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. . .

TWO YEAR ANNIVERSARY PT. I, MON 23JUN2014

Loc: Churches

Conditions: Scorching hot, 3-4 FT.

     After attending Klaude’s belated birthday party last night, we could only manage to wake up at 0600. However, we had pre packed my wagon the night before.

     Exiting Basilone Road, we took a peek at Lowers. The famed wave was working, but Middles was flat. It could’ve been a lull.

     We reached Churches. The tide was coming up. A pack of longboarders sat at the south end of the Point as a peaky three-footer broke through the swampy conditions. The wave was clean, a classic Churches wave. Then a similar wave broke a little further out. Suddenly, a set rolled in, creating scattered A-frame peaks throughout the whole break. I texted Rick to give him a report and changed right after.

     Our favorite spot, Mons Pubis, used to be empty, but now everyone knows about it. We paddled just north of the crowd to sit outside of them. Waves still swung wide, but the rights were a little walled and not lined up well. I picked off the random lefts, as I always do, and managed to connect a couple carves. Even though I’ve had some breakthroughs on my frontside turns, I decided to surf conservatively instead of forcing miracles. Once the wind turned onshore, we headed back to check in and set up camp.

     Bri treated me to Mexican brunch at La Tiendita. After that I was so full that a nap was mandatory. Underneath the shade of an umbrella and facing the ocean just feet away, I was burning hot. The sand, the air, the sun, the shade, everything was scorching. I’d doze off only to wake up in hangover-like discomfort. I found Bri in the tent, miserably lying on our inflatable mattress. I told her we needed to paddle out to cool off.

     We paddled out at Churches in trunks and rashguards. The initial shock upon submersion was freezing, but by the time I reached the lineup, I was warm. The water felt silky and smooth over my arms, like its consistency had been changed by its temperature.

     The tide was coming up again, and the consistent surf was reduced to small and weak lumps, but something odd happened. With the increasing tide, the swell actually got bigger. There were 3-4 FT peaks, but most of them were breaking section on section. I managed a few turns, but it was more of a going-down-the-line kind of session.

     We got out at 1800 after the tide got too high. After showering and getting resettled, we still had over an hour of daylight left to burn. It was the first time that we had been done surfing so early. We didn’t have to cook in the dark or even cook at all. Bri was down to just PB&J it for the night. After we scarfed our sandwiches down, we threw some saimin over the burner and shared it. Our one bundle of firewood lasted into the evening. In the past, we had packed more gear and cooked so much food, but this minimalistic approach made things so much easier. But we still had our Wenzel Instabed. In our sleeping bags, we sank in the middle towards each other over a huge cushion of air.

     So the forecast had been overrated, but everything had met summer expectations. On a quiet Monday, with only the few shrill screams of the kids a few campsites down, we fell asleep to the sound of the roaring ocean just yards away. 

ON THE SAND PT. II (Triple Sesh), SUN 27APR2014

Loc: Churches

Crew: Cassady, Briggs, Rick, Gary, Bri

Time: 0630-0830

Conditions: offshore, 3-4 FT+, high tide, inconsistent, crowded

     This was supposed to be the biggest and best day for surf. Rick woke up first, followed by Gary. Both of those Venice Vets already had boiled water and gotten their boards prepped.

     I poured the rest of the crew some hot chocolate.

     The wind was dead. Even the surf in front of the campsite looked rideable. Surfers who had parked at the state lot were dotting the sand, jogging to Churches. We needed to get out there.

     I followed Gary and Rick. Bri was still getting ready, so she was gonna wait for the rest of the guys.

     Because of the high tide, we had already expected the surf to moosh out. The plan was to catch an early window, rest, and then paddle out again.

     When we paddled out, I was shocked to feel how much cooler the water had become. I was 3/2’n it in my holy Hurley wetsuit. Bad idea.

     I caught a couple waves right away, but I found myself cutting back and rebounding into a swampy shoulders. Lame. Rick did all right. He always does. He sat right in the pack, mixing it up with the longboarders.

     Gary and I stayed close, trying to milk the peaks away from everyone. He took a decent right, but as I watched the wave from behind, he churned back up over the lip, and then a longboarder emerged through it. Gary gave me a glance and shook his head, his hand motioning out towards the longboarder next to him. I already knew what he meant.

Missed Wave of the Day:

     Bri was in position for a bomb, a solid bomb. I mean, she was right on the fucking shoulder. Perfect, hand delivered. No . . . God delivered. God was saying, “Here, Bri, here’s a good one for you.”

     Bri gave a couple strokes as the wave approached. She was on a borrowed 6’8 NSP from Dais, a fun board. Everyone had eyes on her. The surfers on her inside didn’t even try to go for it; they had to paddle over because they were too deep.

     I hooted, so did Rick, and so did about five other sniveling jackals who I’ve never seen before. She didn’t increase her stroke or paddle with a purpose. Instead, she let the wave pass her and peel away. She smiled a girlie smile while she let this happen. I couldn’t believe it.

     Rick said, “You gotta go for those.”

     Bri said, “I know, but Matt looked so small. I got scared.”

     I told myself not to be a dick. I struggled to eradicate the influences from my uncle and my brother, struggled not to say the things that they would’ve said to me in a moment like that.

     She asked me if I was mad later. I said no.

     I never saw Briggs or Cassady. They must’ve paddled out somewhere else in the lineup and sat elsewhere.

     Back at the campsite, the mood was glum. The tide had came up and made the surf inconsistent. The crowd was up to. Twenty minutes later, Briggs and Cassady showed up, saying that it was “okay.”

     A little before noon, Cas and Briggs left. They had originally planned to surf another session, but the surf couldn’t keep them. I was still glad they came.

     At noon, Rick said, “I think my sugar’s up. I need to paddle out.” He’s a diabetic.

     Even Gary wasn’t too thrilled about the surf, but he was stoked to be on the sand. He was marinating in his beach chair with his Bluetooth Bose speakers, bumping some 90’s dance music.

     There were lefts at Old Mans, so Rick and I paddled out there. The wind was onshore but light. The lefts were racy, but much cleaner than yesterday.

     Rick sat at the northernmost point, but I worked my way a little towards the top of the first point, and the lefts . . . were . . . fun. The best surf so far since the trip had started.

     The shape at Old Mans is wedgy and racy when there’s size. Immediately upon popping up, I was flying down the line. I pulled off some sloppy but fast cutbacks, still rebounding and getting down the line.

     The surf was consistent and took a bit out of me. Within a half hour, Rick was already gone. I spotted him on the sand, heading back towards the campsite.

     I was bummed that he had left. I caught a wave in too. Back at the campsite, he said that he had just lost all of his energy. He was drained.

     They packed up and left. It was fun having them there.

#

     The evening session was terrible. The wind didn’t die down as much like it had yesterday. We surfed Churches. The wind made the rights so fast that I either purled or couldn’t make it down the line.

     Bri was doing better than I was. She would get worked inside, drift all the way towards the crowd at the inside point, and then she’d paddle all the way back to the top of the wave. She was going for bombs, mostly closeouts, but she had something to prove. Maybe not to me but herself. I was proud.

     For dinner, we made chicken fajitas. My friend Dan brought his girlfriend and her sister . . . and more food. We were stuffed. It hurt to go to bed with all that food in us. The wind was light, the tent hot from our space heater, and our air mattress soft. Luxuries. It’s kind of like camping. 

ON THE SAND PT. I (double), SAT 26APR2014

Loc: San Onofre

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, howling onshore, unorganized, sunny

     I called San Onofre on Thursday to see if there were any campsite cancellations. Lo and behold, there was one. Immediately, I reserved a campsite or Friday afternoon thru Monday morning.

     Magicseaweed.com had the surf forecast at five or six stars for Saturday, so I was pumped. Like 4-7 feet. As soon as I sent out the invite, Gary texted me and said that there would be wind, and then he attached a pic of Surfline’s forecast, which showed that it would be poor to fair.

     When Friday came, I was stoked. I chose three boards to bring. Since Bri was at work, I packed her stuff too. All our camping gear.

     We arrived at about 1600, and it was windy as shit.

     Later that night, in the howling offshore wind, about ten of my friends showed up. Despite the gnarly conditions, we barbecued and drank; it was a lot of fun. By 2300, it started drizzling. At 0100, everyone (save for Orlando and his wife who camped in their van) left because the wind picked up to hurricane strength.

     Lying in my tent was like being inside a jumping castle. The sides of the tent kept slapping against the bed and my head. It was nuclear, like fucking explosions, chaos, the apocalypse. Combined with the roaring surf just feet away. I have no idea how Bri went to sleep, but no bullshit, I was scared. I thought our tent would blow away.

     I finally fell asleep around 0400. I woke to the sound of wind, just a hair weaker. The sun was out and the tent was getting hot. The ocean was ferocious, victory at sea conditions. There was size, but just too scattered and gnarly. Only a few heads were out at Churches, even some kite surfers.

     At noon, Bri and I couldn’t stand being dry anymore. The peaks were scattered at Old Mans, but some of them looked rideable.

     Paddling out was a bitch, and the current took us towards the state beach parking lot. A kite surfer was there too. The waves were consistent with size but unorganized and choppy. Despite the wind, the water was surprisingly warm.

     Bri got some shoulders all the way to shore. I had to kick out of my waves because they closed out. I got a small turn on one lip before it closed, but the session was just for the sake of getting wet. It was horrible.

     A kite surfer was clowning us, surfing close by and flying in the air. It was time to get out.

     Back at the campsite, Orlando said he was over it. He and his wife boned out. Magicseaweed was wrong. They’re usually right. Surfline is usually a little off, but they were spot on. The camp trip was looking like a bad call.

TWIN FIN MOTORBOAT TOO, SAT 26APR2014

Loc: Churches

Crew: Cassady, Briggs

Time: 1800-1930

Conditions: Light onshore, 3-4 FT+, high tide, consistent

Before Cassady drove over, I had warned him that the surf was shit, but he still showed up with one of his Santa Barbara homeboys.

Cassady’s my classmate from school who’s also in the MFA program, and he’s a dedicated surfer.

He whipped out the beers. The wind began to calm down a little. I looked at the MSW report, and it said that the wind was gonna calm around 1800.

“I wanna be out there when it changes,” said Cassady.

Bri was tired, so I let her sleep in the tent; we had a rough night.

Churches looked like shit from the campsite, but when we reached it, the wind died even more. More guys were paddling out, and despite the high tide, there were some decent peaks lining up to shore.

I had swapped my thruster setup to a twin-fin configuration on my Motorboat Too. Seemed like a good idea to practice with the mediocre conditions.

And the conditions . . . turned classic. The low sun was beginning to set, setting the sky aflame into an orange blaze. It reflected off of the water. It was on fire too. The wind died, which made the water glass off even more. It was a moment that made me glad I could share it.

Peaks protruded through the swampy conditions. The current was pulling people south. Briggs got a big one before I got one. Cassady was milking the short lefts. On my first wave, a classic right, I was thrown off by how different the twins felt. I didn’t drop in with speed but was hung up instead, although I didn’t purl. My turns weren’t snappy, and I dragged ass through the turns, sluggish. Yet, when I pumped I still went down the line.

My next wave was a bomb. I should have purled, but the inside fin grabbed. So weird. I still couldn’t figure out how to ride my MB Too with this setup. My snaps weren’t snapping. Cassady hooted me on as I passed by.

My third wave was a deep one. Again, I should’ve ate it, and then I kind of figured out what was happening. Twin fins have speed, lots of it, but the turns are just so much different. Like they’re wider, still holding speed but looser. Not really how I’m used to surfing.

After the sesh, Cas told me I had looked good on those waves, but . . . those twin fins. It’s best to keep them on the fish.

     When we got back to the campsite, two underage chicks were practically throwing their nanas at Cas and Briggs. It’s never happened to me at San Onofre before, just random chicks showing up.

     After they left, Cas said, “When they ask everyone how old you are, you know they’re underage.” They had claimed to be 24.

     At about 2230, Rick and Gary showed up, and everyone hit it off. The wind was offshore and light, a 180 from the previous night. Rick couldn’t stop talking about how good those big swells had been in the South Bay fairly recently, and he kept showing pics to Cas and Briggs. Even Gary chimed in, sharing his experiences with surfing Santa Barbara, where Cas and Briggs are from.

     I watched my surf buddy Cas and my surf mentors talk around the fire. Even though the surf had been mediocre thus far, it was so worth it to see the generation gap being bridged with surfing.

     After Rick and Gary went to bed, Cas and Briggs told me how lucky I was to have those older vets as my friends to “show me the way.”

     But I’ve already known for a long time that I’m lucky. 

ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY STAYCATION (Part III), WED26JUN2013 MOR

Loc: Old Mans and North Churches

Conditions: 1-3 FT, onshore, inconsistent.

     With the extreme low tide, we’ve taken the opportunity to break down the campsite so we can take off right after we surf. Peaks are rolling in through Old Mans, not big but much better than yesterday. We initially make the call to go back to Mons Pubis, but the lefts in front of the campsite look so fun. “Let’s just surf here,” I say. Our neighbor is packing up to, moving to another site down the beach. We give him our firewood.

     Sitting in the lineup, the crowd thickens. It had looked good when we were watching it from the campsite, but now it’s slowed down.

     Sets do come, and everyone scrambles. There’s more size today, but the big ones are closed out. On the waves with shape, longboarders have first dibs.

     An old guy paddles past me and asks, “You having fun?”

     “Yeah. It’s all right,” I say.

     He paddles a couple strokes past me. “You want to rent a longboard?”

     “Um . . . no. I’m good.”

     He smiles and paddles away. Bri smirks at me. “You want to go to Mons Pubis?” she says.

     I’m still wondering if that old guy was being facetious or not. Yeah, I’m obviously on the wrong equipment. If I only had a fish in my quiver. “No, I’m fine here,” I say. Bri and I go back and forth before she admits that she wants to surf Mons instead.

Mons:

     The waves are breaking just as shitty as they were yesterday evening. Churches is crowded, and everyone is just . . . waiting. The top of the wave is working, but it’s the most crowded, and the rides aren’t long; it isn’t breaking like classic Churches. I sit in gloom and doom.

     Bri frowns, looks over at me and says, “I’m sorry I made you come over here.”

     “Nah, it’s all right.” I stare out into the flat horizon. “I was curious to see what this place was doing. You didn’t know.”

     A set approaches. Same thing as Old Mans: the big ones have no shape.

     Fight . . . fight the negative energy, fight the demons, fight how my brain is wired to blame Bri for suggesting that we surf Mons Pubis. I admit that I’m an asshole, and I’m trying so hard to rewire my brain to accept these situations and move past them. I inhale imagining a beam of light entering the top of my head. I exhale, imagining my breath coming out in a puff of gold dust. Let go of my asshole tendencies, rewire, evolve.

     Sitting in the lineup is making me upset. I know the surf is bad. I catch a small wave in on my belly. Bri is on the inside, but I point to the outside, motioning for her to catch a couple more waves.

Grub:

     “We’re getting really good at this,” says Bri. She’s right. Camping, man . . . we’re fucking experts. My wagon is fully packed, and only the breakfast material is laid out on the picnic table. We have turkey kielbasa, eggs, some leftovers from last night, and two flour tortillas. We eat . . . EVERYTHING. Our front, the surf at Old Mans has gotten much better. We missed it, but that’s okay.

     We stop at a coffee shop on base before hitting the road. With a hot coffee in my hand, we drive on the 5 North. Bri is knocked out, which is fine because she works this evening.

     Being home and doing a camp trip like this is a unique experience. I appreciate it even more now after being in Java. Even though the surf was small, we still had fun, and the surf wasn’t the primary reason for coming out here. Surfing, writing, and relationships, those are the things most important to me right now.

     Bri’s head tilts on the seat against the headrest as I enter the carpool lane. Sipping my coffee and listening to the Justice station on Pandora, I merge onto the 405 North. Traffic is smooth, the sky is clear, and the sun shines all the way until I reach the 105 East, all the way back to El Segundo.

ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY STAYCATION (Part I / Double), MON24JUN2013

IT'S FUCKING FLAT!

Loc: San Onofre

Conditions: 1-2 FT+, south wind, inconsistent.

     Before I had left to Java, I asked Bri what she wanted to do for our anniversary. Initially, she had said that she wanted a candlelight dinner on the beach. Shortly after this request, she said, “Actually, as long as we surf, that’s fine.”

     So . . . here we are, exactly one year later from when I had first taken her camping, heading to the same surf spot—San Onofre. Surfline called today’s surf to be one-to-two feet—shitty. The news forecast predicted a chance of morning drizzle for Monday. Driving on the 405 South in the carpool lane, with my car packed with camping supplies, the windshield wipers do their magic against the rain. I had expected this, but . . . a small part of me had hoped that there might be a fluke in the forecast: good weather, good surf.

     Exiting Basilone Road, Bri and I turn our heads to the right, and the surf at Middles is Tiny. A few black suits sit at Lowers. Even in these conditions, it’s somewhat working.

     We do a light recon at Old Man’s first, walking from the north end all the way to the nuclear titties. Small. . . Surfers are out here, all longboarders. Today is the day that I’ll put my Lost board to the test, seeing how it handles tiny surf. But looking out at the mooshy, two-foot peaks, I feel ill equipped.

     We move our recon to Middles, and it’s worse. So with this overcast morning, these are the options: small or smaller. We take a chance at the office, and they are nice enough to let us check in early. May I begin by endorsing the Coleman Instant Tent? This tent . . . such a quick setup. For how many times I’ve used it, this damn thing has paid for itself.

     Bri and I take action and start staking the tent down, but we become frustrated by the hard ground. Unfortunately, tent camping can be stressful when the ground is too solid for your tent stakes. We spend a half hour repositioning the tent, bending the stakes after trying to force-pound them in with stones. Our campsite neighbor walks up and offers us his hammer, but now we are only bending our stakes with precision. We conclude by accepting that our tent will only be half staked.

Old Mans:

     There are no expectations today, but it’s our anniversary, and all we want to do is get wet.

     We paddle out at the most consistent peak just north of the titties. Since the surf is small on this Monday morning, it’s not that crowded. The tide is getting higher, and there is only a small crowd here. However, there are lots of people parked, watching and waiting. Despite the June gloom and cool temp, the abundance of cars in the lot is evidence of summer.

     We sit wide, hoping to catch a stray left, but we need the tide to drop a little more before anything breaks wide. I hate crowds, and competing with longboarders is hard enough on a shortboard, but we have no choice but to battle it out with the main pack.

     Longboards . . . they work, they really do. Even though the waves are small, guys are milking the tiny waves. I’m able to catch waves, but I have to strain to get distance, I’m talking crouching down with my hips low, front foot all the way on the nose. My Lost board is working, but it is not ideal in these conditions. I turn to Briana and say, “I really need a fish in my quiver.”

     The sun burns off the overcast and shines through, which has an adverse effect on the crowd situation. Now all the people who are parked on the sand and watching begin to suit up and make their way to the lineup.

     Sitting at the crowded peak, a set rolls in and scrambles the crowd. I get my wave of the morning, paddling into a wave that’s already broken. The white wash breaks slowly, giving me enough time to pop up while still slinging into the face of the wave. I get two pumps, doing a baby floater to clear a section, and I finish the ride with an accentuated tail whip. It’s a slow maneuver but punctual, and too easy to pull off in this small surf.

Break:

     Bri and I remain in our wetsuits and only peel them down to our waists, as we sit on our camping chairs, munching on bananas. You see, we have plans for an early dinner at ZENKO SUSHI! Oh my goodness . . . all you can eat sushi. I haven’t had it in over a MONTH! Sushi . . . it tastes even better when you’re surfed out and starving.

     After rehydrating and some small snacks, we paddle back out.

Building an appetite:

     We surf at the northernmost peak, just short of the campsite. The surf here is even smaller than the morning, but we force it. “Yellow tail!” I yell out at Bri.

     She paddles into a wave and yells back, “Salmon!”

     One-to-two foot waves, no plus sign at the end this time. These waves are consistent, rapid fire rides. As I stated earlier: no expectations, no disappointment. I’ve never surfed waves this small and worn myself out this much. Motivated by sushi, we surf our brains out.

     Bri gets a lot of waves, even more than I. We ride to the inside until the waves diminish in shallow water. The wind dies, the sun is out, but the surf is small. It’s a pure sushi surf session.

     After an hour, I lose my enthusiasm. I’m surfing for the sake of purposely exhausting myself. I want to be STARVING when I walk through Zenko’s front door.

The Payoff:

     Showered and changed into dry clothes, we pull out of our campsite. The sun is shining brightly, reflecting its blinding brilliance over the ocean. Driving at a lethargic ten miles per hour, we drive out of San Onofre. It’s warm, and I’m so relaxed. Reggae music plays on the stereo. My shades save me from the sun’s rays. The universe, the energy, the atmosphere—everything is spectacular. I’m absorbing the moment, satisfied with both surf sessions, I’m so happy that—

     “Babe!” says Bri.

     “What?” I look forward. There’s a car heading straight for me. “Oh shit!” I swerve into the right lane. “Sorry,” I say. “I thought I was in Java.”

     “They drive in the left lane over there?”

     “Yes,” I say. “Don’t let me do that again.”

Expert Eater:

     Buff Korean guy is working the counter. It’s 1800, perfect timing. We have well over three hours to eat, and we won’t need that much time. I start off with an order of four muscles, and then it’s salmon, yellow tail, unagi, tuna, scallops, salmon skin, albacore, salmon roe, and, and, and, EVERYTHING!

     In two hours time we’ve out eaten other diners. Looking at the tables across from us, I scoff at those who only eat the rolls. They don’t know what they’re missing. As my friend Totem Pole Tim would say, “The rolls . . . that’s how they get you; that’s how you get full.” Not me, not us. I’m a self-trained professional, and Bri is my padawan learner. Only the good stuff: sushi, hand rolls, one lobster roll at the very end, and then a miso soup for the cherry on top.

     By 2000, we’re so tired sitting at the table that we can barely keep our eyes open. Sushi is a success!

Fire:

     I’m also pretty damn good at starting a fire. It’s one of the marks of a true man: being able to start a campfire. So many people don’t know how to do it, stacking logs without a plan and lighting a piece of paper improperly placed under an inadequate bundle.

     Our neighbors offer us lighter fluid, but I decline. Once the starter material is in place, I have Bri do the honors in lighting them.

     Reese’s Peanut Buttercup S’mores is the final mission of the night. After two of those bad boys, we’re officially D-U-N, dun. I fade out, catching myself droop my head.

     “Awww, baby,” says Bri. “Come on. You’re done. It’s bed time.”

     I look at my watch. “It’s only ten o’clock.

Night Night:

     Wenzel Inflatable Bed is the way to go. It’s queen sized and superb for camping. After brushing our teeth with Army quickness, we zip up the front flap and lie down. Absorbed in the mattress, we curl into our sleeping bags after a full day’s activities: surfed out, sushied out, and S’mored out. No sex tonight. We’re tired, dead tired, the indication that today was a good day, a good anniversary.