SHOW AND PROVE (double sesh), SUN 30SEPT2012 NOON

Some random guy about to get barrelled

Location: North Oceanside

Crew: Reptile Rick and Gary AKA Balls Deep

Conditions: 6-7 FT+, light north wind, inconsistent, mooshy outside, fast and drainy inside.

     Gary and Rick are generous with their food. I’m starving to death, but I’m putting it off like I ain’t hungry. Gary offers some Wheat Thins.

     “Thanks,” I say. I grab a few. When he walks off, I take a handful. He has string cheese. . . . I so want to eat his string cheese, but I can’t jack his food; it isn’t right. I didn’t want to make the same lousy sandwiches that I eat on a daily basis, but right now those lousy sandwiches would do me some serious justice.

     “Here, Matt,” says Rick. He tries to hand me a packet of crackers and tuna. 

     “No thanks, I’m good, man.” But I’m not good. But what kind of an asshole am I? If I’m THIS HUNGRY, I can only imagine how hungry these guys are. Instead, I chow on some of Rick’s celery. It will have to do. Rick opens up a can of sardines. They’re making my mouth water. There’s a little bit of foam at the corner of my mouth. I wipe it off. I swallow my saliva and drink some water. There’s a little bit of cracker somewhere between my guns that I break loose with my tongue; it’s so delicious. 

#

     We walk out to the sand and take a look at the surf. It’s not as walled as it was earlier, but the shape is still questionable. Surfers are scattered. Most of the waves are suicide barrels, fast and pinchy, but some guys manage to get some cover-up and make it out. Rick hands me a beer; we drink it right there on the sand. Gary grabs his camera and starts clicking away. Then . . . the coma sets in.

     Back at our picnic area, I’m beginning to doze off. The weather’s so nice; it’s freaking hot! The water looks inviting, but I’m in no rush. I could fall asleep right here in this chair. I reach for Gary’s Wheat Thins and realize I’ve damn near killed the whole box. Restraining myself, I put it back in his cooler.

     I’m nodding off when Rick shows up in his wetsuit. “You ready, Matt?” he says. He’s zipping up his back.

     I’m silent.

     “Don’t make me paddle out there alone.”

     I open my eyes. “Right behind you.” I throw on trunks and my short sleeved rashguard. I hope I won’t regret it.

#

     Gary’s under an umbrella close to shore. “I’m gonna take some pictures of you guys for a little while,” he says.

     “Is it breaking good here?” I ask, pointing straight out in front.

     “Yeah. It’s a little fast here though.”

     Rick paddles out first, and I’m right behind him. He heads towards the Jetty. I’m north, right in front of Gary. 

     Even though the shape isn’t that great, something’s happening with the lowering tide. Some five-to-six foot lefts start to pop up. I’m next to a guy on a longboard. I paddle for a wave, but so does he. He’s on my inside. I pull out, but he doesn’t even catch it. I take the next one, but it walls up towards the inside. I kick out early.

     The crowd that was here earlier begins to thin out. I paddle closer to Rick. He hasn’t caught one yet either. Some waves are breaking towards the jetty on the outside, werbly and refracting off the rocks. They look rideable but suspect to mooshing out. For some reason, Rick and the half-dozen guys around us paddle to the north, but I paddle south, a little closer to the jetty. Then all of a sudden, there’s a big line on the horizon.

     “Go for it, Matt!” says Rick.

     Shit, he read my mind. I mean, I’m all alone, and there’s a chance to catch this outside wave. Nothing is breaking anywhere else, so the pressure is on. Every other surfer in the water is frothing for a ride, and here I am, the guy who just paddled out minutes ago. I shouldn’t be so lucky.

     I’m on my JS. It’s 6’3 and has a little more volume than the Tokoro. I need the extra length and volume for all the water moving around. The wave is already peeling just outside of the jetty, but it looks mooshy. I do NOT want to miss this wave. I purposely catch it a little late to make sure I don’t scratch out.

     Rick yells, “PADDLE HARD!”

     It’s not standing up yet, but when I pop up . . . the race begins. What a drop in. . . . I don’t want to exaggerate, so for the sake of my brother’s Hawaiian/Bali scale, I’ll modestly say that this is a six-foot wave. The face is mixed with sand and white wash, and it’s a little choppy. The drop isn’t critical-steep like this morning, but it’s not slopey like Trestles either. From here, the section builds and lines up. I want to bottom turn and climb the face, but there’s too much size and the wave is going too fast. I pump and start my bottom turn from mid face. I can’t carve, there’s too much water moving, so I draw a high speed line, skimming the top of the wave. I can see Rick and the other surfers behind it. I’m approaching the inside, and the wave’s energy changes. The bottom starts sucking out and it’s going even faster. I try to top turn again, but it’s sloppy, and I almost lose my balance. I’m near the shallows when jump over the lip, and the wave explodes behind me.

     Damn, what a way to open up a session. I did it with a bomb. How did I pull that off with Rick with me? He’s throwing me shakas from the lineup. I’m smiling the whole paddle up to him. I turn and see Gary suiting up.

     From here, Rick takes over. There’s no question if he’ll make the wave; the question is: where will the bucket-toss come out from. He gets the most distance out of all of us, and again . . . today’s not his day for the inside, as he’s caught again in the impact zone.

     Gary makes it out. Now there are only two other surfers besides the three of us. The shape is better now, but it’s inconsistent. There are long lulls, and since the wave initially breaks mooshy, sitting in the right place becomes trivial. It would make sense to sit more on the inside, but then the fucking sets come, then what?

     It doesn’t take long for Gary to get a ride, and he goes almost as far as Rick. Gary paddles back, stoked. “That inside section,” he says. He shakes his head. “It’s just like, ‘KABOOM!’” He mimics an explosion with his hands.

     The trade off of waves is between the two of them. I get more rides but not a lot, and they are nothing like my first one. Gary catches another long left. Minutes later, Rick and I spot him back on the sand.

#

     We’re almost into the third hour. My teeth are chattering.

     “Awwww, you’re freezing,” says Rick.

     I try not to say too much because it’s uncomfortable. “I’mallright!”

     “You should have used my long sleeve rashguard.”

     “Itsokay!”

     I hate to have Rick outlast me, or anyone. I’m usually the last one out, but in this case, I need a last wave.

     Rick catches the first wave of the next set, and a couple seconds later I get the second one. The wave doesn’t look like much; it’s a little smaller than my first, but since the tide is now lower, the wave builds speed instantly. The section in front of me is long and walled, so I’m pumping the whole time to make it. I do a cautious turn, almost losing my balance again, and then the face goes vertical. I see that it’s tapering into a shoulder in front of me; it’s barreling. I could pull in, but it’s draining hard, and I can see the sand sucking into the face. Rick paddles over the shoulder, watching me. Instead, I pump and go for one more turn before the wave closes out. 

     Maybe I could have tried for the barrel; I don’t know, but I’m stoked to have ended with that ride.

     Back on the sand I ask Gary, “Why did you go in?”

     I can’t quote him word for word, but he got barreled on the inside, clean. “I had to come out after that one,” he says. “I wasn’t gonna get a better one than that.”

     Gary’s snapping photos of Rick’s last ride. He gets two turns on the inside. Rick comes up to me and says, “You could have got barreled on that one.”

     “Yeah, shit. I know. It was getting a little drainy.”

Rick's last wave

Fist pump

#

     I’m exhausted, we all are. I treat the guys to some Subway, and then we head to San Onofre so Rick can run an errand. We watch Old Mans and Churches. Churches looks so fuckin’ fun. The south swell is hitting here, and the rights are coming in at a consistent five-feet, nothing but tapered right hand lines from the outside all the way in. There’s a conveyor belt of surfers cycling through to make it back out, more activity than there are surfers. 

     “If Manny was here, we’d be paddling out again,” says Rick.   We all wouldn’t mind another go out, but we’ve had our fill. It’s time to head back. Rick asks me to drive because he’s tired. Seniority wise, I should be the one driving anyway. Because of Carmageddon, there’s no traffic. I take a shit at Gary’s house. I feel bad about the skid marks I leave on his toilet, but I’m sure that he won’t mind; he might think it was Rick. I get home before it’s dark. The weekend’s over, and I’m too tired for homework. I’d like to think it was worth it.

 

A WEEKEND AT TRESTLES 2012 (Part VI): LAST OF THE MOHICANS, MON 26MAR2012 MOR

Location: Lowers

Crew: Francis, Michelle, Al

Conditions: Clean, offshore, sunny, warm, inconsistent, weird, 4-5+ ft.

     It’s 0545, but I still wake up with ease. Sebastian didn’t have bad gas last night, so I don’t have Argentine farts in my breath. I climb down and hear Michelle rustle around in her sleeping bag. It’s cold and wet when I step outside. There are patches of dark clouds with patches of light, and the wind is offshore but strong. I wonder if the forecast for a clear morning is off. My towel and wetsuit are still damp, so I jump in the wagon and put the heater on, throwing my wetsuit on the floor board. After drinking the whole weekend, I definitely feel like shit this morning. Light drops of rain fall against the windshield. It’s so easy to go back in the trailer and fall asleep, but how can I? It’s like going to Disneyland and not going on any rides, like going to Amsterdam and no smoking any weed, or like going to the porn shop without rubbing one out in the video booth. 

     Al walks up to my window. I roll it down. “Where’s Francis?” he asks. 

     “What, I thought he was sleeping next to you.”

     “He’s not there.”

     “Oh . . . he’s probably in his truck.”

     I step out to change and see Michelle looking at the waves. I tell her I’m going for it and that I’ll meet them in the water. I’m expecting the wind to change, so I need to paddle out while it’s still offshore. It’s light out by the time I walk up to Francis’ truck. His windows are foggy, but I see him in there, so I knock on his window. He waves at me but doesn’t open the door. That’s odd. I figure he’s really tired, so I continue my journey.

     It’s a disappointing walk. Yesterday, everyone was talking about how today would be it: post storm surf, south swell, clean, lined-up waves. The surf is jumbled at Churches. Middles is just as disappointing. The SS kicks in. I try to build the waves up in my mind, telling myself that that little, tapered shoulder is good for some turns, but I know it’s not. 

     Lowers is empty, and no one else is on the sand with me. Only at Uppers I see a couple guys. Another surfer stands on the sand with his board in hand, going through similar contemplations. How could Lowers be completely empty? I hate to say it, but if a couple guys were out, my attitude would be: Oh hell no, I ain’t gonna let them have it to themselves.   

     The wind dies even more; it turns calm. The sun comes out; it’s warm. But the waves . . . the waves are scattered: swinging wide, inside, outside, and so peaky that they look like traffic cones. There’s the initial drop, but the shoulder tapers away so much that it bogs out. Lowers never breaks like this. It’s already past 0700, but I’m still staring at this spot, not accepting that it’s terrible. I walk a little south to north middles and see a couple rights that look better. I paddle out there.

     Even at Middles, the attraction of Lowers is too much. I find myself heading in that direction. When I see a couple guys on the sand checking it out, I get territorial; I have to make this spot work. It’s a frustrating start, scratching out on my first attempts. My first left is peaky, and I’m sent down the line with speed. The shoulder mooshes out into nothing, but I still try to carve it. It was like turning on a flat surface. Skateboarding, but it was still fun. 

     Francis appears to my south first, and then Michelle and Al join us. We comment on the conditions: clean, but breaking really weird. Francis is the first to get a legit wave, a right that he catches all the way to shore. So does Al, and Michelle and I catch a couple boggers. She’s charging on the peaks which actually have some size. She’s one of us. 

     About three more guys join us, and despite the weird waves, one of them is still making it work, throwing spray out the back for a couple turns. I get a couple waves with some pumpy, connecting sections but no carves. 

     Francis says that he needs to head in to get ready for his job. The wind shifts to the south anyway, so I let Al and Michelle know that I’m catching one in. We wait for them on the sand, but they’re still going for more. 

     “What happened to you last night?” I ask Francis.

     “Oh. Al was snoring too loud.”

     “Really?”

     “Yeah.”

     We walk the soft, muddy trail, careful not to sink. “You should’ve just woke his ass up. That’s what I used to do. He’s cool with it.”

     

     There’s no breakfast feast. Gary and Seba are cleaning up the trailer, and I down seven mint Oreos with milk for a quick snack. Michelle and Al return and get cleaned up. Francis leaves, and now there are only four of us left to enjoy this sunny morning. Despite the winds, the surf cleans up, and Old Mans has some fun looking lefts. The sun’s shining even brighter. It’s Sebastian, Al, Gary, Michelle, and me sitting at the picnic table.

     I turn to Michelle and say, “So, I’m gonna see what your shit looks like. We have to go to the drain station and dump out the trailer.”

     “I didn’t shit in the trailer.”

     “You didn’t?”

     “No.”

     “Oh. . . .” I turn to Gary. “Did you shit in the trailer?”

     “No.”

     I turn to Al. “How about you?”

     “Yeah.”

     “Okay, I’m gonna see what YOUR shit looks like.” Although this is no accomplishment, because I’m quite familiar with Al’s shit.

   

 

     It’s time for goodbyes. I thank Gary for helping to clean up and wash the dishes, and we talk to Michelle about a possible surf trip up north in the future. When they leave, Al and I go to the dump site with Sebastian to drain the poop. The tank is almost empty, but the drain hole starts to overflow. The water looks like tomato soup with a few orange poop-nuggets and toilet paper floating in it. When Seba picks up the drain hose, a log falls out. Al starts cracking up. 

     We thank Seba again for everything, and follow him to the El Toro exit where he waves goodbye. On the way home, Al and I stop by Hokkaido Seafood Buffet in Long Beach and eat for at least an hour and a half for only $10.99 each. 

     Back in El Segundo, we’re dead tired. We take a nap, and I wake to him getting ready at about 1930. The Travel Channel’s No Reservations plays on the TV. This episode is about Venice. I’m still groggy, feeling lazy on my couch. We give each other a hug, and I ask, “When you think you’ll be down again?”

     “I don’t know, maybe not until next year.”

     It’s too soon to ask. He needs to get back to his life and so do I. His footsteps clomp away as he walks down the hall and down the stairs. He has a long drive.

     I sit back on my couch, staring at my phone. Kind of like my brother traveling alone, he enjoyed the company of Tim and his friends, but when they left, he was by himself. Now it’s my turn. I’m blessed to have good friends, and even though the surf wasn’t epic, this trip was more about the company and helping to establish new relationships. Everyone got along, and the energy was good all around, but typing away in this lonely apartment there’s still something missing. 

A WEEKEND AT TRESTLES 2012 (Part V): HUNKERED, SUN 25MAR2012 EVE

    

Location: San Onofre

Crew: Francis & Michelle

Conditions: Choppy, jumbled, stormy, 5 ft.

     After the morning session, I grabbed some eggs, chicken sausage, green onions, tortillas, and started cooking breakfast. Even though everyone was nice enough to offer help, I didn’t want anybody in my way. Michelle brought some chili from home, so I let her throw some in a pot. Within an hour, we had a full blown trailer party going on. It was Sebastian, me, Al, Klaude, Francis, Michelle, Cheryl, Silverton, and Gary. There was more than enough food to go around, and everyone was full, allowing me to dust off what was left. Michelle also came through with the Irish car bomb cupcakes and chocolate brownies. I kept a good eye on the weather to see if it would in fact rain. I got texts from my friends up north where the storm already hit. 

     The wind started to pick up, and gray skies were pushed our way. Before we knew it, we were bombarded by the storm. Stepping out of the trailer was met with strong gusts of cold wind and rain. Even though we came to surf and enjoy the campsite, this was one of the highlights of the trip. We had plenty of beer to go around, food, and music. There was strong conversation into the whole afternoon. The fridge constantly opened and closed, beers were reached for and passed about, meeting thirsty mouths. Even though it was a little crammed, we all fit inside. I crawled under the trailer into Sebastian’s crotch, where he farted right on my forehead. Al drank to the point where no one understood what he was saying, and I had to translate. Francis just had that glazed look over him, chilled and relaxed as always. I’d say it was into that five o’clock hour when things started to slow down. Silverton was racked out across Cheryl’s lap, and the beer was getting low. The weather never ceased or let up, and then I started getting into my demons. I thought about all the homework that I needed to get done, moving out next weekend, what was Lauren doing at this very moment, and I worried for my guests. Sebastian was leaving in about an hour, and we’d be crammed up in a three-man tent, bracing the weather conditions.

     Al looked at Francis who opened the fridge. “Francis, can you grab me one?” he said. 

     Francis took a deep peer into the shallow compartment. He grabbed one for himself and gave one to Al. “Last one.”

     Klaude and I talked about the weather forecast. “I need a second session,” he said. “I’m staying to the bitter end.”

     I watched Seba open the fridge and stare into it for about ten seconds before he shut it, and then he said, “How we doin’ on supplies? Looks like I’ll be staying here another night.” Sebastian’s heart is as big as his stature. He called his boss and said he wouldn’t be coming in tomorrow. “I can’t leave you guys in the rain,” he said. I’m lucky to have him as a friend.

     From there I barked out orders. I organized a cleaning and resupply detail. We restocked with food and alcohol, and on the drive back was the most welcoming sight ever. Over the horizon, past the clouds, was bright orange sky, and then the wind died. We stood outside, grateful that the worst had passed, but even better, we had a window for surf. 

The Show:

     Francis comes back from doing a recon by Churches and says that there’s a peak working over there. The main problem is that we barely have an hour of daylight left. I look at Michelle. She’s contemplating. I ask Klaude if he’s down for a second sesh, but he says he has to hit the road. Cheryl and Silverton are also packed up and ready to go. “Where do you guys wanna surf?” I say.

     Michelle and Francis bring up the Churches option, but when I suggest the choppy peaks right in front of us, Michelle says, “I’m down for that too.”

     I turn to grab my gear. Michelle gives a sigh which translates into: I can’t believe we are doing this. 

     Even though Klaude and Cheryl are leaving, they stay to watch us surf. I’m the first to hit the water. I really don’t expect much. Even though the weather has cleared, the ocean is still stormy. It reminds me of choppy, evening surf at El Porto. We’ve been drinking all day, and it affects my performance. My heart races more and more with each duckdive; the waves are a little bigger than they looked from shore. The peaks are so scattered and random that I tire myself thinking about my strategy. My people are on the shore are watching. I want to give them something to “ooh” and “aah” about. The next set is big, a sloppy five-feet at least, but I’m too far out to paddle into it. I don’t see Francis or Michelle anywhere. The current pulls me north, so I paddle against it. My frustration builds when a big wave forms right in front of me. I feel like I’m late, but I go anyway. I dig-in my left rail a couple feet down the face before the wave morphs and pitches me forward. I ditch my board completely, and feel it sling into the air as I plunge below. I resurface unashamed; it was actually fun. I can’t see reactions from the shore, but I have a feeling they appreciated that one. 

     Francis tells me he got worked paddling out, and Michelle waited for a channel to open up. They are both to my north, but I try to fight the current back to the camp site. I still can’t catch anything decent, while Francis takes a couple with ease, getting at least one turn on each for some distance. 

     Daylight burns out quickly. Michelle’s on the shore walking back to camp, and Francis is making his way back in. I catch a closeout and ride it straight. I turn around, pondering on a last wave, but the site is unwelcoming. Roars of whitewash roll in, one behind the other. At least I got a monster wipeout.

     Klaude’s on the shore, ready to greet us as we stumble in. “Good job,” he says. He’s smiling and patting me on the back, looking more stoked than we are for the evening rush, but his look says it all. He wanted to be out there, he would’ve been happy to catch some storm slop with us, side by side, like brothers in arms, but we understand. He has to leave, already behind schedule. Cheryl and Silverton bone out too.

         

     Francis and I stay loyal to the ritual, and drink a couple MGDs in the shower. When we get back to the trailer, the weather starts to change again. What we witnessed was just a mere lull, there are darker clouds ahead. We still have time to bonfire while Michelle volunteers to cook. As soon as we go in for dinner, the rain and wind picks up again. 

     The whole day’s activities catch up to everyone. Sebastian passes out, so I play with his belly button while he sleeps. Al doesn’t even want to drink anymore, Gary and Michelle seem to be holding up strong, and I’m trying to get everyone to eat as much as possible.

     Michelle makes pasta with chorizo with a garnish of cilantro. I warm up some of her chili and put some tortillas in the microwave to make sure everyone’s full. Afterwards, it’s on to mint Oreos and Chips Ahoys with bunny tracks ice cream. Michelle’s friends from a San Clemente campsite show up to say hi, and then it’s time to go to sleep. It was a long and brutal day, but thank Sebastian we got shelter. 

A WEEKEND AT TRESTLES 2012 (Part IV): CALM BEFORE THE STORM, SUN 25MAR2012 MOR

Location: Lowers

Crew: Al, Cheryl, Francis, Klaude, Michelle

Conditions: Sunny, south wind, choppy, inconsistent, 3 feet, semi crowded.

The night before:

     After last night’s session, my friend Tim brought some pizzas over to the camp site. He brought along his friends Barbara and Susan as well. Susan was part of Tim’s group that took a recent trip to Vietnam where they also met up with my brother. To see Randy in most of their pics made me realize how much I miss him. I wondered if he was all right traveling by himself, and if he felt lonely after Tim left. I can only imagine how much seeing a familiar face can lift one’s spirits to eventually be alone once more. Tim showed me pictures of them snorkeling.

     “Yeah, Matt. Your brother was the first one in the water,” said Tim. He skipped to an image of Randy, jumping off the boat at a forty-five degree angle. “He had this really sick dive. From here he straightened out head first.” 

     It brought me back to memories as a kid, spear fishing with my brother in Maui. He was always good in the water. 

     After Tim and his crew left, Silverton, Cheryl, Al, Sebastian, and I racked out in the trailer. At 0200, Cheryl’s cousin Michelle arrived with her friend Gary. I sat up, half-asleep, pointed out where to sleep, and tossed her a flashlight.

Rise and Shine:

     My alarm goes off at 0545. It was a brutal night. Sebastian and I are sleeping, crisscrossed on the top compartment. The whole night he was blowing Argentine farts directly into my face. They were pure and uncut, and I was inhaling, tasting them. I climb down, stepping over Michelle who’s sleeping on the kitchen floor, and grab my wetsuit off of the hanger. The wind is strong offshore; it’s cold. I hop in the wagon and turn on the heater. Taking a note from G of the OC, I stuff my wetsuit under the floorboard heater, hoping to give it some warmth. The phone rings.

     “Matt, it’s Francis. I’m at the gate, but it’s not open yet.” 

     A minute later I call Klaude. He puts on a fake sleepy voice then says, “Yo, yo, yo! I’m almost there!” 

     When they pull up, I tell them that I’m gonna start changing, and they park. Al and Michelle jump in the car with me, but I tell them that I’m just taking my time, enjoying the heater. I introduce Francis to Michelle, Klaude gives her a hug, and then we suit up. 

     The sun creeps up fast, but we’re still making good time. Al assists Michelle with her equipment while she grabs her longboard, and then we start the morning trek. This morning is similar to the previous mornings: strong offshore, choppy, and inconsistent. The shape is horrible at Churches, and Middles looks questionable, so it’s back to Lowers. 

     When we arrive, there are four guys at the peak. They see all of us doing the cobblestone dance to deeper water. Even though we’re far away, I can tell that they’re scowling at the site of us. Lowers is a little choppy from the gusts, but a three-footer A-frames right in front of us, and the guy going left sells it—there’s still good surf here.

     It’s a tense approach to the lineup. There’s no “good morning” or “how’s it going.” It’s clear. For them, it was a good time until we showed up. I sit on the outside, so as not to just insert myself into the lineup. Al and Klaude go towards the inside of the break, not taking the top of the wave right away. I forget who draws first blood, but I see Francis and Al get some inside rides. Still, nothing is swinging wide towards me. I wait until the guys at the top of the wave split the peak before I move in. I paddle out the furthest, hoping for an outside set, and for some reason my timing’s on point. There it is, the bump that’s too far out for anyone else. I feel my people behind me. Maybe not all of them, but maybe at least Klaude or Al. This is a special moment, any time one of your buddies gets that wave to himself, you know he’s fuckin’ stoked. Again, I’m faced with an A-frame. I can go either way, but taking off from the center I go left. That Lowers peak is an anomaly. It looks mooshy, but when it breaks it just pushes you right in. I see the whitewash spilling near my deck, but I’m propelled to the open face. After a couple pumps I get my first top-turn. I lose a little speed on it, but for where my surfing is right now, I am satisfied. The section walls up towards the inside, looking like it’s over three feet. Again, I go top to bottom. I hear someone yell, “Yeah!” from the inside. I get a third carve off the shoulder before I kick out. It was a long left. I see Klaude on the inside, paddling through the white wash. He gives me a thumbs up. I nod. I look at Al while shaking my head. I’m thinking, my morning session is made.

     When I look back towards the inside, I see Al and another guy looking at their boards. Al has his hands up, saying something about who went first, and then I see Francis paddle over. I can’t hear them, but I can tell that something’s not right. The guy paddles back to the peak next to me and catches one in. 

     I’m feeling confident after my first ride. There’s no being shy and sitting wide. I sit on the outside again, and the technique pays off once more. I select the left and work on my turns. When I return, Al says, “Did you see what happened?”

     “I saw you talking to that guy on the inside.”

     “Yeah, well. I was paddling for a wave when he was paddling out, and then he turned around last minute and tried to catch it, so our boards were tangled.”

     “Okay?”

     “I told him, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,’ and then the guy pushed me.”

     “Oh shit.”

     “So I pushed him back. I was like, really? Do you really want to get into a fight at seven in the morning? He was shaking. I told him to get out of here, and then Francis was more intense than me. He paddled up and told the guy, ‘Get the fuck out of here!’”

    

     For some reason, Al finds himself in these situations quite a bit. If it’s not up north, it’s down here. The last time we surfed Uppers together some guy yelled at him too. However, as I’ve said before: Al is a beast; he can handle himself, so I don’t worry about him. Especially since he’s packing eight-plus inches in his wetsuit; that says a lot.

     After the first forty-five minutes, the wind swings south and adds more texture to the water. The peaks shift unexpectedly, and more people show up. My placement and timing is off, as I miss a lot of waves. Klaude still works the inside, and I see Francis and Al taking a lot of rights. On one right, Al zooms past Klaude and throws out a good little backhand bucket, but the snake of the day award goes to Michelle. I’m too south of the peak when it breaks, and Al is in the center of it with priority. Regardless of it, Michelle paddles in on her longboard and drops in on him, taking away his line.

     Our group leaves the water at different times. Al and I catch our last ones in and watch Michelle and Francis still going for it. There are barely six guys out now, and Francis gets two back-to-back rights, unchallenged, unmolested. Al and I watch in acknowledgement. Walking back to the trailer, we comment on the weather. It’s supposed to rain. 

     “No, it doesn’t look like it’s gonna rain any time soon,” says Al. 

     “Yup.”