2017 – #16 TUE21FEB

            I messed up by requesting too much overtime last week at work, not thinking that they’d approve it. I didn’t take into account that when it rains, a lot of people call in sick. For a week straight I had to see my friends post record breaking stats on their Traces, knowing that local surf was fun and rippable while I was stuck at work. After pulling a 10 hour shift on Monday, I was determined to paddle out on Tuesday.

            Passing Dockweiler, I could see that there were waves. The Chevron Tanks looked a little walled. I pulled into 45^th Street in the midst of a light rain. There were waves, indeed, but they weren’t peaky. They were coming in a little walled, or the shoulders were just saddles that led into another oncoming wave. Either way, it looked worthy enough, surf starved as I was.

            I pushed it a little more south just to see what 26^th Street looked like. The surf was a tad smaller and, quality wise, not much better. However, there was free parking, so that was just too hard to pass up.

            Paddling out at 1030, only a small thimble full of the usual locals were there. Two whose names I don’t know and the legend Don Kadowaki. The storm drain had some runoff creeping towards the ocean, but hadn’t quite reached it yet. I thought about all the sharps that could be embedded in the sand and the nasty bacteria floating around in the water, but there was no passing on this session.

            The water was cold as I had expected, but a few duckdives later and I was used to it. I paddled a smudge north to escape the few heads that were there, and within a minute a big rolling right came my way. My board felt leafy, just too small for all the water moving around, but as I turned to scratch and kick, it was like my board stopped and slowly gained momentum just in time for the wave to pick me up. The drop itself was fun, although sketchy, and the feeling of maintaining my balance down the face felt victory enough.

            I just didn’t want to blow it. Not surfing in nine days does make a difference. My board felt awkward, the quads a little to fast and loose. I managed my first backhand snap and carefully transitioned into a cutback with still some open face left for another hit. After the second snap, I hit the eject button before the wave closed out and cannon balled into the safety zone just behind it.

            It wasn’t a session when I scored wave after wave. In fact, that was my best wave of an otherwise uneventful session, but paddling back to the lineup and getting the smiling nod of approval from Don and a few of the other gents there made being out there worthy enough.

2017 – #15 SUN12FEB

            So now two more people I know have a Surf Trace. Good thing about that is I can check their stats to get an idea of how the surf is. Manny and Rick both scored turns at 45^th. Actually, Brett Simpson was surfing out there, according to them, so if it’s good enough for a pro…

            Klaude called me right when I got home from work, said he had slept in late, so he was gonna hit it. On the way to the surf, he called again and said there were waves everywhere, except 26^th St.; something about those sandbars over there that’s not working.

            Bri and I parked in the Porto lot and walked to Rosecrans. Sadly, there was so much trash in the lineup: candy wrappers, straws, plastic, and plastic bags. Not big pieces, but there were a lot of tiny plastic things just floating everywhere, and every time a wave stood up, you could just see the trash lifting up with it, weaved into an aquatic curtain.

            Despite the high tide, the paddle out was a little far, and waves were breaking way on the outside. Typical of the tide, a lot of the rides started off fast and bogged out on the inside. We all scored a few waves, but really, the trash was just so nasty. Every duckdive all I could think about was how my sinuses were getting contaminated. My eyes burned a little more than usual.

            After the sesh, I didn’t really have any solid turns to claim. If anything, the surf was a game of just making sections and trying to stay in the pocket, a lot of stop and go without a good face to unleash a solid carve on.

            But the day was beautiful. Bri and I walked down to 26^th on The Strand to enjoy the atmosphere. Manhattan Beach was just as crowded and active as an amusement park without the lines, the ocean as the main attraction. It was like a spring day, and yet, we’re expecting another storm come Friday.

WHY I PADDLED OUT, SUN 03FEB2013 MOR

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Crew: Klaude, Hideki, Christina, appearance by Shan

Conditions: 1-3 FT, occasional plus sets, walled, drained tide.

     I told myself I’d go to PV if local looked like shit, but that was last night when I had every intention of waking up early. But today, or this morning, I’ve woken up late, which is typical of me, lately.

Porto

It doesn’t look so good, but I drive through

Take a gander

A look

     Hmmm. It’s okay, I guess. Looks small, semi walled, but without the size, there are some

Little shoulders

I drive to our local spot

And see

CC

She’s on the sand

Doing

Her yoga

Right then I know

I’m not going to PV

My friends

are

Here.

     It’s been a while, it seems, since I saw Klaude last, and Christine. Hidek is on his yellow board. They’re both out there. What a shame. The water is glassy, clean, but . . . the waves. Yeah. Walled. Small, walled and punchy. There you go. How’s that for description?

     CC sees me first as I paddle up. The surf is secondary now. I’ll be happy to get what I can, but I’m happier to see the crew. She tells me about the kids at school, how they’ve been sick, getting her sick, and the water, well, it’s cold, and that can’t help her immune system now can it?

     I guess I’ve been lucky, the first winter in years without getting sick. And honestly, I think . . .

It’s that brown fizz

The condom underneath me that I don’t see

A floating tampon

Dogshit somewhere that came in via storm drain

Yes

These nasty motherfuckers

These things

Have given me

Super strength

I’m like an X-man

Thanks to the poop

I haven’t been sick

At least

That’s what I believe.

Beg to differ?

     Klaude is . . . doing all right. He hears me mention PV to Christina. “Klaude had a good session,” I say.

     “Yeah,” says Klaude. “I’m still thinking about that one.”

    

Now . . .

We’re waiting

Waves come

We make the best out of turnless shape

Go straight

I

Get a couple waves that I can at least pump

Get some distance

Thanks to my new board

Klaude notices

Everyone’s going

Trying

To catch what they can.

Hideki goes

Christina goes

Only to reemerge a few meters away

Like a piece of meat, churning up from boiling stew

Shan appears

It’s weird

I know

Awkward

For

Everyone . . .

Except Hideki.

     The current pulls south, but we fight, fight, fight it. And try to hold position just south of the tower. Klaude has a game to coach. He goes. So does Hidek. And Christina. But later she comes back, again, trying to paddle out.

     I think . . . the inside must be brutal. I don’t see her again. Even Shan, same thing. He gets caught on the inside then gets pushed to the sand. I see him later, standing, waiting for the window. Perhaps to regain strength? Energy? Well. I catch my last wave in, join him and Veronica on the sand. They offer me tangerines and Pepperidge Farm Goldfish.

That salt hits my lips

AH!

Glorious!

Everything always tastes so fuck-ing good after a surf!

AT THE FOOTSTEPS OF STAGE II, FRI 25JAN2013 MOR

 

Loc: 45^th Street

Time: 0915-1115

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 4-6+ FT, clean, glassy, offshore, dumpy with occasional barrels, gnarly.

     I wake up to the sound of pouring rain. I had initially planned to surf today, but of course I can’t surf now. Who the hell would be out there in these conditions?

     My classmate Cassady calls. He’s from Santa Barbara and a fellow surf enthusiast. “Have you seen the cams?” he says.

     “Nah, man.”

     “Dude, check your e-mail. Porto looks good right now, and there are barely and heads out.”

     “Yeah? Are you surfing today?”

     “Yeah, I think I’m gonna check out HB. . . . Check your e-mail.”

     I don’t check my e-mail because . . . in the back of my mind, I know there’s surf. I know it’s one of “those” days. I just know it. Of course there’s surf. I look at the surfcam, but it’s hard to tell. It’s still raining outside. I prep my gear, question myself whether this is a good idea or not, and I head out.

     Lines are coming into Porto as I drive down 45^th and enter the lot. The inside looks consistent. I park. Hmmmm. It’s walled but there’s a little shape there. The tide’s too high for Hammers to work. I know because I only saw one SUP guy there. I doubt that my other MB spot is working because it’s usually more walled there, and if it’s this walled over here? It looks tempting because the tide is high, because there looks like there’s a little bit of shape, but that paddle out . . . fuck it looks brutal.

     I change. I wax up my board. I tell myself that this is dangerous.

     As soon as I make my way to the bike path, four guys doing a surf-check turn around from the shore and walk back to the lot. One of them says, “Hey!” and waves towards me. I have no idea who this dude is. I turn around. Nobody’s there. When we get closer I realize it’s Whiffleboy. He’s with some other local Porto rippers that I see out here on a regular basis.

     “I didn’t recognize you with your hat,” I say. We shake hands. “You paddle out already?”

     “No.”

     He tells me where he intends on going, but I don’t want to blow up his spot, so I’m not gonna write it here. We talk about how another option is PV.

     “You off all day?” I ask.

     “Yeah.”

     “Fuck,” I say. “If I didn’t have to do my taxes today I’d totally be down for a mission.”

     “Well, you’ll be doing a lot of dodging right here.” He motions towards the lineup. A massive wall crashes down.

#

     When I had paddled out at the jetty on Wednesday, I managed to avoid getting worked. Something about having the jetty there makes it easier to paddle out, but here . . . the channels are deceiving, and the work to get out here is unavoidable. I begin my paddle, trying not to hurry too much and burn oxygen. I resolve to the fact that I will get a little worked, will have to face a set wave, and will probably get pounded once or twice; it’s just a given. But then . . . I only have to duckdive whitewash; I make it out unscathed. Bless me!

     I’m a fresh face, amped. I have another chance, a fresh start, and an opportunity to redeem myself. My eyes are open now. I know that in these conditions that there ain’t no turning. It’s barrel or nothing. The other guys in the lineup have a tired look on their faces. They’re frustrated. They probably felt the way I did an hour ago, and now their stoke has worn off.

     The crowd is thin. I see my bro’s friend from Indo. He’s hard to miss because he’s so dark he makes me look white. His name is Nyoman. I wave. He waves back.

     My first wave is a right, but it’s not round because of the tide. It’s walled but the shape is holding. I try to get a top turn, but I just can’t set myself up right, and my ride ends in a non consequential wipeout, no biggie.

     Nyoman and I shoot the shit a little. I tell him that my bro went back to Java and that it’s been raining over there. He says that it’s wet season, there’s been a lot of flooding, and that he’ll e-mail my brother when he goes back in the summer.

     My next wave is a left, a closeout, but I pull in and penetrate out the back pretty clean. Rides like this I’ve gotten used to. My next wave is just pure closeout. I lose my balance and accidentally step off of my tail backwards at the base of the wave. I still have my ass; I’m okay.

     What happens next is fuzzy and I can barely remember. Fuck . . . just . . . set waves. Bombs just start coming in, and the fucked up part is that . . . they are makeable. What I mean is, there is no shape for carving. It’s either go straight or get barreled; that’s it, nothing else, and a lot of them are rights. I feel so uncomfortable at back-hand barrel attempts, it just seems like all wipeouts from that position are awkward.

     I catch a left and straighten out. I look down the line. I could’ve made that if I had pulled in. FUCK. I catch a right, I mean, a perfect, peaky right, but I don’t pull in. I look behind me. I could have made that one too. FUCK ME, I’M A FUCKING PUSSY. ARRRRRRRRRRRGH! I’m internally berating myself again. Fuck . . . this isn’t stoke. God damn, I mean . . . barrel riding. Will I look back on this one day and say, “Yes, I remember those days.” Right now I just feel I’m in a perpetual state, like my surfing has plateaud.

     I tell myself from now on I have to go, HAVE to go. The next left that comes in is so lined up. The peak is about to go round because of the lowering tide; I can fucking tell. I position myself just deep off of the shoulder. I guy to my north watches. The shoulder instantly stands up. I’m popping up, the shape is so perfect, I know this is going to be a good barrel, it has to be. I have no intentions of straightening out; I’m committed. And then . . . my front foot slips and slides towards my nose. Awkward wipeout on a clean, barreling wave. I’m past humiliation because . . . I’m under water. I know I’m deep, and I’m there for a while. I should be at the surface by now, but I’m not. It’s dark . . . dark, and then. GASP! Finally! Fuck me. I remount my board, and here comes the next wave. Duckdive, lose board, upside down, resurface. A guy paddles next to me, passes me, and makes it over the next wave. What the fuck?! I’m on the inside getting worked. I look back and see the lifeguard truck behind me.

     The guys in there are probably saying, “Yup, watch this guy. He shouldn’t be out there.” The next wave comes, obliterates me. “Oooooooh! Is he coming up?”

     I make it back out. I’m caught up in a mix of emotions, talking to myself. An inside right comes my way, still about five feet. “All right, Donny. Here we go here we go!” I pop up and draw a long bottom turn to run the length of the section. The wave isn’t round. I try to gouge out the face on my backhand, but I get stuck on the downturn and fall. I may have been too eager on that turn. Again, pounded on the inside.

     For every wave I catch thereafter there is a price to pay. Charlie paddles out. He waves.

     “I see you waited until the tide got lower,” I say.

     “Yeah, well . . . might be more dangerous now.”

     “I’m surprised you’re not at the jetty.”

     He shakes his head. “It’s too damn crowded over there.”

     We’re both on the inside. We paddle next to each other, trying to make it out, and then he stops and rests on the inside. I keep paddling, getting worked on the way. I’m surprised that for a vet like him that he’s not just going for it. I look around. Some other guys are doing the same. Is this a surf secret that I’ve been missing? Wait until the sets over even though you’re sitting on the inside? I continue to trudge forth, and in front of me I see a guy paddling into a barrel, and he eats shit as he slides down. I look towards 42^nd and another guy eats shit on a wave. Right there I realize . . . it’s not just me having a tough time.

     Some guy who’s been tearing it up on a single fin all morning is flailing around on the inside. I watch and then realize he just looks awkward because he’s paddling on half of his board.

     I watch Charlie paddle into a bomb by the bathrooms. He disappears going right then kicks out smoothly over the shoulder towards the inside. Fuck me.

     I sit with my demons, but they’re not as loud. I’ve been in the water for about two hours, and I need a final wave of the morning. A left pops up, just like the beautiful barrel that I blew earlier. It’s funny how these things happen, like they could be in a movie, so cliché but true. It’s my redemption wave, but it’s up to me to make it so. Just like the one I blew, I place myself in a similar position, paddle, kick, and go. I’ve popped up. I’ve survived. I’ve lined myself up with the wave, and I’m waiting for it to throw over. I’m drawing a high line. I crouch down . . . I’m crouched . . . still crouching, and . . . the fucking wave isn’t throwing out. It’s not a barrel. I’m forcing it. I should be down the line just throwing in some turns. I see that the wave is about to wall up. I pump, bottom turn, and throw a nice meaty carve off of the top. I mean it feels so good, just full rail. I rebound off the lip as it turns to white wash and catch the wave on my belly to shore.

     It’s like Porto threw me a bone and said, “No, you’re not ready yet, but here’s a little something for your troubles.” (Mobster flips a coin to the kid on his ass in the middle of the street. It hits the ground, rolls, and spins before it falls flat).

     A guy is on the shore watching the surf as I pull myself up and out of the water.

     “I saw you on that right,” I say. “It was a good one.”

     “Fuck,” he says, “It’s fuckin’ gnarly out there. I’m done.” We look at another guy leaving the water with his board in two pieces.

#

     All day since that morning session, I’ve been thinking about the wave I blew, the barrels I dodged . . . and right now I officially demote myself back to Barney status. I’m stuck in stage one, trying to get to stage two. I’ve gotten experience points, but I haven’t leveled up yet. It’s like I’m 19 and still a senior in high school, held back, smart with potential but just can’t pass the test. I’ll be restless until I do.