MY FUCKIN’ EAR, FRI 27APRIL2012 MOR

Location: HB

Crew: Solo

Time: 0630-0830

Conditions: 3-4 FT, choppy, jumbly, morning-sickness.

     I have a hell of a weekend coming up. I have to take my cousin Chelsea, who’s doing her first year of college in CA from Maui, clothes shopping for her sorority formal. After that, we have to pile into my sister’s Honda Element and go to Vegas to help my mom move back to L.A. To make matters worse, I’ll be missing out on the swell this weekend, so this is my only chance to get wet.

     I don’t even get four hours of sleep. Blame it on my current, single lifestyle that allows my every wakening moment to be beckoned by my PS3. Still, it’s 0530, and I’m up, getting my gear together. 

     I reach HB in good time. Again, it’s deceiving here. I see some guys looking at the water then walking back to their cars. I have to pick up Chelsea by 0900, and I didn’t come all the way out here to not paddle out, so I suit up. A familiar HB acquaintance, Adam, is changing as well. I reintroduce myself as Randy’s brother and ask him where Jim is. He says hi and that Jim is hard to track down. 

     So how do I know that it’s bad? Save for the couple guys out by the river jetties, HB is empty surfwise. It’s such a shame. The wind isn’t even bad. It’s sunny, but the water is just fucking weird. There are huge clumps of foam all over the inside and where the sand meets the water. The peaks are breaking fast, and the shoulders taper down so quick that there aren’t any faces to work with. The SS tells me that the conditions might improve with the tide going down. It doesn’t matter. Either way, I’m committed and invested. 

     The water smells stale like the water that pools in a broken dishwasher. I’m careful not to take a sip; I’m not in the mood for an HB Martini, especially to start the day. 

     I sit where I believe it’s breaking and wait . . . and wait some more. I see Adam making his way over the sand. Five body boarding groms show up just south of me. I catch a couple waves that fizzle and closeout—nowhere to go. I accept the circumstances I’m in; I’ve been bamboozled. Still, I curse the foam, the stench, the lack of shape. It’s such a contrast from my last session here with Francis. 

     Another wave approaches. I’m careful not to sit too deep and not too far on the outside. The peak stands up fast and curls over, but I’m further on the shoulder where it’s slower. As I’m dropping, I’m surprised to see a little shoulder to work with. I’m pumping and accidentally pump a little too high, but then my board swivels back down in such a smooth, spilling fashion, and then I’m pointed back down the line without losing speed. I’ve never felt this before. I think I pulled off an “imitation floater.” The shoulder’s tapering down to about two feet, but I still outstretch my arms and manage a little arc to end the ride. I fall at the end of the turn, but it’s still a exclamation for a fun, unexpected wave.

     I resurface stoked. I love the foam, I love the stench, I wouldn’t mind to drink just a little bit of the water if it just so happened to splash in my mouth. It’s a jewel of a ride given that this is HB slop. 

     The second decent wave I get is a right. It’s a little fast, but I force a turn off the lip before it crashes down. 

     The tide is lowering, but it’s not helping at all. I had hoped that it would, but . . . that’s just the SS. I catch a wave right at the peak, and it closes out so fast that the lip turns to foam before it crashes. I try to ride it out, which I can usually pull off, but the tide’s so low that all the water sucks out from the bottom. My left ear smacks the water so fast that I barely remember falling. I’m shaken around a bit underneath, and when I resurface the back of my throat feels parched and dry. I grimace as I grab my board and paddle out past the break. My ear throbs. It feels like someone cupped both of their hands and slammed them against both earholes. I can’t stop spitting. The back of my mouth is a mucous factory. The pain subsides after fifteen minutes.

     I walk back to the car, not triumphant but still glad that I paddled out. I change and head out to Fullerton where I pick up Chelsea. From there I take her to the best Chinese food in Torrance, and we mall hop to find a Windsor so she can buy a dress. 

     “Matt,” she says, “Does this color look good on me?” She smiles. Despite her turning nineteen in a couple months, she’ll always be that little toddler running around my Grandpa’s old house on Malialani Place. 

     “Yeah, yeah. Sure.” I look back down to my phone and play with the apps. I’m horrible at this sort of thing. 

     We head back to the house where my sister picks us up, and then . . . the madness begins. MOVING SUCKS.

BE CAREFUL FOR WHAT YOU ASK FOR: FRI 12.10.2010 MORN

    J invited me to surf County Line with him for Friday morning.  It seemed like a good idea.  I told him about the sessions at Porto lately, and that I wouldn’t mind having a break from gnarly surf.  I told him that I could go for some clean four to five foot shoulders to practice my turns on.  Also, I have never been there before, and Randy has always promoted me to surf as many different places as possible.  Rick told me that it was better to stay at El Porto because it rarely gets really good here, and that it was a guaranteed bet for Friday.  I met up with J in Hermosa at 6:40 A.M. 

    I met J surfing Porto.  Actually, I truly met him when he cut me off at Porto one afternoon.  He apologized, but I still gave him the “stink eye” (as they say in Maui).  I kind of felt bad after, so we talked and chummed up.  I ran into him again when I parked right behind him on the hill at 45th St., and since then we’ve hit it off. 

    We stopped at his friend‘s house, Paul, to coordinate.  J let us in and pounded on Paul’s bedroom door; he was still knocked out.  They checked out the webcam and decided that County Line was too small.  Paul asked me how Porto was.  I called Rick and he said that it was still fun out there.  “I heard that you couldn’t even paddle out there yesterday,” said Paul.
    I said, “Yeah, I surfed there yesterday morning and afternoon.  It was pretty big.”  Maybe I sounded like a douche saying that, but I felt that I had the right.  It turned out that Paul is the organizer for the Santa Monica Surf Club.  I scanned the pics that he had of their group framed on the wall.  I told J that I was part of a little group. 
    J suggested Trestles since I have never been there before, and he said he’s never seen a bad day there.  Why not, I thought.  After all, Trestles is a world class wave.  We got on the car pool lane and headed out to San Onofre first.  It was small.  We parked and did the famous walk down.  I was invigorated by the trees, hills, brush, and leaves all around us.  It was also interesting seeing the unwelcoming graffiti reminding us that the place is localized.  Oh well … we walked on.  It was a foggy morning, and everyone was on the sand and changing into their wetsuits.  I talked to a random guy that just got in, and I told him that we drove down from L.A.  He said, “Wow, I heard that El Porto was huge yesterday.”  It was nice to hear my local break get some of recognition, even from the surfers at Trestles.

    I wanted smaller surf, and that‘s exactly what I got.  I definitely saw the potential there.  It was two to three feet and really clean.  There were scattered peaks everywhere, but the waves were breaking a little close to shore, the rides seemed short, and the waves were mooshy.  There were still a lot of people there, and J and I had a peak all to ourselves.  It was really foggy all the way from L.A. to Trestles.  There was no way to indicate where the sun was; everything just looked gray.  We caught a lot of waves.  I was focusing more on trying to catch lefts.  I only got one ride that gave me a good face to work with.  I hit the lip and did my best to dig my tail in to get some spray.  Instead I got some spray on the front of the face, rather than the rear.  It still felt good, and it was nice to get to work on something that I’m trying to learn. 

    The waves never got bigger, and the tide rose which drowned everything out.  I would’ve loved to see that place in bigger conditions.  The peaks and shoulders looked so clean and perfect that I could only imagine what it would be like on a good day.

    There were no showers, so we changed into our clothes all salty.  It was a long walk back to the car with all of our gear.  When we finally reached it, I noticed that the bottom of my foot hurt.  I took a look and saw a one inch slice on the bottom of the ball of my right foot.  It was deep enough that I saw the pink on the inside.  I had a feeling that it was bad, but I was in denial.  J wanted to do a second session in the South Bay, but I didn’t think it was a good idea.  By that night I was looking at the moist and fleshy opening.  I ended up texting the DRC that I wouldn’t be able to surf the following morning.  I must have cut my foot on the cobble stone rocks on the way out.  It’s so upsetting that I can’t surf this weekend all because of a fucking cut. 

    Well, It was still a good experience to see Trestles.  Now I know where it is, and I know I will be back.  As far as my foot, some things can’t be prevented.  I can only let this monkey heal and be as careful as possible when paddling out or coming in.  It looks like I’m going to be leveling up in World of Warcraft for the next couple of days to come. …
   

BIG THURSDAY PT.II: THU 12.09.2010 EVE

    Everything after the morning session went by so fast.  After a fifteen minute nap it was already time to head back to the same surf spot.  We got to the Grand parking lot a little before 3:00 P.M.  The tide was going from mid to low, and we hoped it would make the conditions better.  There were a lot of cars parked on the hill, and people were checking it out with binoculars.  There were some surfers perching at Hammers, but it still didn’t look as clean as my brother hoped.  We called Rick and told him where we’d be at. 

    There was a little onshore wind, but Rick told us that it was supposed to die out.  The conditions were a little cleaner, but not by much.  Other than the jetty, there was virtually only one other guy out in front of the stacks.  It looked really drained, but the waves were still breaking far out.  We were going to surf closer to the jetty, but my brother saw a left breaking that was just south of the stacks, and that’s where that one other surfer was.

    I was blessed with good luck again, as the paddle out was perfectly timed without incident.  We talked to that lone surfer that was out there.  He was really mellow which made things easy for everyone.  He paddled for a lot of waves way too early, which told me that he probably didn’t know what he was doing (more waves for us).  Rick ended up being right because the wind died, and the water cleaned up a little.  To my surprise, I got the first wave of the evening session.  A big left came.  I was on the inside, so Randy told me to go for it.  It was a little overhead (out of my comfort zone), so I really focused on sticking the drop.  I made it, straightened up on the face, went down the line a little, then I kicked out, and my body got a little air.  I was pretty stoked.  I smiled from ear to ear as I asked my brother if he saw that.  He said, “Yeah, next time try to go up and down the wave more.”  He was right.  I could’ve done more on that wave, but I was just happy to make it, and I didn’t want to take it too far and paddle back.  I ended up getting another left that I kicked out of again.  I was so happy that I was surviving the drops, and that I was out there actually “doing something!”  My next wave would be my wave of the day. 

    It was amazing how the  conditions cleaned up.  It wasn’t perfectly clean.  The waves were still big, steep, inconsistent, and technical.  I saw a bump on the surface in the distance.  I didn’t move.  As it got closer the peak started to form; it was a heart dropper.  I just recently caught the biggest wave of my life this week, but the slope on that one was a little more gradual.  This wave was a little smaller, but it was faster.  My mind told me that it was too big, and that it was that kind of wave where I would play it safe.  However, just the definition of the peak and forming shoulder told me that it was catchable.  Without saying anything to my brother (who was on my outside), I paddled towards the peak and paddled into the wave.  I ended up staying on the face and braced for a critical drop.  I bottom turned at the base, and as I looked up I saw my brother riding the wave at the top of the section.  In my mind’s eye, he was at least one story above me.  I called out to him and cheered us both on:  “YEAHHHH-HAHHHHHHH!  WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”  I surprised him.  He didn’t know I was there, so he kicked out of the wave.  Once he was out of the way I didn’t have time to go up the face to gain more speed; the wave was about to close. 

    Full of endorphins, once again, my body was.  Pumped beyond belief, I was on top of the world.  As I paddled back I saw that Rick was joining my brother in the line up.  Rick told me that he saw me catch that bomb, and that he saw all my other rides.  My brother told me it was the biggest wave he’s ever seen me paddle for.  They both said I was charging.  It meant a lot to hear that from them, but I downplayed it as much as I could because I have way too much respect for the ocean to fool myself.  I thought it was a huge wave, but when I asked Randy he said it was only six feet.  Fuck … it must’ve been that damn “Hawaiian scale” that he was using because I can’t believe it was only a six footer!

    Randy hadn’t even caught one wave yet.  After that, I could’ve easily called it a day.  I got a couple more rides, but nothing that matched that bomb.  I surfed the rest of the session wipeout free.  My brother and Rick got some monster lefts, and Rick was paddling for everything and anything.  The clean up sets became more consistent, and I was on the receiving end for almost all of them.  I tried to get under them only to get my board snatched out; they just seemed too big to duck dive.  I ditched my board numerous times and got sucked under.  I got caught in the impact zone so many times that I began to get used to it, but it didn’t mean that it got easier.  With the sun already set, and the orange haze dwindling past the horizon, I caught my last wave in. 

    It was an emotional session for me, especially being able to share that moment with both of my surf mentors; it was special.  We came back to my apartment and celebrated with a couple beers and some surf porn.  It was definitely a session where all three of us can look back upon, even when we’re old.  The swell hit its peak on that day, and I was a part of it … we were a part of it.  It feels good knowing that.

BIG THURSDAY PT. I: THU 12/09/2010 MORN

    Thursday morning was highly anticipated.  My brother planned to drive up to L.A. to surf that day; he had the feeling that the swell would hit the South Bay better than the O.C.  I was supposed to meet with Shan and J that morning, but my bro showed up a little late.  It was about 8:30 A.M. when we pulled up to Hammerlands and checked it out from the Grand Ave. parking lot.  The tide was coming up, and we could see the waves jacking up from the backwash.  The left wasn’t breaking well:  it was clean on the outside, but it was really fast, and it obliterated to foam on the inside.  It appeared that the right going off of the jetty was better.  I suggested that we drive around and see if it’s better anywhere else. 

    We parked in the Porto lot to have a look.  There were some guys out there at the main peaks.  We watched a couple guys get barreled, but it was all kamikaze style because they got enveloped by the wave.  There were some shoulders that looked good, but they weren’t breaking in the same place, and there were enough guys out there to make it a little difficult. 

    It was 8:55 A.M. by the time we got to 26th St.  My brother has never surfed there before, but he said he could see the potential of that place.  It was too big for the sand bars.  There were mostly walls with a couple random and fast shoulders.  We turned around and headed back to Hammers.  We asked a guy who was leaving how it was.  He said, “It was strange.”  When my bro and I got to the water we could see that the waved were really “werbly” at the top of them, as if something was shaking the wave to create that effect.  When we made it to the other side of the jetty it looked like a swampy mess: the inside had a lot of white wash, the waves were breaking far out, and the conditions just weren’t clean at all.  It was about head high, maybe even a little overhead.  There was a group of surfers past the point catching some pretty long and mooshy rides off of the jetty.  Randy said that HB was all rights the day before, so he was desperate for some lefts.

    I explained to Randy how I was getting my ass worked on the inside lately, and that I didn’t look forward to the paddle out.  He taught me how to find the best place to paddle out, what to look for to tell that there’s a lull approaching, and when to paddle your ass off.  He pointed out a spot where a weak ass like myself would have the best chance.  And wouldn’t you know, it fuckin’ worked.  I paddled for dear life, and I saw to my right that I was way ahead of my brother. 

    Once we were out there I got a left, but it closed out really fast.  My brother eventually gave up and caught some rights near the point.  I hung out by the smoke stacks.  I got more waves but nothing noteworthy.  It was big, but it wasn’t a session to light a match and stomp my feet over.  I caught my last wave, got caught on the inside, and then I figured that I had enough for the morning.  We went to Seafood Town in Torrance and took advantage of their lunch specials.  By noon, beef chow fun filled my belly, and it was time for a nappy poo.

THE TITANICS: WED 12.08.2010 EVE

    After the morning session I went home to recharge.  I spent the rest of the day watching the Pipeline Masters webcast, waiting for Bruce Irons to do his thing.  After his heat was over, I grabbed my shit and headed back to the beach.  There was another mission at hand.  My friends and I were going to meet up for all you can eat sushi.  All I had in my stomach was oatmeal, a banana, and a protein shake.  My objective was to wear my self out with a second surf session so I could show up ravenous with hunger.  Little did I know that I would get my anus tapped. 

    When I drove by Hammerland I saw some surfers getting waves on both sides of the jetty.  I didn’t bother to stop by El Porto.  It was 2:45 P.M., and I didn’t feel like paying for parking.  I got free parking on 29th St. and Highland Ave.  I text Rick and told him that it looked fun out, and that I was paddling out at 26th St.   As I made my way down the beach path, I saw mammoth walls of ocean, and there wasn’t one surfer in sight.  As I approached I anticipated seeing some heads out by 26th.  There was one guy near the pier, and a couple practicing on a longboard on the inside; that was it.  I got a little scared at first, and I wondered why the hell wasn’t anyone in the water yet?  I took it as a bad sign.

    I surveyed the scene and tried to trick my mind into making a peak out of the walls.  The tide was low and drained out, but the waves were still breaking far out.  The smaller waves seemed to have shape, but they were breaking too close to the inside.  The set waves were just huge with a little shoulder to work with.  That shoulder looked dangerous because it was still fast and the inside looked shallow. 

    I figured that I came there to blow a load and not to edge on the shore through my wetsuit.  I squeezed my cross-hatched mushroom head and walked out as far as I could.  By the time I was chest high I was bracing the white wash.  This has been the headline of my life lately:  Matthew Gets Worked on the Inside.  Those walls left me with a hard paddle out.  I kept losing my board and got knocked around.  I saw the lifeguard truck parked and watching me.  Yeah, I looked like a giant turd out there getting tossed around in L..A.’s shit water; it seemed fitting.  I turned around, so as to not look like a faggot, and tried to make it out again.  I got lucky and took advantage of a long lull.  When I reached the green zone I took another look around; there were still no other surfers in the water.  All I saw was a boogie boarder by 30th St., and  some guys checking things out by the run path.

    Despite the low tide, every set made me feel like the water was one story higher than sea level, like the feeling of the wave picking you up as it passes.  I didn’t see any shoulders.  I’m ashamed to say that I was a little frightened.   I was out there by myself, I figured that no one else was stupid enough to paddle out, and I imagined myself getting pulverized in the shallows.  It was a good day to drown, I thought.  Titanics … that’s what they looked like to me.  They didn’t look natural.  The top of waves were straight as a ruler, and the glassiness of the water made the faces look vertical.  They looked manmade.  The sets were just giant unforgiving walls with just a smidgen of a shoulder, enticing you, and daring you to drop in.  Once they passed me, they closed on the inside.  For one of the few times in my surfing days, I actually paddled to be close to other people.   I passed the body boarder, and I paddled all the way to Rosecrans.  It was a monster paddle to go that distance.  I stopped in front of the Life Guard station at the end of the Porto parking lot.  I was at the edge of the first group of surfers that I came into contact with.  I was a little relieved. 

    I saw some guys catching rights all the way by 45th; there were more surfers at the main peaks.  I got paranoid, and I felt like the other guys were looking at me like I didn’t belong there, laughing.  I wondered if I’d even be able to catch anything.  Some guys tried to paddle into some waves but failed.  I guess the sandbars there held the shape a little bit better because every once in a while there was a shoulder to work with.  A head high left slowly built towards me.  I saw the pocket turning dark which let me know that it was a slidable slope.  I said, “Fuck it,” and paddled for it.  The drop was steep, and I was surprised that I was sliding down the face, unscathed.  Thanks to my surfing immaturity, I projected up the face to make myself visible over the lip.  I wanted to show those guys that I was able to catch some waves, too.  I almost paid for it, as my front side carves haven’t developed, I stalled at the top of the lip as it was about to pitch.  Luckily, my weight shifted forward, and I reentered the face again.  It was a steep reentry, too.  I saw the nose of my board, barely sticking out of the water (thank God who made the man that put a rocker on a surfboard).  I got one more turn and escaped before it closed out.  It turned out that I would be the recipient of four waves over an hour and forty-five minutes.  Of course, none of them were significant because I was more than satisfied that I didn’t die. 

    I was in the prime spot for a left that kept breaking.  I also passed on a lot of waves that seemed too big for my testicle size.  There were heroes out there.  The crowd began to arrive, and I saw guys going for waves, then getting catapulted over the lip as they kicked out.  They went for the waves that I didn’t want, and they made the drops.  There was a curly haired, brown eyed, Brazilian out there (I just assumed he was Brazilian).  When he paddled up next to me he looked at me like I was a piece of shit.  I watched him catch a set wave, then a bucket sprayed out the back, indicating that he was powering down the line.  I guess when you’re that good you can look down on others. 

    Clean up sets would randomly break past the outside.  One broke so far out that I didn’t know what to do.  Naturally, I wanted to cower in fear and head towards the shore, but that would only make my paddle back out further.  I was frozen.  I felt so helpless caught in the ocean’s wrath that it took me a while before I paddled to meet it.  I was sucked down, held, and tossed every which way.  I had enough.  I was happy with my four waves and only swallowing two gulps.

    I was dead tired after that.  I was nodding off during my drive to meet with my friends, but I had the hunger as planned.  There was a feeding frenzy after, two hours worth.  Once again, I survived another session.  And my anus?  It’s still in tact.