, six feet easy, jutting out of the sea as if the ocean were flexing a bicep, and oh yeah, it’s been working out.

     Just like that, everyone sitting at the peak is too deep for this wave.

     I’ve been anxious since the second I entered this territory. I paddle out without much urgency because I already know that I’m in the perfect spot. Wide. Now, will anybody take this wave from me?

     I turn as the peak stands up. Just about every surfer on my inside has duckdived this wave. A brave soul turns to go. As the lip curls, he’s fully enveloped and swallowed by it. Gone. Right on my inside, a guy is paddling for it. It’s now or never. If he gets it, I’ll be in his line. I kick, scratch, and pop up. The take off is steep and fast. I go from lying on my belly to looking down at a long dark slope. The guy next to me purls his inside rail, and he disappears into the wave with a violent splash.

     Time slows. I’m so high up. From my vantage point, The building on top of the cliffs above Middles appears closer. Below me, a sea of surfers unexpectedly caught in the impact zone of a giant wave, the wave that I am on.

     It’s not even about surfing this wave well. It’s about not losing it. This is a Lowers wave. Not just a wave. A BOMB. For those surfers out there who have that competitive edge to get wave after wave here, as much as I hate you, I salute you. I do not have what it takes. That being said, I should not be the surfer on this wave, not the guy who sits wide, hoping for one to fall onto his lap. But I’m here. I’m on it. I got it.

     The wave’s a bit big for my groveler. I feel the rush of water underneath me and the air in my face. Dozens of surfers below me. I’m staring at all those in my path. Paddling with eyes wide, they stare back at me. Probably both in awe and a little bit of, please don’t fucking run me over.

     I bottom turn at mid face and hit the lip. I’m hung up, almost losing it. Not on the first turn! But somehow, I don’t know if it’s the wind, I’m pushed back down the face.

     More people on the shoulder. I point at the gap I’m going to shoot for, between two surfers going up the face and one other guy just a few feet behind them. I shoot for it. Clear it. A little more weaving is involved to set up my last turn. I’m clear. There’s so much texture on the water. The end section is standing up for one last hit. I do another midline bottom turn and tag it once more before it closes out.

     I did it. I got one. I get down on my belly and ride the white wash all the way in.

#

     To say that I’m stoked is an understatement. I’m smiling at the people sitting on the cobblestones on shore. They probably don’t know why, but I don’t care. Grinning from ear to ear, I look back at Lowers. Motherfuckers. Haha. I can’t believe it. Someone waves at me from Middles. It’s Khang.

     I’m so done. I don’t want to paddle back out, but I can’t leave the homie hanging either.

     My third time paddling out this evening, I reach him.

     “Duuuude!” I say.

     Khang smiles, shakes his head, and says, “I saw the whole thing.”

#

     Al’s back at camp. So is Sebastian, with his wetsuit unpeeled to his waist. Turns out that the shape at Trestles had gotten a little better after Khang and I left. Seba had shown up with his longboard and met up with Al in the water.

     Churches is looking a little better now. The wind has calmed, making the surface conditions clean again.

     It wasn’t an ideal evening session, but we’re all here now. Four friends, drinking beers to the setting sun.

You know you got real friends when they don't surf but still paddle out with you anyway. Sea Bass on the left.

     We opt to go to Denny’s for dinner. I order two different breakfast meals from the value menu, four bucks each. It’s a lot of food.

     I thought I knew San Clemente, but I was wrong. A bunch of white kids cOme in, baseball caps twisted to the side and wearing wife-beater tank tops. Some chicks there Are all tatted up, wearing short shorts with the cheeks hanging out. Wow. Who knew San Clemente was a little Ghetto?

     Instead of the big Coleman Instatent that I usually use for me and Bri, I brought smaller tent that I had let Francis and Alex use last week. It was so hot earlier that we didn’t bother to attach the rain fly.

     Lying next to Al on the inflatable mattress, the mesh screen lets us see the night sky. The moon is right above us. I haven’t camped like this in a while.

     “Dude, this is so romantic,” I say.

     “I’m so tired,” says Al.

     I giggle going through my phone.

     “What are you doing?” he says. He puts his head back down on the pillow and rubs his eyes. “I know you’re up to your bullshit right now. I’m not in the mood.”

     I show him my phone. It’s gay porn. One dude’s blowing another guy.

     “You’re fucking sick,” he says. I have myself a good laugh. 

THE WIND, SAT 10NOV2012 MOR

Loc: Oceanside

Crew: Bri, Rick, John A., Gary C.

Conditions: 3-4 FT, high tide, strong onshore, choppy, sunny, cold.

     Bri and I show up a little late around 0730. It’s a long drive to Oceanside, and since the clocks went back an hour and since the weather’s been colder, it’s been harder to wake up early.

     Still, we are here because it’s Rick’s birthday weekend which he planned at least a month in advance. Despite the conditions, rain, or shine, I knew I’d be here on this very morning—commitments.

     We expect the onshores to be strong, but surprisingly it’s still light. The air is still cool, despite the sun gleaming over the mountains.

     On the sand, we spot Rick right away. It’s harder to make out the two guys next to him. One of them goes for a closeout barrel and gets pinched. When he resurfaces I can tell it’s John. While Bri and I warm up, John goes for another wave. It’s just over three-feet, and the inside stands up. The wave is full of white-wash, but it’s vertical enough to get slotted. John hunkers down in the tube, not completely covered, but he takes it for a long distance, coming out dry.

#

     I’m trying to time the lull for Bri before we paddle out. On the next flatspell, we head out. The inside is still consistent. I make it out and turn around. Bri is still on the inside. I have faith that she can handle it, so I paddle up to Rick.

     John asks if we saw his barrel. It takes a while for me to confirm that it was him on the wave.

     Bri makes it to the lineup. It’s not the day for a funboard or any beginner, but she makes it. This deserves some merit in itself.

     The waves are coming in consistent, but they’re those “windswell waves,” where the shape isn’t clean. Instead, a lot of unrideable waves come in barrages, and somewhere in the mix is a standout which gives a shoulder with enough size to paddle into. It’s a picky morning trying to figure out the right place to sit.

     I catch a left. As I’m going down the line I can see the section’s about to closeout. Since the Tokoro is down for maintenance I have the JS, and I try to top turn off the lip before the ride ends. It’s sluggish. I get stuck and fall, but it’s still fun.

     Gary joins us. He was on the shore taking pics but decided to join in. He’s talking to John. “The wind’s changing,” says Gary.

     He’s right. Texture and ripples start forming on the water. The flag on the shore is blowing strong from the northwest wind. Within minutes, the ocean turns choppy—victory at sea.

#

     Bri’s caught on the inside. I see her, and another bomb is about to closeout on her. I try to keep tabs on her position.

     John paddles up to me. “Gary’s leash broke,” he says.

     I turn around. Rick and Gary are heading in. John catches one in too, but I can’t find Bri. I catch a wave in, turn around, and see that she’s way outside to my south, mixed in with three other surfers. I’m pissed because I have to fight my way through to get to the outside again.

     Bri and I reunite, and she gets worked one more time, unable to make it out again. I catch a last, uneventful wave to end the session.

#

     Back at the campsite, Rick makes Bri and me some coffee. He’s happy just to have us here. John and Gary include Bri in the conversation, showing her pics from their trip to Costa Rica. Bri and I hope to go there some time.

     Before we all part ways, we stop at COCO’s for some breakfast. Despite the shitty conditions, I’m happy to be here to celebrate my friend’s birthday. Sometimes waves aren’t everything.