DAYS OF THE ZIPPY FISH PT.3, SAT 27OCT2012 MOR

Loc: Rosecrans

Crew: Bri

Time: 0900-1100

Conditions: 3 FT, high tide, offshore, consistent, minimal crowd, sunny, hot.

     My alarm goes off at 0600, but my room is so fucking cold. Next to Briana’s warm body, it’s hard to leave the covers. At 0700, I give up on hitting the snooze button and just shut off my alarm entirely. With the cold and my surf-worn body combined (also with Bri who doesn’t want to get out of bed) there’s no way I’m waking up.

     At 0815 I open my eyes. Bri is up too. Disappointment overwhelms my face. It’s do or die time, that moment when you have to decide: to surf or not to surf. A minute longer without a decision is a refusal. I reach for the blinds and open them. It’s broad daylight outside. “Fuck,” I say. “I didn’t make my commitment with Klaude.”

     Bri turns over and says, “You didn’t ‘make the commitment’ that you were going to meet him.”

     “That’s not the point,” I say. “He’s out there right now. I should be out there too. We always surf local on the weekends.”

     “Okay,” she says, “Let’s surf.”

     I’m filling up my hot water jugs when Bri starts saying how tired she is and how she has a lot of stuff to do before work. I give her the option: you don’t have to come if you don’t want, but I’m going.

     The wagon already has our boards in there from yesterday, so this morning is just a matter of getting the wetsuits and towels. When we reach 26^th, I don’t see Klaude’s van anywhere. We park at the top lot and walk by the lifeguard station for a look. Bruce is out there as well. I scan the lineup in search of any of my buddies. I see none of them. The waves are breaking close to shore; it’s not consistent.

     I think about the options. I really don’t feel like cooking, wanted to grab some breakfast on the way home but not if we don’t get a session in. “Let’s check out Porto,” I say.

     We hop in the wagon and take the lower road to Rosecrans, where I see an open parking space on the right side of the road. We park on Rosecrans and change without checking the water.

#

     Given the small conditions, whipping out the Zippy Fish again is a no brainer. It’s 0900; we’re late and on the second shift.

     We walk down to the lifeguard station, and it’s like a scene from the summer. People are lying out in the sun, playing volleyball, sitting under their umbrellas, and swimming in the water. The sky’s a piercing blue, it’s offshore, and hot. I’m already sweating in my wetsuit.

     There are some peaks in front of the lifeguard station working, but it’s crowded with surfers. We walk just south of it where there’s a gap in the crowd.

     There’s a peak to our north and south.

     I have a feeling we’re in a bad spot, but I don’t want to be close to anyone.

     We sit during this first lull, not expecting much when Briana turns to me and says, “I’m already stoked.”  

     To our surprise, despite the high tide, some waves are breaking towards the outside. Long, mooshy lines form with tapered shoulders at the end. I kick and scratch, popping up on a left. The ride is short, similar to North Churches’ refracted lefts, but they are still fun: good for a pump and down the line distance into inches of water. I kick out too late and roll onto the sand.

     Briana has a hard time catching them; she keeps purling. I tell her that it’s probably because she doesn’t have momentum. I look out on the horizon and see a bump. “This one,” I say. “Go.”

     She turns around and catches the wave going left. Again, going down the line just like yesterday.

     I wouldn’t call the session a buffet, but it’s definitely not boring. I pick out most of the lefts, and our desolate little spot doesn’t have much competition. Even though I can’t get any turns down, the waves are still fun, especially on a day when it’s supposed to be flat.

     Bri and I both get our fair share. “See,” I say, “and you would’ve been in bed knocked out right now. I would’ve came home, told you about the surf, and then you would’ve said, ‘Oh, that’s nice, glad you had a good session,’ but you wouldn’t have been able to relate how it actually was out here. And now look at you . . . you’re catching waves going down the line. Aren’t you glad you came out?”

     She smiles and lifts her eye brows. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”

#

     After Briana snakes a guy going right, we let the current take us south of 34^th. Even though the tide is going down, the waves start backing off at our peak. We see a longboarder close to the next tower with a peak all to herself. We paddle over and share the spot.

     Both of us get more rides, and I don’t have to watch her; she’s doing her own thing and I’m doing mine. The weather’s so warm that some old dude is barebacking it. I keep glancing at 26^th, seeing the crowd of surfers in the distance, wondering if any of my homies are there.

     We surf for two solid hours. Still beat and sun burned from yesterday, we catch a wave in and rinse off by the run path. The wind is still calm as it was when we arrived with a fresh new lineup of surfers taking over for the third shift. 

     We polish off the session with breakfast at Mandy’s Family Restaurant in El Segundo, both aware that we made the right decision not to sleep in. 

WHEN SCHOOL GETS IN THE WAY , MON 15OCT2012 MOR

Loc: Huntington

Crew: Solo

Time: 0730-0900

Conditions: 3 FT, clean, offshore, inconsistent, high tide.

PRE BLOG—Tales of the Skunk:

     I had duty from the 12^th – 14^th, so on Thursday the 11^th, I planned to do a dawn patrol with my classmate Cassady. The forecast said there would be some AM wind, but that there was some fair conditions from the SW swell.

     I woke up at 0525, ate, and loaded up my wagon. Everything outside was wet; I didn’t realize that it rained.

     The morning was dark, and by the time I reached Torrance on the 405S, lightning and rain commenced. It doesn’t matter, I thought. I was going to paddle out no matter what.

     Long Beach wasn’t any dryer, and there was still thunder and sprinkles when Cassady loaded his gear into my car.

     “What do you think about the thunder?” he asked.

     I thought about his question then remembered the time I surfed Porto during a thunderstorm. We saw the lightning a couple miles away. Only about a dozen of us idiots were out. When we heard the roar from the thunder, none of us said a word. Nope. Instead, we slightly turned our heads to see if anyone was going to say anything. No one did, regardless that we all contemplated on paddling in.

    

     We passed Bolsa Chica. “That looks pretty sick,” said Cas.

     I looked over. There was a clean right peeling, just under three feet. I tell him that we’re gonna check out my brother’s favorite spot in North Huntington.

     When we arrive . . . the peaks are crumbly, long and walled but at only a couple feet. It’s choppy. It’s bad. No one’s out. Even at River Jetties there are only a couple heads. It’s unappetizing. 

     Cassady says that his uncle lives in Newport, and we can park at his house. We check it out. It looks worse.

     We find ourselves back at Bolsa, and anything resembling that clean, wave we saw in the morning is nothing but a myth. Some groms are coming back in, along with a couple longboarders. Everyone is leaving. We drive to lifeguard tower 20. The surf syndrome kicks in, causing me to tilt my head, squint, and mind-surf the crumbly sections. 

     “Let’s go to my work and grab some breakfast,” says Cas.

     We walk back to the car bone dry. Wetsuits and boards fill my wagon, unused—a false alarm. 

#

15OCT2012:

     After a fairly successful work weekend, a morning sesh is necessary. Sure, I could just pick up the old routine and workout before class, but I need this surf session; I have to. According to the weather forecast, there’s a system of high pressure, making the temps rise again, also creating some offshore flow. I take a look at the forecast. The tide’s gonna be a little high in the morning, but Huntington still has a green rating. I gotta do it.

     I load up the JS and the Tokoro and head towards Bolsa since it’s close to school. I don’t bother hitting up Cas because there’s a chance I could get skunked again.

     The feeling of the true, dawn patrol is foreign to me now. Traffic is light but swervy from people still half asleep. The sun’s still a faint, purple tinge behind the horizon, and my car’s instrument panel reflects throughout my inner compartment. My coffee’s hot, and the freeway lights are brownish-orange.

     To think I used to do this all the time.

Bolsa:

     I’m at tower twenty. The conditions are magnificent. The wind is light offshore, the sun’s already bright, there isn’t a cloud in the sky, but gawd damn it’s small. It’s like two-feet, consistent, but not peaky. The lines are long. A few longboarders make their way out. They’re stoked, rushing it.

     I have to see what North HB is doing.

N HB:

     I’m at my favorite spot. Ten guys on body boards are out. A woman with a tripod setup is filming them. A couple peaks roll on, but they meet the backwash, jacking up prematurely but still giving a fat, racy shoulder. It’s not classic HB, not the epic surf that I’ve scored here with Fransauce on many occasions. Three surfers bob to the south. River Jetties has a lot of heads, but I’ve never surfed there; I may never in my life; I don’t know. 

     This is it, as good as it’s gonna get. A sun-beaten, freckle-skin, blonde guy is parked close by.    “How’s the water temp been?” I say.

     “The morning’s been warm, but I still put on a wetsuit, you know . . . keep that water off my back. It’s been windy in the evenings so . . . wetsuit for sure.”

     I thank him and take a look at my boardshorts and wetsuit.

#

     I’m in my Hurley shorts (courtesy of Manny A.) and black, long-sleeved rashguard. Because of the high tide, I select the JS. The water’s cool, but manageable. Trunking it is a successful gamble. The sun is now higher, making everything opposite the ocean a radiant gold. The water is glassy, clean, but . . . fucking tide. It’s inconsistent where I am. The body boarders are getting some waves, but their rides are short. To the south, there’s a left-hand peak that keeps peeling. It’s half the distance to the river jetties, a far but doable paddle.

     When I reach it, I’m close enough to the main pack to make out some faces and shapes, but I have a peak to their north to myself. My first wave comes. The peak looks small, but it hits the sandbar and the backwash, jacking up to three-plus feet. It’s a quick drop, but I maintain my balance into the bottom turn. The section’s running away, so I pump, keeping my eye on the lip. It starts to go vertical, so I crouch, but the lip spills instead of going round. I fade out, climb the face, and attempt a top turn. There’s something about this JS, probably a fault of my own as well, but I just can’t crank out any good front-side turns on it, not like on the Tokoro. The tail is sluggish as I try my carve, so I end up doing more of a check turn off of the face for my finishing maneuver.

     I resurface, not completely fulfilled, but . . . it’s better than any wave that I’ve caught in the last . . . shit, I can’t even remember when the last wave I caught was. I’m satisfied. The wave makes the morning. Despite the conditions, there’s potential.

     Back at the lineup, the surfer I passed earlier is now there. Minutes later, guys are on the sand. Next thing you know, there’s a fucking crowd at my peak. . . . What the fuck just happened?

     I get a couple more rides, but none surpass the quality of my first wave. I’m in position for some plus-sized peaks, but I have to back out because of the crowd. The blonde dude from the parking lot is ripping it up. He takes off deep, where the drop is critical, way behind from where I would take off from, but he makes the sections and gets rides all the way to shore.

     I know it’s going to get better when the tide drops. Even the afternoon, I know it’s going to be good, but my watch says it’s 0900. I have to prioritize.

     I paddled out; I got wet; I got a couple waves. It will have to suffice.

#

     For the rest of the week at school, I study in the library while checking the surf cams and reports. It’s good out there; I know it is. I close my Surfline app because it’s no use; it’s torture. I’ll just have to hear how good it was through someone else. . . .