TINY WINDOW, SAT 14MAR2015

Reptile Rick is fully equipped

 

Loc: Huntington Beach, Brookhurst                    

Time: 0730-0930

Conditions: 4-5 FT, offshore, hot, inconsistent.    

Board: Lost Mini Driver

     I slept like shit last night because of the ampm coffee that I needed on the drive home. On a caffeine binge, not only was I wide awake, but I was smelling like ass. I didn’t want to wake Bri up, so I skipped the shower, tossing and turning in stale salt and sweat. So now at 0540, Rick is here. We’re loading up his van and on the way to Huntington.

     A rarity, the rest of his WHC homies are already on the road, ahead of us, heading to San Clemente. Since Rick has to be back by 1000, we do a surgical strike closer to home.

     First we stop by Goldenwest. It’s still dark out. Two young ladies jog towards us with their tits bouncing around. “Morning, ladies,” says Rick.

     “Good morning,” the chicks say back, gleefully and full of perk. Rick looks at me and smiles. Dirty dog. . .

     The peaks look a little soft here, but the tide is kind of high at first light. Rick’s down to paddle out here, but I insist on Brookhurst. I love that spot. Less crowded, I get to use my parking pass, and it’s a good wave.

     I should have known that the cars already parked at Brookhurst this early is a bad sign, but we do a surf check anyway, and the peaks are standing up more.

     “Yeah, let’s do it,” says Rick.

     We get a couple double takes in the parking lot. It’s actually kind of crowded, it’s not like this place unless the surf is really, really, really pumping. Rick and I aren’t locals. It’s obvious.

     There appears to be a light current, so we walk a little further south past tower 4 and paddle out there. A juicy 5 footer is breaking right in front of us. Its surfer, a short stocky man with short curly orange hair is pulling in for a quick slot, banking it off the top on the finishing maneuver. A closer look and I realize it’s Pistol Pete AKA Pete the Plumber AKA Klaude’s roommate’s exboyfriend’s friend Pete who’s a firefighter.

     I paddle up to him and congratulate him on his ride. He says that yesterday had more current, was bigger, and a little more closed out, but that it was fun. I tell him I had spent the whole day at Churches yesterday. He’s not impressed.

     Peaks . . . they’re coming in just a little wide and sectiony, but there are some with perfect shoulders. The size isn’t as gnarly as it was the last time I had surfed here with The Vets. Instead, it’s at that great practice size. Not a death wave, and worth pulling into, closeout or not.

     Immediately, a left comes my way. I turn and go. Rick’s going for it too. “I got it, Rick!” I say.

     “Yeah!” he says back.

     I pop up, riding the wave behind him. Fucking guy. I think he thought I was asking him if he had the wave. It’s not the first time he’s snaked me or any of his other buddies. Reptile Rick. It’s a good one, but I kick out. No sense in battling for it with a homie.

     After surfing Churches all day yesterday, and on a big fat fish, there’s some residue left over. I have to make the transition of surfing a different board and a different wave. On the next left, I’m a little slow at popping up, but I make the drop. Its shoulder is tight, vertical, and short. I try to set up for a top turn, but before I know it, I’m racing along the shoulder until it tapers off into nothing on the inside. Fuck. I should have pulled in. That’s my first though. I’m surfing this wave wrong.

     Now the crowd is on it. Probably the most crowded I’ve ever seen Brookhurst. To escape, I paddle more south to stay ahead of the pack, but the surf turns inconsistent. I let the current pull me back towards the crowd. A wave comes. I have to back out for someone. Again, I have to back out. I’m in position for another one, but some guy is duckdiving right under me. Too close.

     Rick comes back. “I just got barreled,” he says. He even flags down a guy paddling by who had seen his barrel. The guy validates it.

     The lull gets worse. Everyone’s sitting around like it’s a party without cake. I spot Pete north by tower 5, so I mosey over towards him.

     This spot doesn’t produce much. I get a couple of lackluster rides. More lull. Rick and I shake our heads at each other. Bad call. Maybe we should have stayed at Goldenwest. All I know is that there’s some weird voodoo thing going on right now. It’s disappointing. After yesterday’s wave buffet this morning’s stoke meter goes unchecked.

     On the way back home, I struggle to keep my eyes open. I feel bad. My cousin from Maui, MC Sausage, once told me that going to sleep while you’re in the passenger seat is a “bad omen.” Since then, I never sleep when I’m copilot.

     Rick drops me off. He still has his honey-do list to take care of. “I still think it was the right call,” says Rick. “I got that one left. It was amazing.”

     He takes off. I walk back to my apartment from my garage with the sun on my face. I’m burned. My cheeks and the back of my ears, even my eyes are stinging from the UV. Good session or not, I’m glad to be back. Gonna take that shower that my body’s longing for. Gonna open up the fridge and tear some shit up.

TAKEN TO SCHOOL, SAT 07FEB2015

Post session photos courtesy of Juan A.

 

Loc: Huntington Beach, Brookhurst to River Jetties

Time: 0815-1115        

Crew: Rick, Juan, Gary

Conditions: 5 – 6 FT+, foggy, hollow, dredging, current, crowded

Board: Lost Mini Driver

     The call is to surf Dog Beach since I’m on Uncle Duty into Saturday morning. Leaving my nephew’s place, I get a call from Juan. He, Garr, and Rick are overlooking the Huntington Cliffs. I tell them I’ll be on the way.

     It’s a legit dawn patrol, being still dark out, but it’s so fucking foggy. After meeting up with the guys, we wait for first light so we can see the water a little better.

     The parking lot fills to capacity. Guys are suiting up, meandering down the cliff, and disappearing into the fog as they paddle out. Still, we can’t see shit, only the inside, which looks soft serve.

     “Most of the guys have fun boards,” says Rick. We’re looking for any clues as to what the surf might be doing.

     I park at Goldenwest, grab my parking pass, and jump in the Suburban with the fellas to hit Brookhurst instead.

     “Let’s just suit up and go,” says Garr. “No need to look at it.”

     As we’re suiting up, guys are coming back from the water with disappointed looks on their faces. I ask one of them how it was.

     “I only came back to change my leash,” he says. “It’s a little walled out there, but there are some good ones.” He widens his eyes. “It’s bi-i-i-ig.”

     Going back to the car, I deliver the intel. We are all still a little doubtful. The Cliffs didn’t look like it was thumping. How big can it be?

 

FIFTY YEAR OLDS NOT GIVING A FUCK:

     The surf looks small, but the paddle out is much longer than it had looked from the foggy shore. The inside is punchy. I duckdive a couple of waves and nearly get pulled back. Already, I feel the current dragging me south.

     When I get to the lineup, some guy asks me, “Where am I?”

     “What?”

     “Where did you paddle out?”

     “Tower four,” I say.

     He turns to his friend. “Dude! We fuckin’ drifted way south!” To my south, a migration of surfers is trying to paddle north.

     The first few waves that come in are standard HB classic peaks, just fast teepees at four to five feet. I’m a bit sketched. One, I can’t see shit. We can’t see the waves until they are about to break on top of us, so timing is a bitch. Two, there’s just an eerie energy in the air, and you can see it on everyone’s face. Today is a no bullshit day.

     Meanwhile, Rick, Juan, and Gary have different looks on their faces. Fuckin’ guys. . . I mean, they are well in their fifties, and the gleam on their faces just reflects their childhood connection. They’ve known each other for years, have paddled out in harrowing conditions together, and I don’t doubt that they’re giving each other that same look that they’ve given each other throughout the years. Just then, Rick paddles late into a dredging hollow left. He resurfaces some distance away towards the inside, still beaming when he gets back to the lineup. There is no fear in their faces. Only stoke.

     So the sets get bigger. It’s definitely not a small day at all, not mooshy, not whatever Dog Beach had led us to believe. Solitary A-frames jut out of the sea, hazy and gray, smooth and unblemished, but harnessing HB power as soon as they stand up and break.

     My penis retreats into my body like a snail. After I duckdive a rogue wave, barely making it, I officially have a vagina. My clitoris retreats so far into my pussy that it’s sticking out of my asshole, which has just gone from wrinkled brown to smooth pink.

     “Go, Matt!” says Gary. I look out. Actually, I’ve been looking out. I can’t take my eyes off the outside. Yeah, it’s a big fucking right. I paddle out and duckdive into the face before it’s even breaking. It’s a straight up bitch move.

     My excuse is that I’m picky. If I’m going to risk absolute obliteration, I better make sure that I’m in the perfect spot and not late. I know how fast these waves are, and I’m not gonna air drop on a day like today. Plus, I do not want to get caught in the impact zone on one of these waves. I may not be able to make it back out.

     And these Venice Vets are just thriving in these conditions. One by one, I watch Juan go. Rick goes, who supposedly doesn’t like barrels, and is pulling in. Gary’s brazen enough to hang out towards the inside to take everything that’s rideable.

     Juan comes back saying, “I almost made it out of that one.”

     Rick goes for broke and paddles super late on a left, somehow still covering some distance. “I air dropped,” he says when he comes back. “Almost didn’t make it.”

     I finally pull the trigger on a smaller right. It’s shouldery, so I wind up for a backhand snap. I have so much speed that my tail slides out on the shoulder like I’m grinding a rail. Had I ridden out of it, it would’ve been a cool manuever.

 

     Resurfacing, I’m caught in the impact zone of the next wave. I duckdive as deep as I can and actually make it out the back, but the fucking wave sucks back and pulls me under. Not as bad as getting pounded. I don’t know how, but my shitty duckdives are actually working, and I make it out fairly unscathed.

     Juan calls me into another wave. It’s a big right. I scratch and kick and get the drop. It’s stretching out and about to close, so I jump over the lip and land behind it. Looking out back, everyone is darting outside. Here comes the roguer.

     I had once said that big perfectly shaped waves are sometimes scarier than walls. Perfection can be power sometimes, and I’m in the impact zone of a huge perfect HB peak. I’m going to have to pay this one in full, I’m thinking. I debate on stalling my paddle to duck the stampede or charge it to make it over. I paddle as hard as I can. The wave is big and slowly building as it approaches. I make it over. I look behind me and remember that Gary’s on the inside. The next wave is even bigger.

     Once the set is over, I see Gary on the inside with a half dozen other surfers. Ten minutes later, he’s on shore.

     Juan takes a long right and disappears. The fog slightly dispersers. We’re in front of the River Jetties.

     I back out of a huge right. Rick takes it. I assume the worst. He’s eaten shit, there’s no way he could have—

     “Woohoo!” he says as he kicks out and over the shoulder. Barrel. He just got a backside barrel.

     I beat the next set, and now Rick is gone. I try to harness the energy of my far-gone testicles and take some waves. I see other guys who have also lost their penises, pulling back on the big ones. Some guys are still pulling in, even on the closeouts, backhand, comfortable in these conditions.

     I finally take a right and plan to grab rail and pig dog, but my plans go awry. Somewhere between grabbing my rail, the wave just doubles up, and I do a forward somersault with the curling lip. Since the bitch in me says that now might be a good time to find the guys, I catch the whitewash in and head back towards the Suburban.

     It’s a bit of a walk. I even have to paddle through the river mouth to get to the other side. When I reach the Suburban, I find Rick there, too. “I thought they’d be here,” he says. Gary and Juan are still out there somewhere, so Rick and I start over at tower four.

 

RESET:

     I think about how I had surfed a slab in Java with razor sharp reef. I also think about the big days in Manhattan Beach that I had surfed. Despite all those experiences, I’m out of my league today.

     A guy paddles into a set-wave left going backhand. He grabs rail as the glassy green lip swirls over him. I turn around to see if he makes it out. He resurfaces on the inside. With a face full of anger, he slaps the water and curses out loud. It’s that kind of morning.

     In the distance, Juan is paddling towards us. He’s been in the water the whole time and has just paddled all the way over from River Jetties.

     I had said that I don’t feel comfortable going backside on huge bombs, and I’m lucky enough to snag some of the rare lefts that come through. I pull in on a medium sized left, and the lip throws out over me. I’m in the tube but a bit too deep and get pinched at the end.

     Juan says that it had lined up nicely, too. Fuck. If I could make it out of one of those, just get one barrel, this whole session will be worth it, despite losing my penis and all.

     I catch another left and pull in. Pinched again.

     I notice Gary’s purple board on shore. He’s walking towards the Suburban. I wave. He wave’s back.

     With the incoming tide, the waves soften up a bit more and become more manageable. On my attempts to pull in I see that the waves aren’t going hollow, so I work on my frontside wraps. At the three-hour mark, we call the session.

#

     Over breakfast, we learn what had happened to everyone. Juan caught a long right and got caught by the current after that. He never left the water and made it all the way back to tower four. Gary made it back out after getting pounded by that set. He had become victim of the BMS sandwich: board, me, sand.

     And then there are the war stories, the battles, the best waves, the barrels. I can only sit there and chew my food while I listen, wide eyed, in awe of them.

 

FIRST SESSION OF THE YEAR, THU 08JAN2015

Loc: Huntington Beach, Brookhurst

Time: 0700-0845

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, light overcast, glassy, inconsistent

Board: 6’0 Lost Mini Driver, Quad /  6’0 Kainalu Fish

     Finally, there’s a pulse in the forecast. Rumor has it that there were some HB nugs yesterday evening. While most of the locals here would rather take a chance on El Porto, I prepack my car the night before and plan a surgical strike on Huntington.

#

     I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Dawn patrols, my how I’ve missed them. I get an early start, waking up at 0500, and I’m on the road before 0600. When I reach the Huntington Cliffs at 0630, it’s still fucking dark out. Maybe I could’ve slept in a little longer.

     The sky is overcast . . . slightly. In the distance, the oil rigs float over the horizon. Waves are rolling in, but they look soft and swamped out. Still rideable, but I have the urge to push it further south to see if it’s a little bigger.

     Meanwhile, other dawn patrollers have already suited up. TheY crawl through the guard rails and take these unseen trails down the cliff. Almost looks like a sheer drop down, but they know. They’re local.

     Brookhurst has signs of life. Other DPs are doing their surf checks. Haven’t surfed here in a while. Clear streaks of orange tear through the gray sky. River Jetties is working, already a crowd there. Surprisingly, the surf here is walled and racy with minimum opportunity for shoulders. Still though, it’s doable.

     I change and paddle out. The water’s freezing. Even my 4/3 isn’t doing much to keep me warm. Again, it’s been a while.

     I had slapped on the Jeremy Flores fins that Klaude got me for my birthday (thanks, buddy). I’m riding them as a quad setup with small Rusty trail fins.

     My first wave attempt is a wall. I know it is. I tell myself to pull out but my arms keep paddling and my feet keep kicking, so I drop down and pig dog for shit glory. For a perfect little beach tube, it would have been a good technique, but I instead get chomped down in an awkward wipeout.

     Next wave is a lefthand closeout barrel, but let’s call it quality because I set myself up pretty well and get a little green-room vantage.

     Afterwards, my next couple rides are a little awkward. I blow a topturn on a left after setting myself up with some good pumps. Too much weight too forward? I don’t know, but I did one of those turns where my body torqued but the board didn’t follow. On another turn, my fins have so much grip that I don’t hook out of it until I’m damn near at the base of the wave, but I still appreciate the sensation you get coming out of a full wrap. My round pintail might be gripping too much as well. Squash would do the trick. Might have been better off with a thruster setup as well.

     The sun burns off the marine layer, and the conditions turn perfect. No wind, glassy, and potential for peaky waves, but the tide creeps in. By 0800, the surf is already turning inconsistent and swampy. Slowly, the lineup shifts closer to shore. I even swap boards and whip out the Kainalu twin-fin fish, and it’s still hard to get waves.    

     Changing back at my car, I’m still glad about having made the decision to drive here. There was only a fraction of a crowd, I had a peak to myself, and the waves were decent, at least for a solid one-hour window.

     I drive home on the 405 North, hitting patches of traffic, I don’t mind the constant stop-and-go. It was my first dawn patrol of the year, first HB recon, and first drive of the year cruising and listening to music as I reflect on my morning waves.

ANOTHER GAMBLE, SAT 20OCT2012 MOR

Loc: Huntington

Crew: Solo

Time: 0745-0945

Conditions: 3 FT, overcast, drizzling, onshore, choppy, manageable peaks.

Pre-Blog:

     Khang called me yesterday, telling me how I missed out on Wednesday. According to him, the South Bay was “all time” that day. He said he surfed in the morning and evening and that the peaks were just going off. It made me sad to hear this. I knew it was good. I asked where he was surfing on Saturday, and he said he had to surf local because of work.

     According to the forecast, El Porto isn’t supposed to be good. In actuality, nowhere is supposed to be good. There is a chance of rain with inevitable onshore flow in the forecast, but the South Bay is predicted to be 1-2 FT while North OC supposed to be 2-3. I know it’s just a matter of “one foot,” but I’m hoping that the forecast will be off. Besides, it was off yesterday, and today can be another exception. I put out the word that I’m traveling down south, but everyone has to stay local.

DARKNESS:

     It’s 0530 when my alarm goes off, but I snooze until 0556. Since I have everything prepacked, all I need to do is fill up my hot water jugs. I grab both of my thrusters, pat Smokey on the head, and jump in the surfmobile.

     When I glance at the clock on the instrument panel, I see that it’s already 0645, but looking outside, it’s hard to tell that this is the early morning. Combined with the overcast and the shorter days as we near the winter solstice, it’s hard to imagine that there used to be light out at this time.

     Once I hit Torrance, rain drops start hitting my windshield. It’s sporadic, off and on, mostly on the light side. Despite the rain, from what I can tell, there isn’t much wind yet. As I drive down Bolsa Ave., I’m thinking that I might score. The wind report is off again, and I’m hoping for at least a solid hour before the conditions change. I look to a building on the left hand side of the road. It has an American flag mounted at the top floor . . . and the stars and stripes are blowing hard onshore.

     Driving past Bolsa Chica, my fears are confirmed. The RVs parked in the lot all have flags indicating the wind. I look right to see what the waves are doing. Bolsa Chica is small. Dog Beach doesn’t look much better, but Magnolia has some peaks. My optimism comes back when I see Huntington Pier. The water doesn’t look that choppy yet, so there’s a chance that things aren’t totally blown out.

     I pull up to my parking spot and head towards the sand for a look. I see an old guy who was leaving when Bri and I showed up yesterday. “Paddling out?” I ask.

     “Yeah. Looks like it!”

     There’s another guy on the sand watching it. As soon as I’m close enough to see the waves, he leaves. Being alone, I whip out my wiener and piss right there on the spot. As usual, there are a couple guys to my north, three guys to my south, and then a small crowd at River Jetties. A set rolls in. It's three-feet plus but walled. Even the shoulders at the end are breaking section-into-section. I wait it out a little longer, hoping to see at least one random peak like yesterday. Compared to yesterday, the waves are a hair smaller and the water is much choppier. I debate on calling Klaude to see if I can get a report from him. Maybe I should just head back local. Right then, one of the guys just south of me catches a left. He gets one turn before the wave closes out. Sold!

#

     There’s no debate on what to wear this morning; it’s wetsuit all the way. I glance at the sky to see if the sun has a chance at peeking out, but the overcast is too thick. It’s already looking like it’s gonna be a gloomy day. I imagine what my brother would do if he saw this choppy, onshore, overcast sight. He’d say, “Damn,” shiver in his sweater, give a look of disdain, turn around, and go home. But fuck it. I can only hope for the best. Sometimes the conditions look better in the ocean.

     I have a spot all to myself. The old-timer from the parking lot and his two buddies are a little off to my left. No one is to my right. There’s that peak just north of River Jetties that looks like it’s working, but I know it’s gonna get packed soon, so I try to see if I can score where I’m at in No Man’s Land.

     I’m caught in a lull, wondering if I should venture south, but I don’t want to get too close to those other guys next to me. From experience, a set will come by the time I make it there, and I’ll be competing with the very guys that have been sitting and waiting well before me. Patience. The wind isn’t a factor in the lineup. On the shore I felt the gusts against my face, but right now . . . the wind seems to have backed off a bit. The water’s choppy but still manageable. All I need . . . is a wave.

     When the set comes it’s walled. There’s a shoulder at the end, but I’m too deep for it. Then like a miracle, a classic HB peak sprouts up. Since the swell is smaller today, it’s no more than three feet, but still, I have to appreciate this. Even with the wind, chop, and weather suitable for a suicide, the sand bars are still working. This little peak is pushing through the agents of skunk, still forming, still breaking. I pop-up going left. The wind is still knocking it down fast, but I have some face to work with. I get caught behind the section, and by the time I get to the shoulder the ride is over, but I’m not bummed. There’s potential.

     The first hour’s pretty consistent. There aren’t many lulls, and I’m not stagnant for long between waves. The shape is still messy, but there are lefts to be had. They’re racy, but I pop-up fast and make it to the open faces. The rides are short, but they’re single shots, good for finishing turns or maneuvers if you’ve got them. I take a look towards River Jetties, and that peak to the north of it is now crowded with at least ten people. Good, good for them . . . just don’t come over here.

     I take advantage of the oncoming sections, climbing the face of the shoulders approaching, floating on the lips, maintaining my balance as they crash, riding them out. No, these aren’t legit floaters, but I’m just stoked to not eat shit on them. Back in the day, I wouldn’t even try doing this.

     The rest of my waves are series of pumps followed by fun, single-shot turns to finish the rides. It’s hard to put English on my finishing carves because the waves aren’t clean (and because I’m a novice), but even though my turns don’t wrap around, I still get enough arc to make it fun. I get one turn on the Tokoro where I sink my weight down into the turn and pivot sharply off of the tail. The end section is only two-feet, but I throw-out a little toss of water. There’s just something about the Tokoro; it’s such a good board, fun to turn; I love it.

     To my surprise, I get the break to myself, and the consistent, random peaks make the trek to HB worth it.

     Things slow down into the second hour, and waves within my last twenty minutes are hard to come by. The wind picks up again, making the water choppier. It’s messing with the shape even more. I wonder how the scene must look from the shore. No one would want to paddle out now.

#

     When I’m done changing it’s exactly 0905. My engine’s running. I want to call Klaude and ask him how local was, but I don’t bother. I contemplate breakfast when I’m on the freeway, but I don’t want to eat alone. Just then, Klaude texts me. He says it was 2-3 FT on the face, and it’s still offshore. Son of a bitch, I’m thinking. Looks like I missed out on a good day for a local sesh, but I don’t regret anything. I still had fun on the HB gamble. 

     We meet in El Segundo and kaukau at The Blue Butterfly. I spot him for breakfast since he and his dad hooked me up with some Ahi Poki on Monday night. This breakfast meeting was meant to be because a woman that he hasn’t seen in ten years recognizes him and gets his number. She’s wearing a tight blue skirt, naughty for a cold, wet day. Even though we didn’t surf together, we still get to enjoy each other’s company. 

     The sky is overcast here too with a light sheet of moisture in the air. We sit at a table outside and hover over our bagels, stoked on the surf that nature provides.

Empty?