Beyond Ashamed...

I'm beyond ashamed that it's taken me this long to write again... I've been off of the radar for quite some time, and this is where I stand:

1. I'll probably never do an air. 
2. I doubt I'll ever get barreled again unless it's just given down to me from God on a silver platter, even then, me catching it and making it out clean would be an event of pure luck.
3. Having a full time job and balancing surfing is not easy.
4. I like two-to-three foot surf. In fact, that's probably where I excel the most on either a chunky fish or a good groveler with decent volume.
5. I'm getting out of shape the older I get.
6. I'm about to turn 40. 
7. I still hate other fucking surfers.

I paddled out at El Porto today. First I swung by at high tide and decided that I'd come back a little later because, although clean, it was just too soft. After knocking out my laundry, I came back and hit it during mid tide.

With the tide going down, the surf got more and more drained. And then, of course, the lineup starting emptying up. Then I just sat there after my shitty ass rides, thinking, wow, was this really worth it? Was it worth it to skip out on the gym, maybe knock out more errands, or just getting some good self time in before work to paddle out here in lackluster surf?

And yet, when I was changing in the lot, it was nice to see the place mostly empty, to be there at the beach on a Monday when most people are at work; it was just so peaceful. And on the drive back, same thing, there's that vacancy on the street and in traffic that lets you know that most people are at work, and you're not.

I listened to KJAZZ on the way home, the lyricless music like a soundtrack to my life at that very moment, and discovered that, despite that crappy surf, I was still adorned in "the post-surf glaze," a natural surfer's high, if you will, and … that itself made the paddle out worth it. 

2017-2

 

                I write this after going to a bar at Hermosa Beach to celebrate a coworker’s birthday. It’s the first time that I’ve partied with those guys, and God bless their Mexican and Black souls, but being in my married state, I definitely realize that there is nothing for me out there in the single world of bar and club hopping. Sure, the music sounds great when you’re buzzed, but I’ve already lived out this scene in my twenties.

                This morning I woke up late and took a look at the surf cam at El Porto. The waves looked small and like they were breaking close to shore, but the conditions were clean. On the late train, I filled my hot-water jugs and started up the surf wagon.

                On the way there driving through El Segundo, I saw that the wind was light offshore. On Vista Del Mar, I told myself that I’d actually spring for the metered parking at the Porto lot. Driving in front of the smoke stacks, I could see small but rippable peaks. When I noticed free parking, I opted to pull in there instead.

                I sent out a few bat signals, letting my mates know that the surf was small but clean. Of course, with the recent rains there was the risk of getting sick or catching some kind of bug from the tampon-polluted water. Worth the risk? Absolutely.

                I suited up in my wife’s 5mm hooded wetsuit, only because my 4/3 needs some tears repaired. Walking down to the beach on 45^th, I could see that the session was building up to be a classic second shifter with decent conditions. Maybe the word didn’t quite get out, but the lot wasn’t as packed as it could’ve been. As far as breaks are concerned. 42^nd St. had the most heads, but 45^th, which I had my eye on, only had a few people.

                One of the old dads from 26^th St., my other spot, was actually surfing there. We chit chatted for a bit. What else can I saw? For two whole hours, I only had light competition from a guy on a Zippifish and a couple dudes on longboards. Everyone else was a noob who eventually drifted away. My magic Kadowaki Puddle Jumper really did wonders in the waist-high surf, getting me into small waves and making sections to milk the most out of each ride. Even when I left at noon, the onshore was fairly light and plenty of peaks still up for grabs. According to my Trace mount, I caught 48 waves. Later, Gary pointed out that I had caught 100 waves in my last two sessions. I wasn’t counting, but that’s a nice little stat to start the new year.

                Even though a lot of people opted out to avoid post-rain surf, I’m glad I paddled out. I’m glad I caught a good, clean day of surf.

BACK TO THE SCENE OF THE CRIME, FRI 26JAN2013 MOR

Loc: 45^th Street

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 4-5 FT, high tide, mooshy, still punchy, walled.

     It’s raining when I show up to Porto, but the rain doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I paddle out again and try, despite yesterday’s beatings. Especially since the swell is down. Especially since the tide is high. Especially . . . since it’s mooshy and non consequential compared to yesterday, yesterday’s beatdowns.

     In the rain, I suit up. In the rain, I feed the meter. In the rain . . . I warm up next to my surf wagon so I can get the most out of my quarters for the hundred-and-twenty minutes that I got.

     There are heads out there, more than yesterday, and I paddle to the exact same spot. Do the surfers in the water know what yesterday was like? I can only wonder, but one thing that I do know is that every face is different.

     No, no barrel attempts today, but I hope for a turn. Maybe two?

     My first wave is a left. The drop in is fast, and I’m pumping, pumping, pumping down the line . . . because . . . it’s all I can do. The high tide has the waves a little mooshy on the inside. Perhaps if I was backhand, maybe I’d get that deep bottom turn to come up at the critical angle and whack the lip . . . but not today. I take the wave to the shallows on the momentum of weak trims.

#

But still

Don’t get me wrong

Do you think that because the wave is mooshy that it lacks

Power

It doesn’t.

#

The paddle out is long, and

The waves are still walled

Some at five feet

Not that critical size

But enough to make you work

And strain

To

Get to the outside

You must

Paddle

You’re fucking ass off.

#

     I get another left and catch it just the same. I maneuver through the crowd. I think I’d be happy with a right. I do catch one, at least for this one I remember most. I do because . . . I’m snaked.

     A guy in a neon green wetsuit cuts me off. I’m hoping he’ll pump down the line. I’m willing to share. Why not? Am I that . . . greedy?

     I remember how I ruined big-man’s barrel, maybe that was a week ago or something like that, but I’m changing my attitude to not get upset, to pass on good energy in case, the time comes when I accidentally snake someone else. Wouldn’t I want to be treated the same way I treat others? ENERGY. That’s the theme, that’s what counts, what counts . . .  as neon green is not pumping down the line.

NO

     He bottom turns and tries to do a snap off the lip, but he turns early. No spray. Why? I can’t blame him. Perhaps the high tide is ruining the wave both ways?

     I pray for space. Just give me one section, man. Move up just a little. Let me . . . TURN. Let me try, at least once. If you can’t get the spray, maybe I can. I’m going backhand, I think I know . . . HOW.

     But I don’t get my shot. The ride ends. Oh well. We resurface close enough.

NEON GREEN: “Oops, sorry, man. I didn’t see you behind me.”

Donny Duckbutter: It’s cool. No worries.

     And honestly . . . I’m not mad, but I stuck close behind him to let him know . . .  I WAS there.

     Can you believe that I don’t remember the rest of the session? Well it’s true.

     The rest of my rides, you can assume, were insignificant. The sun came out but so did the onshore wind.

     In the parking lot, I bullshit with the guy next parked next to me. He looks . . . All American. A man’s man, older than I, but with a healthy build, 80s sidecomb like the “good guy” on TV.

     “It was so good yesterday,” he says. 

     “Yeah it was.”

     It was good. Better I guess. Yesterday had training value, but . . . I’m still glad I paddled out. A surf is still a surf. Better than being behind a desk or in the office, as KK and Surfing G have told me before.

Live to surf another day.

Masturbate

Eat

Do it again, my friend.

HEIRARCHY, WED 23JAN2013 MOR

Loc: Hammerland

Time: 1015-1145

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 4-6 FT, clean, glassy, offshore, dumpy and barrels, gnarly, crowded.

     On the way to Manhattan Beach, I get a glimpse of Hammerland. There’s a lone left with nobody on it. Wow, I’m thinking. It looks a little hollow, empty, but at the same time I think: It’s gonna be one of “those” days.

     I pull into 45^th. It looks walled, not worth the paddle out. I go further south, score on parking, step out, and check the surf. It’s bigger here, just as walled. I see a corner or two. Some pro in a white and neon orange wetsuit is being filmed. He’s catching the inside waves. I see him crank two turns, stall, pump on the inside section and do a 360 air attempt. Impressive, but he’s the only one catching waves.

     There’s a gym bag in the back of my wagon. In it is a set of Skull Candy headphones, tennis shoes, a gym towel, and a lock. I’ve brought this with me in case the surf sucks or is too walled. Yup . . . there’s the gym bag. And then . . . there’s my conscience. . . . “Practice pulling in.” Direct words from my bro. It’s because in Java this summer it’s gonna be the real deal. No turns, just barrels, and anyone that knows me knows that I still have yet to be barreled. I suck at getting barreled. I just do. If I didn’t, it would’ve happened by now.

     So, that being said . . . I can get in my wagon, head to the gym, and work on my flabby glutes. . . . Or . . . I can get some barrel practice.

          DO I TAKE THE RED PILL OR THE BLUE PILL?!

KING OF THE MOUNTAIN:

     I’m watching Hammers from the Grand Avenue parking lot. A set wave comes in, breaking just a little wide off of the jetty. It’s round but fast, FUCK-ING FAST! I’m cursing myself while I’m suiting up, filled with anxiety. I’m a masochist; I must be. My surf demons are coming out. I imagine that I’m gonna be getting worked, pounded, humiliated, and yet I’m on this self deprecating tirade while I’m waxing my board, shoving quarters in the meter, and getting ready to paddle out. I’m a buffoon on different levels, but I think I’m so God damn hard on myself because I REALLY WANT TO GET BARRELED. I mean, I really want to get better, to just reach this fucking milestone so bad, you have no idea. I’m like the soldier that hasn’t been to combat, the teenager that hasn’t gotten vagina yet. No bragging rights, not part of the cool crowd. Of course, I’m not a bragger and fuck the cool crowd, but I think you know what I’m saying. I am hard on myself, I want to be the surfer that I visualize myself being, and I want to at least reach a level closer to my brother too, and every time I get close and don’t reach it, it fucking kills me, so that’s where this anxiety comes from.

     I begin my trot to the jetty, and now I see that there are now guys sitting on the left. As I get closer, I see a guy catch a wave next to the rocks, pull in, and drive before being swallowed up. It was a fast wave, but he pulled in and made it some distance. I respect that.

     The lifeguard station is being manned. I imagine what the lifeguard must be thinking, that he’s watching guys one awkward wipeout away from needing assistance. At the same time, he gets the real life show; front row seats to the best surf report of the South Bay. What a job.

     I wait for the right window, thinking that this lifeguard is probably betting himself whether I’m gonna get worked or not. The water’s cold, but not as cold as Sunday’s chill fest. I try to calm my adrenaline by breathing slowly, and miraculously I pick a good window, avoiding oblivion.

     Three guys own the top of the wave at Hammers, while at least a dozen other guys are sitting on the right on the other side. Another guy paddles past me, and he exchanges greetings with the guys at the top of the wave. I faintly recognize two of the guys, but other than them, I’ve never seen the other guys in my life. That’s when it occurs to me, this hierarchy that takes place when the South Bay gets walled. When the conditions get gnarly out here, in contrast to the everyday crowd, only a certain breed comes out to play. When the conditions are walled and dumpy with an occasional barrel, there are only a few takers. And right here before me, is an exclusive group. . . . I have a feeling I don’t belong.

     I can’t insert myself into the lineup. For one, I have to be honest. I’m not gonna sit at the top with the wolves if I can’t even handle these fucking waves. I sit wide as usual and watch . . . and watch . . . and watch. Guys are getting waves at the top. A lot of them are closeouts, but some of them get distance. Some guys take off right in front of the rocks but further out and barely make it. I watch until I get frustrated. I’m mad at myself again. What the fuck am I doing out here? Those guys look back and see me sitting in the same fucking place holding onto this board like it’s a dick I can’t get off of. Finally, I go. I just go for the fuck of it. Go just to go instead of sitting here. I’ll take the fucking waves nobody wants. FUCK IT.

     I catch a bomb, a less walled bomb, and wouldn’t you know? It’s actually fun! I pop up early and pull in, just enough to get a glimpse before I’m pulverized. I resurface. I’m okay. Guys on the outside watch me paddle back. I catch another one. Same thing. Fuck it. Closeout, pull in, little shot of the barrel, just enough to get a whiff, not even a TASTE, but it’s better than nothing. I get more confident, sit closer to the rocks. I feel I’ve earned a spot closer to the jetty.

     The set waves are no joke. They are so big that you’d think that they have to be walled, but there is a shoulder all the way at the end. The waves break different at the jetty. Guys are catching them really far out, making it past the rocks, and pumping all the way until it gets hollow towards the inside.

     I try to paddle for these, but since I’m not at the top of the wave, I don’t have a chance; someone’s always on it. Out of frustration, I sit a little on the inside to catch the insiders, but I’m a bit deep on one. I paddle and get catapulted. Still, when I resurface I’m all right. Charlie the Porto vet paddles past me and says hi. He’s a cool guy. He makes it to the lineup where he’s greeted like a gladiator making his way to the arena.

MISSED BOMBS:

     Fuck, my bro told me that his friend Daz had said, “Talking about your surfing is like talking about sleeping with your wife . . . you just don’t do it.” At first it didn’t make sense to me, but now I understand why. It’s because it’s an honest account that really, most people wouldn’t want to share with anyone else. In my case, it’s really humbling. I don’t have the stories to brag about triumphant breakthroughs about being spat out of big barrels. No, I have to tell stories about eating SHIT! In fact, I don’t even think rippers would even be interested in this blog because their levels are beyond this; they’re past this phase.

     There’s a bomb, easy six feet. It’s big, I’m at a deep take off spot, it looks tapered, but it’s so intimidating. I mean, I know it’s gonna go round, it has to with the way everything is breaking. My balls shove up to my stomach, and I let it pass. Now the demons come back. I hate myself. IDIOT.

     On the next one, a guy is deeper than me, but as he’s paddling he lets up. I’m paddling too. His eyebrows rise. I can’t hear him, but his lips are moving, saying, “Go.”

     I paddle. It’s a steep drop. As I’m sliding down the face my foot slips to the nose of my board. I eat shit. Fuck, I tried.

     Now the sets are really coming in. I see everyone facing the jetty, and I hear people yelling. I look over, and there’s a guy, high and dry on top of the rocks. He’s not like, at the rocks where it meets the water. He is almost on top of the high rocks were people can walk on TOP of the jetty. He’s shaken, struggling to crawl off.   

     A half dozen “Are you all rights” can be heard until the kid makes it. I’ve seen his face before.

     On every bomb, someone is on it. I’m not at the top of the wave. I can’t get a ride. I almost do, but this guy goes. I see the lip curl over him as he leans backwards and puts his hands at the small of his back, stylish. When he resurfaces on the inside, he says to his buddy, “I hit my nose.”

     I don’t know exactly how he got hurt, but he paddles in. No mas.

     I really want to end my session right, but my meter’s almost up, and it’s a long jog back to the lot. I catch a closeout in.

     It’s an odd feeling coming home. I love surfing, I do, but at the same time it’s disturbing how this new level of surfing that I’m trying to achieve . . . fuck, man. It’s not easy.

NEW BEGINNINGS, FRI 21DEC2012 NOON

A quick check before parking on Rosecrans

Loc: El Porto

Time: 1130-1345

Crew: Shan

Conditions: 4 FT, sunny, light offshores, consistent, walled, and crowded.

     A morning session’s out of the question because I must finally do some of my Christmas shopping before my family’s dinner. I shoot out texts to my siblings, asking what my nieces and nephew need. I also have to coordinate where I’m going to look for these items. Shan, Dais, and Khang tell me that they’re paddling out. I tell them I’ll see them soon because I figure I’ll be done in an hour.

#

     I don’t make it to Rosecrans until three hours later. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it wasn’t the women’s clothing that I had to search for; it’s so difficult! I don’t understand women’s sizes. Why not just have it set at XS, S, M, and L?

     Shan’s on his way, and Khang and Dais are already by the sandwich shack at Porto. As I make my way down, I feel the power of the noon-time sun, striking me from directly above. It’s a perspective that I rarely get. I usually surf really early or really late, but not at this time.

     I find Khang’s van in the Porto lot, but I can’t see the guys in the water. In memory of Fransauce, I lift Khang’s wipers to leave him a message. I paddle out between the north end of the Rosecrans break and the south end of the sandwich shack, in the saddle where it’s not breaking that much. I sit next to other stragglers that are avoiding the crowd as well.

     Mostly walls come my way, and I pass. In frustration, I paddle closer to the right that’s breaking near the sandwich shack. And luckily, I catch two rights here but get no more than two turns on each ride.

     I spend a little over two hours in the water with only a few good rides to show for. The wind starts to change. I never run into Dais, Khang, or Shan, so I head back up on Rosecrans.

     As I’m changing, I hear someone yell, “Is that Donny Duckbutter!” I look and see Shan walking up the hill, dripping wet in his wetsuit with board in hand. He tells me he was at the Rosecrans peak and that he got some good rides. I ask if he’s hungry.

Steve’s Burgers:

     I’ve always seen this burger joint in El Segundo but have never eaten here. We order the burger combo which is $4.95. I whip out my wallet when Shan says, “No, man, I got it. Get me next time.” I’m more than thankful . . . grateful.

     Bri calls while we’re eating. She says she left her work shoes at my place. I tell her to stop by the burger joint to grab my keys.

     When she pulls up, Shan and I watch her park. Shan smiles and looks at me. “We’re gonna be dogs forever,” he says.

     I smile and nod my head. I hear the car door slam and her footsteps approaching us. Shan’s eyes widen and rise as she sets her hand on my shoulder and says, “Hey, baby.”

     I stand up, give her a hug and kiss. Shan doesn’t smile. Instead his mouth is slightly open, lagging behind the welcoming lift of his eyebrows. “Shan, this is Briana. Briana, Shan.”

     After she grabs her keys and goes back in her car, Shan turns to me and says, “Good for you, man!”

Official:

     I’m sitting in my realtor’s office, nervous like it’s an interview. He hands me some documents to sign. I do. He hands me the keys to the place. I thank him. The first thing I do is call Time Warner because I need Internet, at least Internet. From there I head to my new place. It’s empty. I’ve done it . . . I’m here, I’m back. I’m an El Segundo resident again. Even though the place is empty, I spend a half hour wondering where I should put my TV, my computer, and the couch. . . . Will they even fit? I don’t know. All I know is this . . . It’s gonna be a BITCH moving all my shit in. I set a goal to be completely moved in by Friday.