Sun., Oct. 13th, 2019: A Huntington Gamble

Loc: Goldenwest

Time: 0645-0745

Conditions: glassy, swampy, 2 Ft., inconsistent

Board: Zippifish

            I listened to the Surf Gawds at Surfline and believed them when they said two-to-three feet plus down south. I knew that the tide would be working against us, so we made the O.G. call to dawn patrol it.

            Getting up that early for a change was kind of nice. Normally, I’m up at 0700, but not that day. Nope. We were on the freeway, driving before the sun was up. Even when we parked, there was barely light breaking the dark sky.

            I hoped for something, anything to surf. HB usually stands up more than waves in the South Bay, and we wouldn’t need much, especially with our big, chunky boards. Even if we only got an hour of decent surf, it would be worth it.

            Se we hit the street parking, slapped on our slippers (lots of glass in these parts), and we walked our asses down to the beach. At first glance, it didn’t seem swampy yet, just…small…slow. And then, lo and behold, a set popped up. It looked almost three feet, and suddenly there were lines. The ocean was alive. I felt great, like there was potential.

            Our first couple of waves were actually decent. For a small HB day it was kind of classic: fast shoulders, fast drop, racy section, tagging the lip before closing out. And then…after a few waves, the tide came up just enough to make everything inconsistent. The few other surfers in the water, too, were just sitting like turds in a toilet; we all were. Fock. Then when the sets did come, the rides got way shorter. Like, fast drop, one pump, bog out into swamp city. Soon the center of HB Cliffs completely shut down. We had to paddle more south to sit on legit Goldenwest, and even then it was too late. 45 minutes into the session and there really wasn’t anything to catch.

            That’s just the way it goes sometimes. We try to make the best call to catch some semblance of a wave. It doesn’t always work out.

GUT INTEL, TUE 23JUN2015

Loc: Huntington Cliffs

Time: 0700-0900

Conditions: 3 FT+, sunny, onshore, choppy, fast

     Yesterday’s plan for today was to surf HB in the morning, but Bri and I got lazy last night, so I retexted Cassady and Hideki and told them that we’d be staying local.

     This morning, I turn off my alarm at 0515 and get sprung awake from a series of texts. The WHC is already at Rosecrans. What stands out is a text from Hideki that reads: The Cliffs look good, come down!

     I look at the HB cams. Doesn’t really look that good. I check the Porto cam. Looks cleaner but a little fast. I could stay here, trust the cams, but I have a buddy at ground zero with the official word—it’s good. What’s a girl to do?

#

     Passing Bolsa Chica and entering Seapoint, I see some small scattered peaks rolling in. Doesn’t look like classic HB, that’s for sure, but it definitely looks better than the last time I got skunked at Goldenwest.

     The first lot is packed at The Cliffs, so Bri and I park at the next one over. Without checking the surf, we change and head down the hill. It’s Bri’s first time here, so she’s sketchy about scaling the dirt decline to get down to the beach.

     When we reach the water, there’s a pack of surfers in front of the gap, which is the actual path to get down just east of us, and then there’s another group at the western tip of The Cliffs. I don’t see Hideki, so we paddle out in between the two groups.

     The current drags us west. The water’s choppy. The peaks are sectiony from the onshore wind and the low tide. However, there’s only a thin crowd, and despite the onshore wind, the surface conditions are still semi groomed. This place does well on a low tide, and the way that peaks still sprout up on the outside sandbars is testament to HB’s appeal.

     I catch a few closeouts, but most waves are fast and shouldery, the kind when you’re already way down the line by the time you pop up, open face dissolved.

     The current has us paddling the whole session. The group to our west leaves. Only a few heads are at the gap now.

     Aside from the mediocre shape, there are those random set waves that A-frame on the outside, and Bri and I are fortunate to be their only takers. Again, this isn’t classic HB, no perfect down-the-line almonds. Instead, they are spilling but open and racy. My waves are single hitters. I get a backhand snap. One ride I connect a frontside snap into a small floater. A few waves are so decent that they actually stand up and slot. Me being a fool, I set up for turns instead, missing the hollow sections. Either way, I’m stoked that there is decent shape for delivery.

     When Bri and I leave and turn to look at the ocean, it’s hard to believe we had as much fun as we did. The ocean looks choppy and drained. Yet, when we drive away on PCH, the surf still looks groomed from Goldenwest on eastward.

     We do breakfast in Sunset Beach afterwards. Bri shows me the surf over there, too. I’ve never seen that part of the beach before.

     Driving back, I’m pretty satisfied. Thanks to Hideki’s intel, Bri and I had a worthy session. I’m sure local would’ve been fun, too, but I’m glad I followed the gut intel.

THE ONE PT.III, TUE 02JUN2015

 

Loc: Huntington Beach, Goldenwest

Time: 0815-0930

Conditions: 2 FT+, weak

     So there’s a south swell coming in. I wake up late and look at my Surfline App and take a look at the northside of the HB Pier. Fair to Good, 3-4 FT+.

     It’s a coffee, and I’m out the door, no bullshitting. I can already picture clean peaks at the HB Cliffs, my “Easy Barrel” session that I had there, many moons ago, still fresh in my mind. And of course, what happens? As soon as I pass Bolsa Chica and hit Seapoint, right where PCH opens up and you can see the surf, there are weak crumbly lines coming in.

     I park at the HB Cliffs. The fact that I can get a parking spot is a bad sign. A crew of six old vets sit atop the railing, watching the surf with coffees in hand. Barely anyone’s out. It’s like the tide’s already too high, but it shouldn’t be. The waves are breaking and rolling so softly that they’re not rideable until they almost break. Up and down the beach looks the same.

     As Klaude would say, “I didn’t come here not to surf,” so I head to Goldenwest and park in the neighborhood. I imagine how surf in the South Bay is probably better than this right now.

     A few groms park on PCH and walk out for a surf check as I’m making my way down the stairs. When I turn around, they’re leaving. Yet, more people are out over here, but everyone’s just sitting.

     I paddle out. The water’s warm and glassy. It’s still overcast. Waves come in and look like they’re going to break. I scratch out on everything.

     On a rogue peak, I turn and go while the lip is already spilling. The flat whitewash pushes me, but the wave drains out as I’m popping up. I force one check snap on the lip before the wave closes, hardly a legit turn.

     It took about forty-five minutes to get that wave. It could be “The One.” I could end it now, turn around, head back up the sand, cross PCH, and call it a morning. Against my better judgement, I paddle back out and hope that I can get more waves by paddling into them late. I don’t. Again, I’m wondering what Manhattan Beach is doing.

     Mad and frustrated, I turn towards the shore and do the Paddle of Shame. I should have left earlier.

HB’s UNDERDOG WAVE, SUN 15MAR2015

I know it doesn't look like much, but . . . it was REALLY fun.

 

Loc: Huntington Beach, Bolsa Chica                   

Time: 0945-1230

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 3-4 FT, offshore, hot, consistent. 

Board: Lost Mini Driver

     Bri has the day off. It’s her only full off, so we have to make it worth it. First, we sleep in. With a high tide in the morning, there’s no reason to dawn patrol it. Second, we’re escaping the South Bay and going back to HB. Obviously, not back to Brookhurst. I’m thinking Bolsa Chica first and then The Cliffs if Bolsa isn’t working.

     Upon reaching the state parking entrance, we’re faced with a long line just to get in. When we reach tower 20, the whole lot is nearly full with only a few empty spaces. I see the replay of yesterday morning coming into effect. It’s too crowded. Everywhere is crowded. With all this gorgeous weather and Surfline’s pumping-up of the swell, of course everyone is at the friggin’ beach.

     I park next to a beat up sedan. A dark bolo-head guy walks up to it. Holy shit. It’s Mario from 26^th Street, a South Bay guy who I frequently run into at Bolsa for some reason. “It’s fun,” he says. “I’m taking a break.” He pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

     Someone from the field of cars calls out his name. Holy shit again, it’s Ripper Roy from Manhattan Beach, too. Fuckin’ A. South Bay guys here at Bolsa. It must be good. Roy says that this is his second sesh too, and that he’s about to paddle back out. They both sell it. Yesterday was even better.

     Bri and I walk further south towards a gap in the lineup. It’s more inconsistent here, but the breaks in front of tower 20 just have too many people, longboarders, shortboarders, SUP’s, body boarders, you name it.

     At first, I wonder if I’m on the right board. I don’t really see big peaks coming in. I catch my first left. It’s three feet and racy, but I pump, make some sections, and end with a baby floater. So it’s three feet and fun. Still shortboardable, just not ideal.

     My next right races away. On the way back out, Bri’s on the 6’8 NSP, trying to pump her huge board. Even though she struggles to turn that beast, she’s surfing more top to bottom. A leap in her progression. When we’re both out back again, she gets a lot rides.

     And even though I had thought the waves weren’t ideal, sets start coming in. Not gnarly, but four feet. The lefts are standing up, not barreling but vertical rippable. For the first time in a while, I’m getting some legit shortboard time, getting some wraps and snaparoos. Mimicking my deep pumps from Churches two days ago, I’m in tune on the open face, pumping on the Lost Mini Driver, setting myself up for something. No airs. Just turns. Even with the crowd, I’m able to get my share of waves. Even though there are more people here, I’d rather deal with this than with the aggressive crowd at Brookhurst.

     All around me, the place is packed with people who just want to paddle out and be in the water. It’s funny how Bolsa is known for being the soft wave of HB, yet here I am, having an even better time than I had yesterday. Who cares if it’s probably a foot smaller here?

     My wave of the day is on a set that breaks far outside. I’m too deep for the first one, so I let it go. The second wave approaches. I’m in perfect position for it. Timing it right, I slowly steer my board into position. “You have to go,” says a random surfer from the inside. I pop up on the high line, pump, drop down, bottom turn, and get a solid rail-to-rail carve. It’s the first shortboard rail-to-rail action that I’ve had in a while. It’s hard to describe the feeling, but the satisfaction is far greater than a mediocre turn. I just feel it, hips and shoulders, on the rails with a full rotation and then coming out of it angry, just aggressive and hungry for more.

     At the end of my third turn I hear Roy yell, “Yeah, Matt!” I shoot him a shaka on the way back out.

     After the session, we head to Westminister for Pho, but not before driving the coast a little bit. There’s a line to part at The Cliffs. Everywhere, the water is still glassy. Even at noon and on a drained tide, waves are still breaking. It’s just perfect. As sunburned as I already am, I could easily park and paddle back out for the rest of the day.

TINY WINDOW, SAT 14MAR2015

Reptile Rick is fully equipped

 

Loc: Huntington Beach, Brookhurst                    

Time: 0730-0930

Conditions: 4-5 FT, offshore, hot, inconsistent.    

Board: Lost Mini Driver

     I slept like shit last night because of the ampm coffee that I needed on the drive home. On a caffeine binge, not only was I wide awake, but I was smelling like ass. I didn’t want to wake Bri up, so I skipped the shower, tossing and turning in stale salt and sweat. So now at 0540, Rick is here. We’re loading up his van and on the way to Huntington.

     A rarity, the rest of his WHC homies are already on the road, ahead of us, heading to San Clemente. Since Rick has to be back by 1000, we do a surgical strike closer to home.

     First we stop by Goldenwest. It’s still dark out. Two young ladies jog towards us with their tits bouncing around. “Morning, ladies,” says Rick.

     “Good morning,” the chicks say back, gleefully and full of perk. Rick looks at me and smiles. Dirty dog. . .

     The peaks look a little soft here, but the tide is kind of high at first light. Rick’s down to paddle out here, but I insist on Brookhurst. I love that spot. Less crowded, I get to use my parking pass, and it’s a good wave.

     I should have known that the cars already parked at Brookhurst this early is a bad sign, but we do a surf check anyway, and the peaks are standing up more.

     “Yeah, let’s do it,” says Rick.

     We get a couple double takes in the parking lot. It’s actually kind of crowded, it’s not like this place unless the surf is really, really, really pumping. Rick and I aren’t locals. It’s obvious.

     There appears to be a light current, so we walk a little further south past tower 4 and paddle out there. A juicy 5 footer is breaking right in front of us. Its surfer, a short stocky man with short curly orange hair is pulling in for a quick slot, banking it off the top on the finishing maneuver. A closer look and I realize it’s Pistol Pete AKA Pete the Plumber AKA Klaude’s roommate’s exboyfriend’s friend Pete who’s a firefighter.

     I paddle up to him and congratulate him on his ride. He says that yesterday had more current, was bigger, and a little more closed out, but that it was fun. I tell him I had spent the whole day at Churches yesterday. He’s not impressed.

     Peaks . . . they’re coming in just a little wide and sectiony, but there are some with perfect shoulders. The size isn’t as gnarly as it was the last time I had surfed here with The Vets. Instead, it’s at that great practice size. Not a death wave, and worth pulling into, closeout or not.

     Immediately, a left comes my way. I turn and go. Rick’s going for it too. “I got it, Rick!” I say.

     “Yeah!” he says back.

     I pop up, riding the wave behind him. Fucking guy. I think he thought I was asking him if he had the wave. It’s not the first time he’s snaked me or any of his other buddies. Reptile Rick. It’s a good one, but I kick out. No sense in battling for it with a homie.

     After surfing Churches all day yesterday, and on a big fat fish, there’s some residue left over. I have to make the transition of surfing a different board and a different wave. On the next left, I’m a little slow at popping up, but I make the drop. Its shoulder is tight, vertical, and short. I try to set up for a top turn, but before I know it, I’m racing along the shoulder until it tapers off into nothing on the inside. Fuck. I should have pulled in. That’s my first though. I’m surfing this wave wrong.

     Now the crowd is on it. Probably the most crowded I’ve ever seen Brookhurst. To escape, I paddle more south to stay ahead of the pack, but the surf turns inconsistent. I let the current pull me back towards the crowd. A wave comes. I have to back out for someone. Again, I have to back out. I’m in position for another one, but some guy is duckdiving right under me. Too close.

     Rick comes back. “I just got barreled,” he says. He even flags down a guy paddling by who had seen his barrel. The guy validates it.

     The lull gets worse. Everyone’s sitting around like it’s a party without cake. I spot Pete north by tower 5, so I mosey over towards him.

     This spot doesn’t produce much. I get a couple of lackluster rides. More lull. Rick and I shake our heads at each other. Bad call. Maybe we should have stayed at Goldenwest. All I know is that there’s some weird voodoo thing going on right now. It’s disappointing. After yesterday’s wave buffet this morning’s stoke meter goes unchecked.

     On the way back home, I struggle to keep my eyes open. I feel bad. My cousin from Maui, MC Sausage, once told me that going to sleep while you’re in the passenger seat is a “bad omen.” Since then, I never sleep when I’m copilot.

     Rick drops me off. He still has his honey-do list to take care of. “I still think it was the right call,” says Rick. “I got that one left. It was amazing.”

     He takes off. I walk back to my apartment from my garage with the sun on my face. I’m burned. My cheeks and the back of my ears, even my eyes are stinging from the UV. Good session or not, I’m glad to be back. Gonna take that shower that my body’s longing for. Gonna open up the fridge and tear some shit up.

BAD JOKE, WED 04MAR2015

Damn, you. . . Damn, you. . . .

Loc: Bolsa Chica                                     

Time: 0830-1030   

Crew: Cassady

Conditions: 2-3 FT, offshore, inconsistent, swampy. 

Board: Motorboat Too

     Today was supposed to be the day. With Surfline forecasting south-facing beaches at 4-5 Occasional 6ft, how could I not be stoked? To make up for last Tuesday’s missed opportunity to surf good HB, I damn sure wasn’t gonna miss out on today. I had even planned to meet up with my buddy Cassady who lives in Long Beach.

     I’m out the door at 0550, and it’s still not early enough. The horizon’s already a metallic orange, bright enough to be in the water. First light’s much earlier now.

     My first destination is the HB Cliffs. Despite being late for first light, I must be early because barely anyone is parked here. The wind is light offshore, not a cloud in the sky. Save for the sub sixty-degree air temp, it’s a perfect day. I step up to the railing to have a look at the surf, and nothing is breaking. Tide. There’s just too much water on the surface. Nothing but shorepound action. No one is out right here. Further south, a few heads sit closer to Goldenwest.

     I drive further south to take a chance on Brookhurst. On the way there, I see some waves breaking at Goldenwest. There’s a lot of activity at the pier. However, the surf has that mooshy teepee shape. The sets are bigger, but they’re breaking section on section. It’s not classic. No legit peaks.

"And that's when Donny realized that he might have been better off staying local."

     The feeling of getting skunked officially sets in when I do reach Brookhurst. Same story here as the pier. Yet, guys are out. The end section of a wave has a racy shoulder. It looks doable, but it’s not what I expect when it comes to this place, especially with the given forecast. I can’t blame Surfline. It did say “Slow morning” because of the high tide. I just hoped it wouldn’t be this bad.

     So I find myself at Bolsa Chica, taking advantage of my state pass. It’s shorepounding here, so I bust out my book that I had brought with me and kill some time.

     After struggling to stay awake through my book, Cassady arrives a little after 0800. “We could surf here or check out The Cliffs again,” I say.

     “Nah,” says Cas. “I’d rather surf here for a half hour. I have a meeting at work.”

     We’re in the water by 0830. The window should be better. The tide’s going down, and there’s enough swell to start pushing through the moosh. Immediately, I get a couple of fat shoulders. They turn racy, and all I can do is pump for distance and finish with some baby floaters. Cassady, on his longboard, milks the whole half hour, getting fun rides.

     “It looks like there’s potential,” I say. “Maybe another hour?”

     When Cassady leaves, I have the whole break to myself. A few guys sit two towers south of me. My spot shuts down. It seems to be more consistent where the other guys are. I paddle over, and either the waves break too far out or they’re too soft and break late. Even with perfect conditions, me burning hot in my wetsuit, negative wind, sunny skies, and a hyped-up south swell, I cannot get a turn for the life of me.

     Guys show up for surf checks on the sand and leave. It’s fucking 1000 now. The tide should be better, right? It’s gonna turn. The window’s gonna open. It’s gonna get good.

     By 1030, I’m so fucking frustrated. Out there with the seagulls, I have a good sit down with myself. I’d like to think I’m a dedicated surfer. It’s my lifeblood. Maybe not on a charger or international scale, but at least for an average local guy, I’m a fanatic. I’ve earned that. But its days like these when I feel like a joke.

     The demons come out. What am I doing with myself, my life, sitting here waiting for the good wave that isn’t coming. Or maybe it will. Later, the tide’s gonna get lower. This spot’s gonna be transformed, littered with peaks. I could stay and grab breakfast somewhere. Coffee, finish off my book, check it again around lunch time.

     I willingly do the paddle of shame to shore. Driving home, I have a hard time finding the right music to fit the mood.

TAKEN TO SCHOOL, SAT 07FEB2015

Post session photos courtesy of Juan A.

 

Loc: Huntington Beach, Brookhurst to River Jetties

Time: 0815-1115        

Crew: Rick, Juan, Gary

Conditions: 5 – 6 FT+, foggy, hollow, dredging, current, crowded

Board: Lost Mini Driver

     The call is to surf Dog Beach since I’m on Uncle Duty into Saturday morning. Leaving my nephew’s place, I get a call from Juan. He, Garr, and Rick are overlooking the Huntington Cliffs. I tell them I’ll be on the way.

     It’s a legit dawn patrol, being still dark out, but it’s so fucking foggy. After meeting up with the guys, we wait for first light so we can see the water a little better.

     The parking lot fills to capacity. Guys are suiting up, meandering down the cliff, and disappearing into the fog as they paddle out. Still, we can’t see shit, only the inside, which looks soft serve.

     “Most of the guys have fun boards,” says Rick. We’re looking for any clues as to what the surf might be doing.

     I park at Goldenwest, grab my parking pass, and jump in the Suburban with the fellas to hit Brookhurst instead.

     “Let’s just suit up and go,” says Garr. “No need to look at it.”

     As we’re suiting up, guys are coming back from the water with disappointed looks on their faces. I ask one of them how it was.

     “I only came back to change my leash,” he says. “It’s a little walled out there, but there are some good ones.” He widens his eyes. “It’s bi-i-i-ig.”

     Going back to the car, I deliver the intel. We are all still a little doubtful. The Cliffs didn’t look like it was thumping. How big can it be?

 

FIFTY YEAR OLDS NOT GIVING A FUCK:

     The surf looks small, but the paddle out is much longer than it had looked from the foggy shore. The inside is punchy. I duckdive a couple of waves and nearly get pulled back. Already, I feel the current dragging me south.

     When I get to the lineup, some guy asks me, “Where am I?”

     “What?”

     “Where did you paddle out?”

     “Tower four,” I say.

     He turns to his friend. “Dude! We fuckin’ drifted way south!” To my south, a migration of surfers is trying to paddle north.

     The first few waves that come in are standard HB classic peaks, just fast teepees at four to five feet. I’m a bit sketched. One, I can’t see shit. We can’t see the waves until they are about to break on top of us, so timing is a bitch. Two, there’s just an eerie energy in the air, and you can see it on everyone’s face. Today is a no bullshit day.

     Meanwhile, Rick, Juan, and Gary have different looks on their faces. Fuckin’ guys. . . I mean, they are well in their fifties, and the gleam on their faces just reflects their childhood connection. They’ve known each other for years, have paddled out in harrowing conditions together, and I don’t doubt that they’re giving each other that same look that they’ve given each other throughout the years. Just then, Rick paddles late into a dredging hollow left. He resurfaces some distance away towards the inside, still beaming when he gets back to the lineup. There is no fear in their faces. Only stoke.

     So the sets get bigger. It’s definitely not a small day at all, not mooshy, not whatever Dog Beach had led us to believe. Solitary A-frames jut out of the sea, hazy and gray, smooth and unblemished, but harnessing HB power as soon as they stand up and break.

     My penis retreats into my body like a snail. After I duckdive a rogue wave, barely making it, I officially have a vagina. My clitoris retreats so far into my pussy that it’s sticking out of my asshole, which has just gone from wrinkled brown to smooth pink.

     “Go, Matt!” says Gary. I look out. Actually, I’ve been looking out. I can’t take my eyes off the outside. Yeah, it’s a big fucking right. I paddle out and duckdive into the face before it’s even breaking. It’s a straight up bitch move.

     My excuse is that I’m picky. If I’m going to risk absolute obliteration, I better make sure that I’m in the perfect spot and not late. I know how fast these waves are, and I’m not gonna air drop on a day like today. Plus, I do not want to get caught in the impact zone on one of these waves. I may not be able to make it back out.

     And these Venice Vets are just thriving in these conditions. One by one, I watch Juan go. Rick goes, who supposedly doesn’t like barrels, and is pulling in. Gary’s brazen enough to hang out towards the inside to take everything that’s rideable.

     Juan comes back saying, “I almost made it out of that one.”

     Rick goes for broke and paddles super late on a left, somehow still covering some distance. “I air dropped,” he says when he comes back. “Almost didn’t make it.”

     I finally pull the trigger on a smaller right. It’s shouldery, so I wind up for a backhand snap. I have so much speed that my tail slides out on the shoulder like I’m grinding a rail. Had I ridden out of it, it would’ve been a cool manuever.

 

     Resurfacing, I’m caught in the impact zone of the next wave. I duckdive as deep as I can and actually make it out the back, but the fucking wave sucks back and pulls me under. Not as bad as getting pounded. I don’t know how, but my shitty duckdives are actually working, and I make it out fairly unscathed.

     Juan calls me into another wave. It’s a big right. I scratch and kick and get the drop. It’s stretching out and about to close, so I jump over the lip and land behind it. Looking out back, everyone is darting outside. Here comes the roguer.

     I had once said that big perfectly shaped waves are sometimes scarier than walls. Perfection can be power sometimes, and I’m in the impact zone of a huge perfect HB peak. I’m going to have to pay this one in full, I’m thinking. I debate on stalling my paddle to duck the stampede or charge it to make it over. I paddle as hard as I can. The wave is big and slowly building as it approaches. I make it over. I look behind me and remember that Gary’s on the inside. The next wave is even bigger.

     Once the set is over, I see Gary on the inside with a half dozen other surfers. Ten minutes later, he’s on shore.

     Juan takes a long right and disappears. The fog slightly dispersers. We’re in front of the River Jetties.

     I back out of a huge right. Rick takes it. I assume the worst. He’s eaten shit, there’s no way he could have—

     “Woohoo!” he says as he kicks out and over the shoulder. Barrel. He just got a backside barrel.

     I beat the next set, and now Rick is gone. I try to harness the energy of my far-gone testicles and take some waves. I see other guys who have also lost their penises, pulling back on the big ones. Some guys are still pulling in, even on the closeouts, backhand, comfortable in these conditions.

     I finally take a right and plan to grab rail and pig dog, but my plans go awry. Somewhere between grabbing my rail, the wave just doubles up, and I do a forward somersault with the curling lip. Since the bitch in me says that now might be a good time to find the guys, I catch the whitewash in and head back towards the Suburban.

     It’s a bit of a walk. I even have to paddle through the river mouth to get to the other side. When I reach the Suburban, I find Rick there, too. “I thought they’d be here,” he says. Gary and Juan are still out there somewhere, so Rick and I start over at tower four.

 

RESET:

     I think about how I had surfed a slab in Java with razor sharp reef. I also think about the big days in Manhattan Beach that I had surfed. Despite all those experiences, I’m out of my league today.

     A guy paddles into a set-wave left going backhand. He grabs rail as the glassy green lip swirls over him. I turn around to see if he makes it out. He resurfaces on the inside. With a face full of anger, he slaps the water and curses out loud. It’s that kind of morning.

     In the distance, Juan is paddling towards us. He’s been in the water the whole time and has just paddled all the way over from River Jetties.

     I had said that I don’t feel comfortable going backside on huge bombs, and I’m lucky enough to snag some of the rare lefts that come through. I pull in on a medium sized left, and the lip throws out over me. I’m in the tube but a bit too deep and get pinched at the end.

     Juan says that it had lined up nicely, too. Fuck. If I could make it out of one of those, just get one barrel, this whole session will be worth it, despite losing my penis and all.

     I catch another left and pull in. Pinched again.

     I notice Gary’s purple board on shore. He’s walking towards the Suburban. I wave. He wave’s back.

     With the incoming tide, the waves soften up a bit more and become more manageable. On my attempts to pull in I see that the waves aren’t going hollow, so I work on my frontside wraps. At the three-hour mark, we call the session.

#

     Over breakfast, we learn what had happened to everyone. Juan caught a long right and got caught by the current after that. He never left the water and made it all the way back to tower four. Gary made it back out after getting pounded by that set. He had become victim of the BMS sandwich: board, me, sand.

     And then there are the war stories, the battles, the best waves, the barrels. I can only sit there and chew my food while I listen, wide eyed, in awe of them.