SMILE NOW CRY LATER, SAT-SUN 25-26FEB2012

Loc: Encinitas

Crew: Cheryl, Nicole, Klaude, Khang, Dais, Francis, DK

     I was really hoping for the “Hail Mary” for Lauren to stay, but this ain’t the motherfuckin’ movies, and life ain’t no motherfuckin’ fairy tale either. The crew’s downstairs ready to leave. I have a long drive ahead of me with three other people in my ride, so I try not to make this an emotional goodbye. She had already started packing earlier, and my car was already pre-packed as well. I act like this isn’t a life changing event in both of our timelines, so I tell her I might see her when she comes back to get the rest of her things. We kiss, we hug, say “I love you,” and hold each other, delaying a little before letting go. She returns to packing, and I close the door. That’s three years that the door’s shutting on. My life will never be the same.

     I put on my best “happy face” in the DRC huddle. I snap a pick of everyone before we drive out. The love of my life is leaving me, but my friends are here to celebrate Francis’ birthday, and a surf trip of this magnitude is a rare occasion. 

     The mood’s light on the trip south. First, we stop at Lee’s in Westminster for some sandwiches. We all filter through the lines. My avocado smoothie takes forever, but while we’re waiting at the table Khang says, “Man, I’m so stoked for this trip, dawg!” He’s excited, and we’re on our way to ride an artificial barrel at the Wave House in Mission Beach. I’ve seen the footage on Youtube; I’m nervous. 

     We hop back in the whips, grubbing while driving, and make the second half of the trip. I haven’t been to Mission Beach in years. The last time I was here was with my old surf buddy Jon M. who gave up surfing for the married life which I will probably never wholeheartedly forgive him for. It’s just less than seventy degrees, but the breeze keeps the temp cool. “This place reminds me of Hermosa,” says Francis.

   “Yeah . . . Hermosa, but like ten times more crowded.” There are females in stretchy pants jogging all over the place. Parking is sparse at the Wave House parking lot, but we manage to find some. While Nicole fills out the paperwork, we all do a recon of the place. Francis and I read the sign in front of the artificial barrel. It has a name: Bruticus Maximus. 

     After we all sign waivers, removing the facility’s liabilities, we wait for our briefing. “Matt, you look nervous yo!” says Khang. He’s right. My feet can’t stop tapping. What was once a thin crowd of morning drinkers is starting to thicken. Groms approach the counter, trying to get some of Bruticus’ barrel, but Nicole already reserved the slot for an hour. I feel the pressure mounting.

Easy?

     We’re all in the hot-tub while our instructor gives us pointers on how to ride this wave. I listen intently, ready to absorb any information that might help, but once they turn on the jets I’m intimidated. A big whooshing rush of water hits the curved structure and produces a roaring, five-foot barrel. I’m not even thinking about the crowd any more. The wave has my attention. I just don’t want to fuck up.

     Francis is our sacrificial lamb, the birthday boy. He attempts to ride the stand-up board which resembles a skateboard deck without the wheels. Our trainer hands him a rope, and lets off slack as Francis enters the jet stream. A couple seconds later he falls. Okay, so wipe-out one is out the way. I forget who went after, but I distinctly remember grabbing the yellow body board. I jump into the shoulder on my belly, but the power from the stream shoots me back over into the wipeout pool. I’m embarrassed. I go again, but the wave just sucks me up and over. Even though I wipeout, it’s fun. One after the other, we’re all charging. Wipeout after hellacious wipeout, beating after beating, we’re moving fast in rotation. The crowd is huge now, but they only become a glimpse of faces to me. I don’t care. It’s Francis’ birthday, and we’re here to have fun.

     Khang leads the charge on the stand-up board, waiving off the trainer and going without the rope. He and Francis are the best at it, letting the stream take them to the face for a little while before losing it. I follow Khang’s lead, but my results are horrible. I slip off the board repeatedly; I have no control. I’m frustrated at every pass. The trainer tries to give me a tip: “Don’t try to ride the wave so much. Just let it take you out.” I must really suck if she’s giving me this instruction, and now the pressure’s on to do better. I stand on the board, and I maintain position on the small wake for three seconds until I eat shit AGAIN. 

     Most of us switch off between stand-up board and body board. I’m cold, so I need to jump in the Jacuzzi to get warm before trying again. I think my worst wipeouts are on the body board. I can’t control the fucking thing. Every time I’m in the pit, I keep getting power-bombed. I free fall so many times, landing on my upper back and neck. I shook off the pain for the first twenty minutes, but I’m slower at rotating after. 

Eating shit DRC style

     I’m ready to jump back in when I see Khang limping, center stage. Cheryl is touching his knee, Khang’s grimacing the whole time. I take another beating and walk up to him. The crowd is five times as huge now. Khang’s filling out some more paperwork, and the worker gets him a bag of ice. He says he fell straight down in a position to plant his feet, but his knees stayed together while his feet slipped apart.

     “It might be just your MCL,” says Cheryl. “ACL is the worst one, you may just have to let it heal.” 

     Khang is going through the stages. “Fuck! I’m so stupid!” he says.

     “Nah, man. It was an accident. You didn’t have any control over that. Shit happens.”

     “I’m out, bro . . . I can’t surf for the rest of this trip.”

     It’s easy for me or anyone else to say “don’t worry about it” or “it’s just gonna take some time,” but nothing can take away his initial shock, his initial realization that he’ll be out of the water for quite some time. I feel for him, but I can’t find the words or actions to help.

     In the midst of our casualty, our rotation slows to a dribble. Klaude’s in the hot tub too, opting out of Bruticus’ ass beating. I don’t blame him. I try . . . I tell myself that I need to get this down before our hour’s up. Francis gets pulled into the barrel but sucked out the back. By then, the jets turn off, and it’s the new crew’s turn. 

     The Wave House employee says, “You guys can still hang out here in the Jacuzzi.” 

     I’m so happy at these words because I don’t feel like facing the crowd, not yet at least. The first guy in rotation in the next group slides in with ease. He moves to the barrel and stands there, hand in the face, mouth wide open, prepping his maneuver. With quickness, he comes out of the barrel and hits the shoulder for a lay-back snap. The crowd gives a resounding, “Ooooooooooh!” and “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!” Mr. Ripper goes for another carve, high off the shoulder, and sprays all the other prospects waiting their turn. He falls the third time on a missed air attempt. Fuck my motherfuckn’ life, I’m thinking. Not only did we eat shit for a whole fucking hour, but now we are completely put in our place by this guy. “FUCK!” I say. “I fucking cannot believe it.” Everyone looks at me while Khang has to sit outside to elevate his knee. “I can’t believe how much I fucking sucked at this. I couldn’t figure this out for shit!”

     “You took some hard ones,” says Francis. 

     “It looked like you fell on your head on one of them,” says Klaude.

     I want to be vent and cry, bitch about my own performance, but I see Khang who’s behind me, in pain to even sit down. His whole weekend, and possible months ahead, are at stake. I do my best to come back to reality. 

     Poor Khang can’t even walk unsupported. Still, he can’t let go; he’s blaming himself. The door guy watches us as we assist Khang in the parking lot. He raises his eyebrows and inhales through his teeth at the aftermath.

    

    

      The plan was to surf an evening session, but it’s getting close to sun down, and we’re all hungry as shit. After cruising for a bit, we end up at the Beachside Bar & Grill in Encinitas. I joke with Dais how we’re the only minorities in this whole town. Despite my paranoia, we get good seating, and our lovely host gives us excellent service. To spark the mood, I give a little spiel about how we’re here to celebrate Francis’ birthday. I tell a little story about the first time I met him. He came over my apartment on surf-porn night, and I led him to the bathroom to take a piss. I shut the door, but he didn’t know I was still inside the bathroom as he whipped out his cock. He turned around shocked and surprised to see me in the corner, smiling and wiping the drool from my mouth. 

     Khang’s doing a little better, and we’re able to laugh about the events. We’re fortunate to have Francis, who’s an EMT, and Cheryl, who’s a physical therapist, as part of our crew. DK puts me to shame by ordering two main entrees, thus officially taking away my title as “The Bottomless Pit” until we can set a date for an eating match. 

     Our hotel rooms are next to each other. Francis lies down next to me and says, “I feel it in my neck, I can’t raise my head!” before racking out. Cheryl and Nicole pass out too, so I go next door to hang with the fellas. I put on a little fisting, granny, and fatty porn to entertain the guys. Klaude’s furthest away, but he squints, trying to see how that woman is getting so deep up to her elbows in vagina. DK says it’s disgusting, but he can’t stop watching. C’mon, guy, you know you’re just as sick as the rest of us.  

     When it’s time for me to lie down, I’m kept awake by the creaking and pounding upstairs. It’s not an orgy; there’s something strange going on up there.

Surf:

     Someone’s knocking at the door. I stumble in the darkness in my Forever Lazy. I open it and see Klaude’s face.

     “You awake?” he says.

     “Yeah, man. I’m getting up now.”

     “Okay.”

     I look at the clock. It’s just passing 0700. We planned on getting up at 0600. My whole body aches with each step. Mostly my neck hurts, but even my abs are sore every time I tighten. It’s the same story all around. One-by-one as we wake, everyone’s pointing out where the pain is.

     Khang’s swelling got worse over night, and he can barely get up to take a piss. Cheryl checks on him, and the new prognosis is that it might be his ACL which involves surgery and lots and lots of time. It’s not the best news that anyone would want to wake up to. “This definitely feels like something I should go to the hospital for,” says Khang. We try to best situate him before surfing, leaving him with lube, good porn, and a box of Kleenex. Actually, we grab him some cereal and surf mags before heading out. 

     I’ve never surfed Encinitas before, but Dais shows us where he and Khang surfed last time. Right as we look over the railing, we see empty peaks going unridden. “Okay, I’m parking,” I say. It’s all I need to see. Nicole’s freezing and chooses to pull camera duty, so I give her my FCS towel and jacket.

     I’m the first one suited and waxed up, so I go down by myself and paddle out first. Klaude strongly suggested that I bring out my brother’s 5’8 Lost board, so I’m not used to the way it feels. The main break is filled with local surfers but not as thick as the South Bay. I’m south of the main pack with only a couple people in my area. I scratch out on the first couple waves, unable to get the slide. When I do catch my first right, the section’s too fast, so I’m forced to do a premature top-turn. Even when the DRC makes it to the lineup, we all struggle to get good rides. 

     Cheryl may have gotten the wave of the day. I miss it, but Klaude and she are talking about it in the lineup. “I got a couple trims,” she says. “It was a pretty long ride.”

     Francis and Klaude are inching towards the main crowd, so I slowly work my way there. I catch two rights that I get dropped-in on. I pump to catch-up to the culprits, but I can’t make it to the shoulder anyway. I paddle all the way past the main pack and sit to their north. Right here, I get a four-foot left all to myself. As I’m popping up, there’s a guy on my outside who’s turning around for the wave; he wants to go. I damn near run him over, but he stays put and doesn’t snake. I don’t know the sweet spots on this board yet, and I feel like it’s too small. I still pump through the highline and beat the collapsing lip, getting good distance. After that I don’t get shit.

     I meet everyone on the sand. It wasn’t a wave buffet, but we saw the potential here. It was clean and still fun, even though it could have used more swell.

     

     Back at the room we pack up and check out. Swami’s Café is the decision for breakfast, but the place is packed nut-to-butt. It takes forever, but Klaude pays for all our meals, and we eat in the parking lot. 

     On the way home, we stop for Vietnamese sandwiches again, where Cheryl’s Silverton meets us for a quick chat. We rendezvous back in El Segundo, cross load vehicles, and say our goodbyes for now. I’m not looking forward to walking upstairs. When I open the door, I see a few things are out of place. Lauren’s books are off the shelf. I walk in the kitchen. She took all the things that I placed out for her. Her family-size container of Twizzlers is in the trash. I go to the bedroom. The bed is gone along with her dressers and the small TV. Where her pile of clothes and vanity used to be is now a vast and barren, blue carpet. The closet is deserted with just a few things lingering. I’m doing fine, but it hits me when I enter the bathroom. In our shower, all her little face washes and numerous bottles of shampoos and conditioners are gone. Three racks are empty, leaving only my belongings in one. Just like the apartment, I now feel half-empty as well. I walk back out to the living room clutching my head when my best friend calls. 

     “Matt,” he says. “I really need you right now, bro.” 

     My main homeboy’s wife moved out, coincidentally paralleling Lauren’s departure.

     “Sure, where you at?”

     “I’m at the Petco by the house. I need you to go over there, Matt, and tell me if they’re gone yet.”

     “Okay, I’m on the way.”

     I’m driving down Aviation Blvd. on my way to console my best friend, but I’m already failing. I struggle to hold in my tears. I think about the times Lauren and I spent on our couch, snuggling in our Forever Lazies. I think about the dinners on our coffee table, sitting on the floor next to each other. I think about her tiny body moving ever so vigorously through the kitchen. I won’t be waking up next to her or coming home to her anymore. I’m right by the Petco, but I stop short to compose myself. When I see him, his eyes are red too. Once I do the recon, we both enter his home. “Fuck, they took the fridge,” he says. “Fuck, they took the bed too. This is fucking terrible.” We’re like two testicles without the shaft. Balls are usually uneven. In this case, he’d be the bigger ball. My relationship ended short of three years, his was just over seven. 

     After a whole evening of pissing in each other’s ears, I find myself back in my apartment. Everything is still hard for me to fathom. I’ve never spent the night on my couch before, but my bedroom is so dark and empty that I quarantine it off. I spread my sleeping bag over the couch and lie, staring at the ceiling. Small cracks of light creep through the blinds. My router and modem give off a subtle glow of green and blue dots. I’m cold, so I zip up my sleeping bag all the way up, finding comfort in the darkness it provides to escape the darkness of the living room.

STAYCATION SESSIONS--TRESTLES: THU 8.11.2011 DAY

Crew: Al
Conditions: 3-4 ft., onshore wind, inconsistent, sunny.

Days of the Skunk:


    I wake up periodically through the night from a tapping noise. It’s coming from my car’s roof. It’s my surfboard leash. The wind’s blowing it. My alarm wakes me at 0530. I turn to look at the RV parked at the neighboring campsite. The cloth trim over its windows are flapping in the wind.

    Shivering, I step outside and put on my sweater. It’s dark and the wind is strong. I walk to the bathrooms to brush my teeth and sit in front of the fire pit until first light. The water’s choppy. I look at Old Mans and Churches, and the waves look blown out. Since I begin to nod off, I go back to the wagon for a little more sleep.

    An hour later, Al’s tapping on my window. “Dude, it looks like shit,” he says. He suggests that we just go back to sleep, but it’s day three of the trip, and I’m tired of crappy conditions.

    “Let’s check it out further south,” I say. Francesca stays behind, we load the car, and we get on the 5 South to join the morning traffic. We first check out South Oceanside. It’s terrible. The wind is just as strong, and there aren’t any peaks at all. Fuck. We jump back in the ride and head further south. Blacks it is. It’s my first time driving there, but I find it without incident. I park where Francis and I did, but the wind’s not dead like the last morning I surfed here. Even though the wind is a little lighter, it’s there. We walk out to take a look, and the peaks are crumbly and small. Triple skunked. “This is your first time here, right?” I ask.

    “Yup.”

    “Well . . . this is Blacks!” I snap a photo, and we’re on our way back to camp. Was it a waste? If you don’t check it out, you won’t know. You’ll have to rely on a surf report that’s sometimes unreliable or someone that might exaggerate mediocre conditions. Regardless, we’re doing the drive of shame.

    Back at camp, we pick up Francesca and head to Pipes Café in San Clemente. It’s my first time there, and I wish I had found the place sooner. Their “Big Breakfast” is about seven bucks, but they give you a shit load of food. Innersections plays on the wall mounted TV. Eating is the best part of the morning thus far.

    Back at the camp, Al and I are stuffed with food. The overcast finally burns off, the wind lightens up a little, and we keep our eyes on the surf as our food goes down. Even though I need more time to digest, Al makes the call to paddle out. We walk towards the BP and see a set roll through. The shape’s not as good as Lowers, but we’ll gladly take it over dealing with the crowd. We paddle out and catch some waves. It’s a little smaller at Middles, maybe 2-3 ft. We get a couple turns here and there, but the lulls keep getting longer. “You wanna go over there don’t you?” Al says.

    I can’t stop looking at those perfect rights at Lowers. “Maybe just on the side,” I reply. I work my way towards the show, and Al trails behind. I get a spare wave right away. Al passes me up and goes straight into the crowd. I watch him working the inside line and actually catching waves amongst the competition. I wait, catch another wave, but the scavenger technique isn’t working good this afternoon; not much is breaking my way. I have no choice but to go closer to the crowd. I catch nothing. Almost an hour goes by. Al throws me the signal for the “last one.” When I make my way back south, away from everyone, a spare wave actually breaks and takes me all the way to shore. Al’s a little stoked. He tells me that he got snaked a couple times but that he managed to get some rides. Me? I’m a bit frustrated. I vent on being “over“ the crowds. The stoke that I had last night has evaporated and turned into this.

    There’s a ton of food left in our cooler. Back at the site, we kill off as many sandwiches as we can. We’re full again.

STAYCATION SESSIONS—BLACKS, SD: WED 7.20.2011 EVE

Crew: Francis

Time: 1645-1845, 2 hrs.

Conditions: Overcast, onshore wind, scattered peaks, cold, 3 ft. 

 

Options?:

     We decide on taking another look at some of the other peaks that we passed up on the way to Blacks. We first pull into Solano beach on accident. There's no surf, it's a swimmer's beach, and you have to pay for parking, so we turn around. We pass some other breaks that I don't know, but there's traffic, and turning around's a bitch. Francis and I exchange farts the whole way. I can smell my own, but I can't catch his scent. We finally pull into a quiet beach parking lot. We are surprised that there are open spots and that it's, once again, free. We are at a lookout point right over Swamis. The wind here is light, the water looks glassy, the waves are clean, but they are tiny. It's barely two feet, and there are about eight longboarders out. Francis calls it “mind surfing.” We watch the waves imagining what kind of rides we'd get out of them, but we're both lying to ourselves. “San Onofre?” Francis says.

     I look at surfline's report. “The wind's dying over there. It's gonna be clean, but it might be too small,” I reply. I spend more time pouring over our possibilities. We finally decide to backtrack and go to Blacks. 

 

Cock & Balls Beach round two:

Uh oh. Bad omen?

      We arrive at a now crowded parking lot. The sky is filled with parachute gliders, and we still find an open spot with ease. In fact, it looks like the same spot we parked at this morning. We thought about trunking it after the first session, but the onshore winds definitely put a chill in our spines to beg the differ. “You gonna take your slippers?” I ask.

    

     “Nah, gonna keep my feet Hawaiian!” he says. We scale down the path again, stepping aside to let people hike up from time to time. Once we reach the bottom we see a huge White woman with her daughters. She's naked from the waist down; all we see are two huge, pale, bulbous cheeks. We walk towards the break, and there's a guy lying out next to his naked wife who's tanning butt naked on her stomach. Out of respect, I look out at the ocean, but Francis asks me a question which forces me to face the direction of the woman's pale ass. We near the break by the lifeguard hut, and a couple is body surfing waves on the inside. For some reason, the dude's girlfriend takes off her top and starts bodysurfing with her tits hanging out. “Floaties,” says Francis.

     “Unfuckinbelievable,” I say. There are only about six surfers out. It's just like this morning, no one's by the other random peaks, and everyone is concentrated in one area. It's a little smaller, the wind is putting more texture on the water, but there are still some corners to be had. As soon as we hit the water, the evening crowd starts to appear out of no where. Next thing you know, those peaks that we walked by fill up again with surfers. Despite the dwindling conditions, the surf is more fun than it looks. The rides are shorter, but I'm at least cranking out one turn before the waves close out. I sit just outside of the pack while Francis fully immerses himself amongst the crowd. Eventually I work my way towards him. We surf for two hours, milking the most that we can out of the session.

     On the way back to the truck I ask Francis, “So what's it gonna be this time? Cock, balls, ass, or vagina.”

     Francis has an aimless gaze but wears a smile. “Schlong,” he says. There's nothing on the way back. We're behind the lifeguard hill walking towards the steps, but as we round the corner we see what's behind the hill.

     “Fuck, you were right,” I say. Right there before us is a guy, butt naked, walking out for a skinny dip.

     “Told you.”

     We keep walking, but I turn to stop. I tell him, “Wait. We gotta wait til' he turns around.” The guy turns, and there's a huge patch of pubes where his penis should be; it looks like an eagle's nest. The guy can pass for a caveman.

The Great Churro Adventure: 

     We're dressed, it's just past 1930, and we're pulling out of the lot. I turn to Francis and say, “I had fun! It was definitely worth coming out, but next time we're gonna have to find that churro place that you were talking about.” Rewind to this morning, Francis talked about this churro cart in downtown SD and how they have the best churros. He opted not to go there because it could be hard finding the cart.

     “Let's go right now!” he says. 

 

     “No, no, I was just joking. We can go next time.”

     “Nah, we can find it. It'll go good with the coffee.” And just like that, we're heading south looking for some churro action. We end up in an urban Mexican neighborhood where the churro cart should be, but is not there. Francis takes some time to find the coordinates on his GPS, and he learns that it's just down the street a little bit more. “There it is!” he yells, as we spot the cart right in front of a Mexican market. I love churros. I'm so fucking excited to eat some without getting gouged by Disneyland prices; I can't wait any longer.

    The kid working the cart is named Luis, and Luis and Francis start hitting it off. Churros El Tigre is the name of the business. Luis offers their churro and fried banana ice cream dessert, but we tell him we'll do it next time. The churros take fucking forever. The kid is cool but can't stop talking, and we let him give our initial order to two ladies that need to catch the bus. A little over a half-hour later, we finally have them. Luis is cool, as he gives us an extra bag for our troubles. There are a lot in one bag. By the time I polish off one, I'm good on churros for a whole fucking month. We find a Starbucks, grab some coffees for the road, and hit the freeway.

 

     Today's staycation was well worth the trouble. We got some familiarity with a new spot, caught the best surf that SoCal had for the day, and scored waves on two sessions. It's still not the epic session that I've been waiting for, but it's the best session since being home thus far.

STAYCATION SESSIONS—BLACKS, SD: WED 7.20.2011 MORN

Crew: Francis

Time: 0915-1215, 3 hrs.

Conditions: Overcast, dead air, clean, scattered peaks, 3 ft.

Sense of Loss:

     It's been weird being back home, especially with the lack of swell. I drove to El Porto on Tuesday morning to have a look. It was so small, dismal, and crumbly. Still, so many people were charging the sand, hitting the water running, and skimming the oncoming waves on their longboards. I know I probably sound like an asshole. This is L.A., and it's not always like this. There will be days with waves, but I have to be honest with the way that I felt. I thought about the days in Bali. Sure, not every day in Bali is thumping with heart dropping, epic waves, but even on the smallest days, there are spots on the island with at least three feet of surf. And three feet Bali scale is a big “three feet.” I thought about the anxiety I felt before paddling out on a big day, anticipating the ass kicking. Who'd have thought that I'd miss getting my ass kicked?Enough. I went home and looked at surfline's forecast for any fair rating. It looked like I'd be taking a drive to get some good surf.

Escape from L.A.:

     I met Francis through Klaude. He's a homegrown Oahu boy, and he's one of the most mellow, local guys that I've ever met. He's a true ambassador of Hawaii and is a living example of “Aloha.” He called me on Tuesday and said that he wanted to surf HB. I had to break the news that HB's forecast was only 1-3 feet for Wednesday, and that staying local for a chance at poor-fair 2-3 foot surf would be a better call. He was pretty adamant at scoring some kind of surf, as he kept blowing up my phone throughout the day. I told him that South San Diego had a good rating for Wednesday, and that's when he said, “Lets go to Blacks, I'll drive.” Well . . . how could I turn that down? It's a hell of a drive, and his willingness to commit himself to day long adventure caught me by surprise. That's Francis, I thought. Awesome. Let's get the fuck out of L.A. and score some waves.

History:

     The last time I surfed Blacks was over four years ago with my friend Jon M. He used to surf, and he's the one that took me there while he was going to SDSU. I was on my DMS shortboard but shouldn't have been. I was overwhelmed by the fast and hollow left-handers. Basically, I got my ass kicked. I wondered how I'd do now, years later.

First Times:

     I wake up with the expectation of packing light: one board, one container of Lauren's homemade choco-chip cookies, one wetsuit, and one water bottle for rinsing. Francis pulls up in his Tacoma at 0600. We have a hell of a drive ahead of us. I take a look at the morning report for Blacks, and it reads: 2-3+, mainly waist high, some belly high, and clean. The conditions are listed as fair. I relay the info to Francis; we are stoked.

     We pull off at a Chevron to prevent me from ruining my shorts and change routes to a scenic drive. We drive through Cardiff, Swamis, and Del Mar. I'm not familiar with these places at all, and it's my first time seeing the breaks and surrounding beach communities. Free street-side parking and Mexican food joints dot the journey. We drive along a cliff, look down, and see scattered peaks with empty line ups. It's a good sign, and we can only imagine what we might score up ahead. 

 

     Francis has been to Blacks to check the surf before but has never surfed it. I call Jon to ask for directions to the residential area we parked at last time, but he can't remember. We end up parking near UCSD in some dirt lot. It's so quiet; it's different. I'm so used to airplanes flying overhead, but there are barely any cars around, and the air is so stale from the lack of wind that time seems still. Best of all, parking is fucking free. Damn, it sucks how we're raped in the South Bay when it comes to parking. And here we are at Blacks, a premier SoCal spot, and parking doesn't cost one red cent. Unbelievable.

     A local guy comes up from the stairs and changes next to us. We ask him how it was, and he says that there's barely anyone down there, and that it's pretty spread out. His energy is mellow, and it's a great way to start the session at this new spot. He tells us how to get down, where to sit, and wishes us well. 

 

     Did I say stairs? It's more like a cliff trail down, a steep one. It's narrow with some old shoddy stairs built into the dirt. On the way down we pass more local guys heading up. “Have fun!” They say. I expected a little localism here, but so far, we're happy with the positive energy.

     It takes a long time to get down, but we finally do and see uncrowded, scattered peaks before us. We wonder where everyone is, but as we make our way further south, we see a small pack of surfers in the line up. We're surprised that no one's surfing the peaks closer to the stairs, so we decide to stay close to the crowd because . . . well, they surf here every day, so they must know something we don't. Right?

     We drove a long way just for 2-3+ feet of surf, but it's better than what's in the South Bay, and the gamble pays off. Obviously, the conditions aren't remarkable, but some of the three foot waves are clean A-frame peaks. It's low tide, so some waves double or jumble up which hinders the conditions, but it's still the best surf that I've seen since I've been home. Francis chooses our peak, and we start making our way out. I notice a sting ray swimming out to sea in the shallows. Oops, not just one, there are two more. I look at Francis, and he sees a couple more by him. Fuck. “Drag your feet,” I tell him. I hear Rick's coaching in the back of my mind and recall the times he's told me to do the same, even at Porto. I step on something slimy. Yuck, I hate that feeling.

     Once we're out there, I look behind me to mark our position. There's something that looks like a metal globe on top of the cliff, so I mark that. I'm still working out the cobwebs since being home, so I'm hoping to get some good waves. I can't remember everything wave for wave, just the ones that have some significance. I draw first blood on a left that closes out. Most of my rides to start off the day don't have many turns. I try to make it a point to practice on my frontside. Randy recently told me to stay in the critical part of the wave to help with my turns, so I give it a shot. Instead of pumping all the way to the weak part of the wave, I practice fading out and top turning with the curl. On one attempt I hit the lip, top turn, but my board doesn't turn with my body, so I ended up falling on my side. I'm not sure what happened there. Maybe I'm too far up on my board and need to be on the tail more?

     Soon the rest of the morning crowd starts to show, and everyone shifts to the empty peaks that we saw earlier. Just our luck, we could've had those peaks to ourselves, and now everyone wants them. The current takes us just a little south in front of a structure that looks like a roman palace. It's square with tall pillars reminding me of Caesar's Palace in Vegas.

     Francis does his thing, there's no need to be concerned about him. It's already a familiar sight. He paddles, pops up, disappears, and before I can breathe he hacks some water off the top. We both paddle around looking for the best spots that suit ourselves while randomly coming together depending on where our waves take us. A peak forms between us, and we both paddle for it. He gets there first, and I yell, “Go!” He's two strokes away from dropping in when I see that there's a Japanese chick behind him that just popped up. “Watch your left!” I yell again. It's too late. The wave jacks up, moves past me, and they both disappear. The chick's boyfriend is further north watching too. I hope to see someone kick out or penetrate out the back, but the wave finally explodes without a sign of either one of them. Once the foam settles, both of their boards are together, and both of their heads reemerge. I can't hear what they're saying, but Francis paddles back and checks his board. “You guys all right?” I ask.

     “Yeah. Was she behind me?”

     “Yeah.”

     “Oh shit, I didn't see her.”

     “Yeah, I know. I tried to warn you, but you were just going for it. Was she okay?”

     “I asked her if she was hurt, and all she said was, 'blahhhh-nahhhhhhhuy.'”

     He mimics the noises that she made, but I can't reproduce them verbally or even in text. No bodily or board damage in both cases, they survive.

     My best left of the day is motivated by Fransauce's smooth cut backs. In Bali I practiced getting a lot of speed going left, especially at Balangan. On my next left I get two good pumps to gather momentum to set up for a top turn. I stomp on the tail, stretch out my arms, twist my torso down the wave, and puff my cheeks on a deep exhale. Surprisingly, my board follows, and I cutback cleanly into the pocket. Too bad the wave bogs out right after which ends the ride right after. Eh, it's not the cleanest cutback. I recognize that my frontside turns are still rough, but it's still a small breakthrough for me, and residue from the sensation remains for the rest of the day.

     At the three hour mark we're getting tired. The crowd's thinned out, there are still waves, but it's taco time.

So it's that kind of beach:

     On the way back to the stairs we see a guy in flesh colored shorts squatting down. When he stands up, we realize that those aren't shorts; they are bare ass cheeks. He's old, fat, wearing a fisherman hat, and everyone else around him is clothed. Francis and I get through our “what the fuck” stage just as the old man turns around. “Damn,” says Francis. “Schlong and all.”

     The walk back up the stairs is brutal. It takes us double the time it took to get down. It's a true workout.

Nourishment:

     We're so thirsty and hungry. I tell him that a giant smoothie from Jamba Juice would do us some Justice. “Let's find one,” he says. He gets on his GPS, and we're there in minutes. Each frozen sip reenergizes my body. We're the darkest guys around, salty as ever, in this high end mall. The lack of minorities makes me nervous, so we GPS the closest Mexican food place in town. Afterwards, I take a shit at Vons. Round one complete.