TRESTLES DAYCAYION (double), TUE 27JAN2015

 

Loc: Trestles, Middles & Lowers

Time: 0745-1115        

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, sunny, warm, offshore, consistent

Board: Motorboat Too

     With some business to tend to at Camp Pendleton, and a sushi night with the boys in Mission Viejo, it only makes sense to head to Trestles for the whole day. Also with a juicy swell still on tap, I’m doubtful that the local beach breaks will have any shape.

     Even though I leave at 0545, I hit bumper to bumper traffic in Huntington. It’s nerve wracking. I’m tired from staying up late on the PS4, it’s dark out so I still feel like sleeping, and the drive is already about an hour without the traffic.

     Once I enter the campground, I stop at Old Mans for a look, and the waves are small and walled. Fuck. I head over to Churches not sure what to expect. When I park, the scene just takes my breath away. Long walls are coming in from the top of the wave, but the rights are peeling at lower Churches. There are only six guys out, all longboarders, and they’re trading off on rides. The set’s four-to-five feet easy. Looks like I won’t need my fish this morning. Suiting up takes a while because I can’t take my eyes off the ocean. In the distance, I can see the distant breaks at San Onofre much better, and it looks like it’s pumping there too. I guess the northern most break that I had looked at wasn’t working as good.

     Once I’m suited up, I walk the shoreline. I could paddle out here and mix it up with the loggers, but I don’t want to deal with any jockeying this morning. About three more guys have paddled out. It’ll probably be a fuckfest soon, so I push it further north.

     Upper Churches (or Mons Pubis) is kind of working but not as good as I’ve surfed it before. It might be because of the WNW direction. Most of the waves are coming in lined up, no lefts just right-hand shoulders at the end of them. A Middles gamble might be the call.

     Middles. . . I paddle out in front of a rock formation that I had named The Battle Position. Since then, it’s lost its luster, looking more like a moundish ruin.

     The water’s cold. I have to do a little cobblestone boogie but avoid getting cut. On my way out, some long rights start breaking. I’m not even at the lineup yet, but I can’t help but to turn-and-go on the inside waves. When I catch them, they race away. Too lined. I finally calm myself and paddle all the way out.

     I linger just wide of the main pack. A surfer rips the right at Lowers, but the wave looks fat. Surprisingly, there are only a few people there. Instead of packs of surfers, everyone is spread out in a buckshot spread along the Middles-Lowers border.   

     I do my usual technique of sitting wide to catch unmolested waves, but I can’t get more than single turns. They still feel good, but guys at the top of the wave are getting longer rides.

     Little by little, I inch my way into the action. A guy on a Costco foamie is fucking killing it. I mean, he has to shift his weight and torque his hips hard on each turn. Keeping that back foot on the tail, he’s able to whip that monstrosity around. Maybe not the prettiest turns but he’s pulling them off, showing off his knowledge of proper surf mechanics. He gets off the wave, smiles, and nods his head at me.

     “You killing it on that Costco,” I say.

     “Dude!” he says. “The waves are so predictable today.” He’s gleaming with stoke. I need to get like that too.

     I start getting better waves. No, it’s not classic Trestles, like how it can be on a good south-west swell, peaky and scattered, but every other set has shape. My how I’ve missed these Trestles waves. I’m getting away with fucking murder, paddling in so late with the lip spilling on my back. I’m doubtful at first with how fast I’m slung down the face, but I pop up and wind up for a snap. The face is so steep and rampy, yet never barreling, that the tail of my board is just doing these carving hooks on every turn. I mean, I’m not even snapping the lip. I’m doing these full hooks where I just pause at the end of the accentuated motion, redirect the nose, and wind up once more. I get four turns on my best wave. Four. Fuck it’s been a while.

     Even though the lefts are racy, I pick those off too just long enough for a single maneuver. Here I practice my laybacks. Ahh! What a morning . . . the lefts. Fuck my ass, it’s like, yeah . . . I’m really in the training stages of my laybacks. I just can’t ride out of them. On one, I try to pick a steep part of the face and just go for it. Like, I just throw my whole body into it Clayback style, but I blow it so fucking badly. Literally, I just backflop on my deck and wipe out lying on my board. Mechanics. . . On the next wave, I consciously spring up out of the bottom turn, torso, extended, and climb the face with speed. Reaching back with my inside arm, I lean backwards as board does a solid arc. It feels good. Too bad I don’t know how to follow through to get my board back under my feet and ride out of it.

     It’s a little discouraging. It just comes to show how long the learning curve is in surfing. I can only wonder how many times I’ll have to keep blowing it before I can pull it off.

     After that left, I paddle back out. I look at the beach, and I’m already at the next set of portapotties. I’m at Lowers.

     Lowers. . . The infamous Lowers. As I’ve called it before, the biggest lie in surfing. Yeah, it’s an epic spot if you can actually get a fucking wave here, yet there are only three guys on it. For some reason, the swell direction isn’t making it classic. It’s actually smaller here. However, if you’ve read any of my past Lowers sessions, you’ll know that I rarely catch it empty. Fuck it. It’s “LOWERS.” How can I not sit here?

     It’s breaking uncharacteristically softer than usual, but I still milk the lefts and rights the best I can. I get good opening turns but the shoulders moosh out soon after. With everyone spread out the same, no one really invades the spot.

     I spend the next couple of hours going back and forth, crossing that invisible line between Lowers and Middles. Some guys are reluctant to sit at the top of the wave where it’s breaking best, so I even sit at the bottom of the wave to give them as much priority as possible.

     When I look at my watch again, it’s 1045. Three fucking hours have gone by. Yet, I’m energetic. A crew of groms show up on their bicycles, boards in hand. I figure it’s a good time to grab some lunch.

 

#

Loc: Churches, Trestles--Middles & Lowers

Time: 1445-1700        

Conditions: 2-3 FT+, light onshore, cool.

Board: 6’0 Kainalu Fish, twin fin

 

     You see, me and the boys are power eaters . . . that’s right. We kill buffets and anything all you can eat. We don’t fuck with places with time limits. Nah. We do two hours minimum. It’s usually Sebastian, Tim, and me. We need a fourth seed so badly, but every candidate we’ve had can’t hang. It takes passion, a love of food and a certain respect for the deliciousness translated through each and every bite to sit down at the table with us. So tonight’s AYCE sushi night. During these occasions, we usually starve ourselves until it’s go time. When I say starve, I don’t literally mean starve. Maybe some light snacky poos throughout the day, but that’s it.

     I paddle out at North Churches with the fish this time. I figure since the swell’s backed off, why not make the evening session a fun one with a wave magnet of a board. The transition, though, is awkward. After having been on the 5’9 Motorboat Too, this board feels too big. The sensation is different popping up. It just feels slower, yet once I’m on my feet with, the board is just so fast down the line. I struggle to turn it. It just wants to go in one direction as fast as possible. I walk the nose and eat shit. My amateur hotdogging is hella rusty since the last couple of swells have been brutal.

     The guys who I’m surfing next to are a bit aggressive, so I paddle all the way to Middles.    

     At 1530, something happens. I forgot to mention that I had only eaten four tangerines the whole day. That and coffee from my mug and water. I had felt good into the afternoon, but now my fucking stomach hurts. The thought of white tuna, salmon, and yellow tail just makes my stomach hurt even more. Gawd, I haven’t been this hungry since that seven hour Jalama session in August.

     I’m weak. I start surfing like shit. I could leave the water right now, but I’m stubborn. My thighs are still aching from snowboarding, the rest of my body more so from the gym yesterday and session number one this morning.

     Lowers is breaking a little more classic now. Not crowded, but there are more heads there. I site wide south of it. It’s not as consistent as it was this morning. I’m more patient than I’ve ever been before, willing to let waves roll by, and every time a wave comes I’m hardpressed to surf it well. It’s like pussy being thrown at you when you don’t want it because you’re in a serious relationship. Because of my patience, I’m there in the right spot every time a good one comes. Perfect right-hand peelers come through. My feet placement’s off, throwing off-balance snaps on my backhand. Tired, I just walk to the nose and crouch to get distance thinking: spicy tuna handroll, unagi, albacore, mackerel, spicy tuna handroll.

     I catch a closeout in but it’s still too early, so I walk back to upper Churches where I’ll be closer to my car. Each wave is draining on my body. Delts on fire. I’m past burning calories. Burning muscle.

 

     I’m back at my car and fully changed by 1730. I call the boys and beg them to meet me at Zenko Sushi as early as they possibly can. “I’m starving,” I say. “I’m about to eat my hand.”

     When they arrive at 1830, I’m already sitting down at our table, first round of sushi on the way. With bloodshot eyes, white Vertra still stuck to my face, and sunburnt lips, I go into AYCE autopilot.

     A true samurai can hold up his sword and wait for the moment to deliver a fatal strike, even though an equal blow is about to be dealt to him as well. As hungry as I am, I focus on the white slab of fish, pick it up with my chopsticks, and dip it into the soy sauce. Raw and buttery, I chew it slowly, never having tasted anything so good in my life.

ESCAPE (double sesh), TUE 26AUG2014

Loc: Churches to Lowers

Crew: Solo

Time: 0700-1000

Conditions: 4 FT+, walled, consistent, crowded.

     With my mom’s passing, things have been pretty hectic. Once all of the big items were moved out of my mom’s apartment, leaving only minor items and a cleaning job to do, my sisters and I decided to take a day to handle our own neglected errands. For me, it meant paddling out. With the biggest south swell to hit SoCal in years, I hoped to score. I imagined pristine conditions with scattered peaks everywhere, especially Middles. But . . . I also knew that it would be a gamble. The swell would be coming in south east, meaning that the shape could be walled. But what do I know? I’ve been wrong in forecasting wave quality this whole summer. It seemed like a gamble worth taking. Plus, I really wanted to paddle out and just be by myself to reflect on my mom.

     The night prior, I had packed everything in my car for a night’s stay, even a twin-size sleeping mattress that my mom had stashed away in her closet. I was ready, not to just car camp it but to do so comfortably.

     I left El Segundo when it was still dark out. All I had to do was get in the car and go. I had missed the feeling of hitting the freeway in the dark early-morning hours. Yet, I felt more alone that I ever had before. The idea that my mom wasn’t a phone call away anymore was still hard to accept. Whenever I wasn’t with her, I knew that she was always “there.” But now she wasn’t. When I thought about her, I pictured her the last time I had seen her, on a grocery errand. The quick way I had hugged her and said goodbye. The routine pitter-patter hug I would get back from her, and the urgency she had to hurry and put her groceries away so she could get on with her day. I’d see her again, I had thought, as always, for another grocery run when she would need it, a small fix around the house, maybe a screen door or her surround sound would act up. But that was the last time. 

#

     Exiting Basilone, I get a quick Glimpse of Lowers. Plenty of people are out. A wall swings in through Middles. Doesn’t look like there’s shape.

     When I get to Churches and park, the surf doesn’t look as big. Four-foot waves are coming in consistently, breaking best at the top of the wave, the main point. The waves appear to be sectiony, but they hold shape enough to gain distance and crank a couple turns on.

     So far I’m not sold on the surf, but I’m here. Conditions could get better. The swell supposed to peak tomorrow. It could be epic by the end of the day.

     I’m not in a rush to change, so I take my time. Sunblock, wetsuit, warm up. I paddle out at the bottom of Churches and sit with a few other stragglers, hoping something will swing wide. Usually I’d be antsy, but I just sit and gaze out. Mom. . . The waves are gonna have to come to me today.

     When the sets come, they come in huge walls a foot bigger than I had seen earlier. I paddle into my first right, but it runs away fast and sections off. My next two waves the same thing. Closer and closer, I get to the main peak. Sitting wide south of it, I watch a couple perfect rights roll in. There are good waves today, but only breaking best in the prime locations, and this morning it’s packed with longboarders.

     Instead of sitting with the pack, I paddle north of it just south of Mons Pubis. Middles looks like shit, but there is an E-Z UP there with a whole crew of longboarders. Everywhere that is breaking has heads, but I somehow manage.

     I snag a couple rights that pop out of nowhere. Thank goodness I have my quad setup. I draw a highline going right, making it past a spilling section. I bottom turn and get one solid backhand hack. It feels good, kicking out of the wave, paddling back. There are so many people and only a few are getting waves. I got one.

     But other than a few random rides, it’s hard to catch anything with shape. And now I’m here again, like so many times this summer, sitting and waiting for the good wave that never comes. After catching nothing but closeouts, I call the morning session. Fuck it. I’m gonna be here tomorrow anyway, so why push it right now, especially if the surf might improve.

    

The State:

     After drinking some really strong tea back at the car, I rummage through my cooler. My sisters and I had to clear out my mom’s fridge. One of the items I took was a pack of Fig Newtons. I had recognized the pack as being one of the items that my mom had bought when I took her grocery shopping. Sadly, out of the two rows of newtons, she had only eaten a third of one row. When we had gone through her apartment, it was like being a crime-scene detective. What were her last moments like? How much had she eaten from the groceries we got on the last run? There was a fresh pot of rice cooked that she had never even had a chance to dig into yet. Okra on the stove.

    Now I munch on the Fig Newtons. I’m not a fan, but today they are nourishing the hell out of me. Sitting in my car with the sun beating down on the white roof of my wagon, I’m reaching into the yellow wrapping, plucking out a newton. I wish my mom would have eaten more of them instead of leaving behind so much. I would’ve been happier to see maybe half of one row left, but there are so many. The groceries. She barely went through them before she passed. The abundance of newtons left. A reminder of how quickly her life had expired after I last saw her.

     I walk to Old Mans hoping that I’ll find Mecca—big lefts peeling at the northern most break into the military campgrounds. When I get there, it looks like windblown shit. It’s smaller and just as sectiony with little dribbly shoulders. But again, I’m here to get centered. Waves are just a consolation. I finish off my bearclaw donut and tea and then head back to the vehicle.

     The best part of the trip isn’t in the water. Thus far, it’s sitting in my chair, on the sand, under my beach umbrella. I fade in and out of a nap before falling into a sleep-like trance. My body is so relaxed that I should be sleeping, but my eyes are open and I’m fully conscious. It’s like I’m in a dream state but awake. Onshore wind kisses my face and keeps me cool. The umbrella keeps the sun off my skin, protected. In front of me, I can make out the waves above the sandline. Surfers ride the high-tide inside waves, pumping as far as they can before kicking out. I sit, frozen, like a stone on the sand, stalling, waiting for the late afternoon for the surf to get better.

#

NO ESCAPE, TUE 26AUG2014

Loc: Middles to Lowers

Crew: Solo

Time: 1530-2000

Conditions: 5-6 FT+, walled, consistent, ridiculously crowded.

     Churches looks like complete shit. To think I had cursed this morning’s conditions. Walls roll in like mini tsunamis, clearing surfers in their path.

     I paddle from Mons to Middles, catching myself a little too close to shore a couple of times, having to dart outside to duckdive the sets. Miraculously, a smaller wave, a left, comes my way, and . . . it has a tapered shoulder forming at the end. I can’t believe it. I paddle and pop up, and it stands up right away. I get to my feet just in time and set my rail to go down the line. It’s a Jalama-quality ride. First maneuver is a tight frontside cutback in the pocket. I redirect and pump twice before getting a wide arcing carve. I hit the last section, which is now a petered out two-foot shoulder, but I still hit it regardless. Three turns. Best wave of the day.

     I continue my paddle towards the top of Middles, wondering if I should have just stayed there to wait for another.

     At Middles, I’m around a small pack of surfers. They’re waiting. We’re all waiting for something with shape. Walls roll in. It’s okay. I feel as if I have an edge because, remember, today’s not completely about surfing. I’m here to reflect.

     I’m a statue on my surfboard, letting the closeouts pass, staring out at the horizon. Mom. She’s really not home. If I called, no one would pick up. Every wave I catch is a closeout.

     Over the horizon, the sun is finally getting low. Underneath it is Lowers, and, of course, it’s working. It’s the only place working, but, as you can imagine, it’s fucking crowded. My technique of sitting wide is what half of San Clemente is doing right now. But . . . I can rely on the sunset. The darkness. When the light starts to wane, people will leave. That’s when I can have my chance. That’s when I’ll score Lowers.

     I creep towards it, but we all know how this works. You stare and paddle towards Lowers long enough, and you’ll find yourself there. So now I’m just outside of the main peak. Waves are swinging wide, but they are so big that surfers who are sitting deep can get into them. The main take off is so congested. I watch three or four guys on the same wave.

     “Hey!” yells a guy going left. A grom is in front of him. They both eat shit.

     A high pitched voice replies, “What are you doing?! Get out of here!”

     So many waves I watch pass. But now the sun is setting. Its little crescent giving a bright-orange goodbye like a sad smile. Still, I wait it out. I have the edge, the edge of time. I can sit here forever. I don’t care. But . . . people aren’t leaving. It’s still crowded. I have no choice but to sit at the top of the wave. The wave . . . is getting bigger. The swell is finally filling in, a prequel to tomorrow’s swell of the decade.

     “Did you just yell at some kid?” says a surfer. He’s talking to Yeller, the guy who had the altercation with the grom earlier. “Was that you? I saw you two split a peak. You went right, he went left, and then you swung back around and went left.”

     Yeller paddles away. The guy follows.

     “Why don’t you go in and apologize to that kid?”

     Yeller shakes his head and doesn’t say anything. He tries to paddle away, but the guy follows him where he goes.

     “No? You don’t wanna apologize to the kid?!”

     An outside set comes in, washing everyone up. Good. Now I’m at the top waiting for mine, but it doesn’t come. One by one, like an army of immortals, each surfer regains his spot in the lineup, and then it’s Suck City all over again.

     Now the lights at the nuclear boobs are on. The sky over Camp Pendleton is purple. Yet, motherfuckers, they’re still out here. I see the faces of desperation around me. Other cats who had hoped for their opportunities to shine, just like me, waiting for their one wave to make the Lowers sacrifice worth it. And it’s still crowded.

     When the next bomb rolls in, I’m sitting deep on the left. A guy on my inside tries to go, but I know he won’t make it. He can’t. This wave is too big, easily overhead, and he’s too deep. I pop up and go anyway but find myself sliding down a dark vertical face of water. The wipeout is violent. Even way outside, I touch bottom. Panicking, I kick as hard as I can to the surface, hoping that there isn’t another wave. When I reach air, the rest of the set comes in. I didn’t give respect to the ocean. With the swell coming in full force, the lineup goes from trying to score a good wave to just trying to make it out in one piece.

     I turn and go on an inside wave, but it’s so dark now that my timing is off. Late, I eat shit on a right. Through the tumbler once more. It’s either belly ride it to shore or paddle back out towards the dim horizon. The black dots of wetsuits are now faint. But . . . it can’t be for nothing. I’ve been out for four hours, and I’m not gonna end it with a cherry on top?

     I paddle back out. The looks of desperation now turn into looks of worry. The set takes too long. I paddle towards the middle of the wave, and then the bomb arrives. The exploding white wash is two storeys high. I point my nose to shore, and I’m engulfed in foam and pulled down under. Now further in, I hold onto my board on the next one. Who gives a shit about a Lowers’ wave? I’m out of there. I smile as I approach the cobblestones. Other surfers are doing their balance dance over the rocks towards the sand. I cant my board at an angle to slow myself down, but I’m going so fast that my speed barely dumps. The water in front of me starts sucking off of the rocks. What had looked like a lot of water is now suddenly drained. I lean on my right side to keep my board afloat above the rocks. My right arm and leg are hit by a barraged of blunt-edged rocks, like being kneed and elbowed by a Muay Thai Kickboxer. After thudding my way to shore, I check myself for wounds. My board’s fine. Other than a small cut underneath my fingernail, the only thing bruised is my ego.

#

     I’m back on the 405 North towards El Segundo. I couldn’t find it in me to sleep in my car. The surf sucked. If it sucks now, it’s gonna suck tomorrow, especially if it’s not holding size now, just imagine. . .

     I feel even more alone driving home in the evening darkness. It’s not just my mom. Since she passed, I’ve been with my sisters every day, clearing out her apartment. It’s too soon to be alone.

     I reach over for the package of Fig Newtons, scraping the ribbed plastic container as my fingers search for one, but all I find are crumbs.

MY ENDLESS SUMMER, (double sesh) PT.8 SAT 02AUG2014

Are you curious as to why Klaude's so hungry? Read and find out!

Next One

Loc: Churches to Middle Trestles

Time: 0730-1030

Conditions: 2-3FT, overcast, empty.

Pre Blog:

     Klaude had told me that he really wanted to surf Trestles. I pleaded with him on how the shape there hasn’t been “classic,” and that there isn’t much swell on tap for the weekend anyway. Bad call was what I was thinking. And then he said, “I’m going there no matter what, even if I gotta make the hike from Cristianitos.” And then I got to thinking, When’s the last time I surfed down south with Klaude? He’s missed a lot of camping trips because of work, traveling, and eye surgery. Going south would be a gamble, but maybe Klaude’s stoke and luck might bring forth some decent waves. And it’s not like we’d be camping. We’d only be going for the day.

With the Flow:

     It’s 0530, and my wagon is packed with me and Bri’s surf gear. I had told Klaude that I wanted to be on the road, wheels rolling, at exactly 0530. I text him. No response. I call him, and his voice is so creaky from the other side of the phone that I know that I had just woke his ass up. “I’ll see you when you get here,” I say.  

     I’m anal, and anal people don’t like being behind schedule. My normal impulse would have me pretty upset to start the morning, but I remember that the surf isn’t supposed to be that good today. What are we rushing for?

     Bri and I watch a surf flick until he arrives.

     Exiting Basilone Road, we see that Middles looks like a lake. There is a small crowd at Lowers, all sitting stagnant, waiting for waves. Churches looks dismal, too. It’s overcast, the tide is low, only a few heads are out, and the waves are barely two feet.

     “Small kine,” says Klaude.

     I’m not too disappointed. My expectations were low heading here. If anything, the purpose of the day is to hang with Klaude, finally get him down south, dead or alive. While watching the water, a right sprouts up and peels at the main point. A couple more follow. They are barely three feet, but the shape is there. It looks fun. Plus, Christina had loaned me her Zippifish yesterday before moving to Australia. I got the right equipment.

     Unfortunately, the screw to Klaude’s board’s center fin is stripped. He can’t get it out, can’t put in a fin, and he also doesn’t have his quad setup with him, which means that we’ll have to share the fish if any of us want some decent rides.

     At first we paddle out at North Churches. I get waves right away on the blue Zippi, Big Blue. I don’t know how thick it is, but it’s a 6’0” and extremely buoyant. Of course, Bri’s fine on her NSP, but Klaude’s not looking so hot on my Motorboat Too that he’s borrowing. It’s just not big enough for the surf, but we end up swapping boards.

     From here, I can only go straight on my board, but I’m stoked to see Bri and Klaude get so many waves. The surf isn’t that great. The waves aren’t all lining up, as there are some closeouts, but we have this place practically to ourselves.

     Halfway through the session, I suggest we paddle to Middles.

     “Looks like the same shit over there,” says Klaude. He’s not going. And then Bri heads over to him, says she’s gonna paddle to Middles, and then they both begin paddling.

     The paddle to Battle Positions, or the “Battle Paddle,” isn’t too bad. As we get closer, we see that some of the rights there are actually holding up. And if Churches had a minimum crowd, then this spot is damn near barren.

     We get mostly rights with occasional lefts for the rest of the session. The sun finally burns through the overcast, but half of the horizon leading out to sea is still covered with dark clouds. It’s summer time behind us and winter out in front. The wind dies, turning the reflection off of the ocean into a dull grey. We can barely see the waves until they are close.

     I can’t recall a memorable ride for this first session. All I can say is that we all got waves and surfed until exhaustion. Even with Klaude and me sharing a fish between us, we still got our fair share.

     “Last one,” I say to Klaude.

     “You mean ‘next one.’ There’s never a last one. Always a next one.”

     He catches his next one in on the fish, but then he comes back out, unstraps the leash, and slings the Zippi my way to make sure that I end it with a good ride, too.

#

Loc: Churches

Time: 1500-1830

Conditions: 2-3FT, overcast, empty.

Brunch:

     Denny’s. I order two different breakfast entrees off of the four-dollar value meal. Too easy. Too cheap. Too delicious. This is surf-budget dining at its finest. Klaude orders sandwiches with fries, oatmeal, and . . . a fricken milk shake. Why are we so hungry?

     The place is packed. We make friends with the older couple sitting next to us. The guy keeps spewing off about fascism. Not sure what the whole deal is.

     “Here, take a slice of my sandwich,” says Klaude. “And some fries.”

     I’m so happy. How’d he know that I was still hungry?

Magic Hour:

     We’re parked in front of Churches, waiting for the tide to top out before we go back for seconds. Luckily, I still have a deck of cards in the car from the last camp trip.

     N.W.A. plays on my stereo. Bri shuffles the cards. Pusoy Dos it is. Klaude whips us the first two guys, holding onto his most lethal five-car arrangements until the very end, when Bri and I are forced to pass on every hand. It’s not until the third and last game that I catch onto his evil ways, thus defeating him in the process. It’s time.

     Klaude decides to ride his Neckbeard with a quad setup but doing so with my normal-size Futures fins as the trailers. He’s even willing to ride it as a twin, but I suggest that he doesn’t.

     With more volume, we hope that his board does well in the sub-three-foot surf.

     It’s back to North Churches again, and this time there’s a little pack there, but I know how this crowd usually does it. Churches is famous for its long rights. Lately, more people have been sitting a little west, past the main peak, to get the rights that sometimes line up and peel down the whole break. What I like to do is sit much wider, even more west, to pick off the lefts, and sometimes a right will even come through.

     So we paddle out and sit. Bri takes off on a wave, thus starting her campaign of nonstop surfing. Literally, from here on out she only ceases her paddling when she’s on a wave.

     The wind’s a little more onshore. The clouds are darker and thicker, shutting out the sun for the remainder of the day. Rain drops ripple the water’s surface, not hard but visible enough.

     Klaude catches waves on his Neckbeard, but the waves are still a little too small for his board. It’s hard to get any turns and do anything else but go down the line. I trick him into making him think that I want to sample his board, when I really just want to make sure that he gets to ride the Zippi.

     The second session starts off a little more inconsistent than the morning, and even though Bri’s on a rampage, she paddles all the way out to Middles solo to see if it’s better.

     Now Klaude and I are on our own. I see him get one of his best waves of the day, a frontside right on the Zippi. He flies down the line, drawing a wide scraping arch on the face of the wave, throwing some mist out the back. As the tide lowers, the surf picks up in size a little bit more. I actually catch a left on the Neckbeard, getting two good pumps before bogging out on the turn. After a few more waves, I realize that this fin setup isn’t working too well for the board. I can’t explain it, but the turns just feel too loose and not tight enough for agile power.

     When Bri paddles back, she’s exhausted and elects to head back to the car to change, so I trade boards with her.

     Now I’m on the NSP and Klaude’s on the fish. We both have the right equipment. Out west over the horizon, the sky below the overcast is pink, as if the sky were wearing a baby T-shirt, exposing its pink belly. Also, the surf turns more consistent with the tide going even lower. The weather scares off any possibility of an evening surf invasion.

     Klaude looks at me and says, “It’s that magic hour.” From here, I get the best surf that I’ve gotten in a while. Back to back waves on the NSP. It’s only a 6’8 funboard, but you can ride it like a longboard. I walk the nose and throw in a little gangster lean. I can’t cross step for shit, and I probably look ugly how I use the length of the board, but it feels right. I’m having so much fun. I can’t quite hang 5, but I get so close several times, just inches away. Immediately off popping up, I just walk to the nose and hold a high line, each wave just as fun as the one before.

     We switch boards again, and the NSP looks like an awful lot for Klaude to lug around. It’s not that he can’t surf that board, but it’s probably been a while since he’s ridden something that big.

     It’s already 1800 by the time we switch boards again. Klaude’s eyes are bloodshot red. “Either I’m getting lazy or I’m getting tired,” he says. He has this glazed look over his face with his mouth hanging open. Both sessions we’ve surfed, never overheating or too cold, just perfect overcast conditions to make a surf marathon out of it.

     “I’m exhausted,” says Klaude. “Next one?”

     But it’s too early for next-one time. There are still waves. They are even getting better. No one’s out. “Next one” turns into three more waves. When we’re finally out of the water, I feel the tightness in my neck and shoulders for the first time. As much as we’d all love to surf until sun down, it’s time for us to go.

Post Surf:

     It’s a silent drive to HB, vibing out to some Pandora on the way. We get some 50% chicken pho for dinner. For Bri and me, I only pay $7.54 with a two-buck tip. God, I love Vietnamese food.

     From there, it’s Dough Boy’s Donuts in El Segundo for an ice cream dessert and a donut. Only $5.54 for all three of us.

     We can only talk about how perfect the whole day was. Klaude showing up late still worked out fine. The surf forecast was accurate, but it was probably more on the “fair” side than “poor.” The lack of crowd due to the funky weather ensured we got the best waves. And the overcast? I don’t think I’ve ever had an all day overcast surf trip that went so well. It was actually nice not having the burning sun on my face all day. No neck tan! The boards. Without the right boards, we wouldn’t have had such good sessions. Gotta thank Christina for that.

     It was only a poor-to-fair day, but from the way that we feel and the amount of waves that we had all caught, it might as well have been an epic one. Oh, and Klaude was right after all. If it wasn’t for his “do or die” attitude to go to Trestles, Bri and I never would have even gone. We would have had no idea. Instead, we would have pictured small, shitty, onshore surf in our minds. Clueless. No idea at all.

MY ENDLESS SUMMER, (double sesh) PT.4 SAT 26JUL2014

Oceanside to Trestles

Loc: Oceanside

Crew: Bri, Rick, Juan

Time: 0700-0945

Conditions: 2-3FT, clean, inconsistent, sectiony.

     Rick had informed me that he’d be camping at San Onofre. The occasion, his childhood friend Allen from Florida would be in town.

     Bri and I leave El Segundo at about 0500 to meet up with the guys in Oceanside. I get a phone call from them when I’m in Mission Viejo. We’re about fifteen minutes behind them.   

     We see them in the parking lot, Rick and Juan. They introduce us to Allen. Their other friend Vance is also here with his son Colby in tow.

     I had just surfed this spot two Wednesdays ago with Al, and even though the forecast that day was small, Oceanside had delivered. ‘Twas one of the best sessions I’ve had in a while, consistent waves with good shape the whole morning.

     On this morning, the surf is dismal. There are lefts off of the jetty breaking rather werbly. The sandbars off to the north aren’t doing much either. Surf syndrome ensues.

     “It’s getting better with the tide push,” says Juan. God bless him. I stare out there and squint, hoping that he’s right.

     Allen decides to sit this session out on the sand. Vance, a Venice Pier veteran and, still, active local, paddles out with his 9’6” at the top of the wave. Stylishly, he pops up and stalls with rear hand grabs before switching his stance. My friend Khang had told me how good longboarding is highly respected nowadays. No, Vance isn’t a team Costco kind of guy. He rips.

     Juan and Bri sit furthest south, where Bri witnesses Juan’s in-and-out tube ride. I believe it.

     Of course, Rick’s Mr. Wave Magnet. I should start calling him Magneto AKA Reptile Rick. Reptile because even Bri tells me that he takes off in front of her on at least three waves.

     I, on the other hand, struggle. At first the waves are fun. Small, but there’s a hint of shape. I pump down the line but the waves closeout too fast. It’s not until the end of the session that I get a two footer that grants me two turns. And that’s it.

     Afterwards, I head into the showers. No hot water today. Someone’s left his Irish Spring body wash next to the shower. As much as I’d like to use some, I’m a bit reluctant.

     We eat at Roberto’s for breakfast, and everyone’s giving Juan a hard time.

     “He used the body wash that was in the shower,” says Allen.

     “Yeah,” says Vance. “There was some white stuff in there, too.”

     A roar of laughter erupts from the table. Colby, who’s twelve years old, doesn’t quite catch on.

     I look at Al and say, “Looks like he was using ‘Spurt Plus.’”

     By the way, Roberto’s breakfast burritos are fucking horrible, at least their breakfast burrito and chorizo burrito are.

#

Unclassic Churches

Loc: Churches to Middles

Crew: Bri, Rick, Juan, Allen, Vance, Colby

Time: 1630-1900

Conditions: 2-3FT+, onshore, inconsistent, sectiony.

     After surfing Oceanside, we go back to the campsite at San Onofre. Our campsite is up on the bluffs, so we don’t get the ocean breeze right in our faces. In other words, it’s scorching. Juan and Colby try to take naps, but it’s too hot to sleep in their tent. Bri and I make due by drinking cold beer and playing pusoy dos.

     By 1600, we can’t take it anymore. I do a surf check. The onshore wind is light, the tide is low, and it looks like there’s some potential for fun evening waves.

     Bri and I paddle out ahead of everyone with Colby, who opts to bareback it. Within twenty minutes of paddling out at Churches, he goes back in to change into a wetsuit.

     Bri draws first blood, taking a peaky left all to herself. I’m so jealous. I paddle further out in anticipation for the next one. It doesn’t come.

     Just as the waves had poor shape at Oceanside, they’re not too hot here either. Both lefts and rights, the waves are lined up too long, not offering up rippable shoulders. The best spot is at the top of the wave, where the right holds shape a little better, but that’s where everyone is sitting.

     Everyone else paddles out to meet us, but the conditions don’t improve. I eye the right at Middles. The shape looks better there, and it’s empty.

     Bri and I make the long paddle there. Only three other guys are here. The only problem is that the tide is much higher than it was when we had first paddled out, so now the conditions are swampy. Still, some decent waves roll through. I catch a left, but the low sun is in my eyes the whole time, blinding me. All I can do is pump. I go far but no turns.

     “That one hold up for you?” says an off duty Marine, who’s sharing the break with us.

     “Yeah, but I couldn’t see shit.”

     Just then, a right pops up in the horizon, and its shoulder is lining up nice and tapered. I’ll have to admit that I’m pretty damn greedy because I paddle out and snatch this one too. Even though it looks like a good wave, it’s still racy. All I can do is pump for distance. No turns once more.

     I sit south of everyone since I had just snagged two in a row, but the surf gets even more inconsistent.

     Back at the campsite, everyone says that Churches got better after we left.

     “I got one of my best paddle outs,” says Juan. “Just driving on the rights, flying down the line.”

     But I? I’m a pessimist at this point. I haven’t really scored here, not in a classic sense at least, for the last four or five trips. That’s a lot of time, money, and gas. I don’t believe it was that good.

     As I’ve said before, “Sometimes the company is more important than the surf,” and in this case, having a beer around the fire with these salty veterans makes up for the crappy surf. Vance has so much local knowledge, being a Venice local. He tells stories about what’s going on with the Dogtown vets. I really don’t want to write the details down because I would hate for Vance to end up in cahoots with anyone. And then Allen tells stories about how he and Juan used to take month-long trips to Baja back in the day, and their misadventures like vehicle breakdowns and surf injuries.

     Juan offers to take Colby down the beach for some night fishing, so Bri and I follow. After Colby loses his hook and Juan catches nothing but seaweed, Juan finally has a catch. I laugh my ass off, watching Juan yell like a girl as he runs away from the waves breaking on shore, and then he yanks on the pole while running up and down the beach, trying to hook his catch. The cherry on top is when he runs backwards with the pole and falls on his ass. The whole time, Colby is telling Juan that he’s probably just caught on a rock, but for me, I feel like a kid watching wrestling. Juan’s performance might be fake, but I don’t want to believe it.

     Burning the last of the firewood, Juan throws in the unused bait, which is a bag of frozen shrimp, onto a flat log that’s in the fire pit.

     “Squeeze some limes on it,” says Vance. “And pour some beer over it.”

     The shrimps look good. Juan pulls one out and asks me to sample it.

     “It’s still a little wet,” I say.

     We all sit, gazing at the shrimp, ready for our midnight snack. The log twitches. Sparks fly. The log falls over, and all the shrimps fall into the fire. 

FRANSAUCE’S RETURN PT.IV, (double sesh) WED 09JUL2014

Loc: North Churches, Middles, Lowers

Crew: Bri, Francis, Alex, Rick

Time: 0630-0900

Conditions: Light overcast, consistent, warm, sectiony, 3-4 FT+.

     “It was a raccoon,” says Francis. I saw it. It had something in its mouth and carried it away.”

     “How big was it?”

     He holds out his hands much wider than its body. “At least fifty pounds,” he says. “It just looked at me all pissed off and walked off slow.” Francis imitates it with a mean walk-by.

     I call Rick. He’s late. He’s supposed to be here to set up his daughter’s birthday party campsite right next to ours. I tell him that we’re heading towards Middles and that we’ll meet him there.

     On the way to Middles, I stop and paddle out at North Churches. The left is working the best that it’s been since we’ve been here.

     My first wave solidifies the trip. It’s what I’ve been looking forward to all along, to get a wave at my favorite spot here, a frontside wave, a LEFT. The incoming tide makes the shape a little soft. It doesn’t take much water here because the left lines up into deeper water, but the wave stands up and still holds shape, a little soft but still skatey. I get two front side turns and end it with a baby floater. Stoked.

     The only problem is that everyone is on it today. It’s even more crowded than yesterday. A Japanese contingent of five surfers takes every good wave, one by one.

     Bri’s frustrated with the crowd, so she sits right on the border of Churches and Middles, really taking the ones that swing wide.

     Alex and Francis aren’t surfing aggressively, but they position themselves at the take-off spot the whole time, staying in prime contention for waves. But not me. Too claustrophobic.

     Bri and I paddle to Middles. One of the cleanest A-frames I’ve seen the whole trip rolls through. I take the right, getting one turn before it closes out.

     We run into Lori and Kurt.

     “I saw your friend Rick,” she says. “About an hour ago.” She points towards Lowers. “He paddled over there.”

     I track Rick down, and then I see his bald head. He’s doing battle at Lowers, much better than I had yesterday. He’s on two waves but kicks out for guys already on them. But he gets an unmolested right all to himself. It’s a small one, but he surfs it well, throwing out buckets the whole time.

     We all join at Middles. Unfortunately, the incoming tide already makes the spot inconsistent, so we call it an early session and head in.

     Breakfast is pancakes, eggs, and sausage. I feed everyone. Soon, Rick sets up camp and his daughter and her teenage crew show up.

     Alex is an extremely handsome man. Coast Guard. Male model material. I introduce him to the teenage girls as my male modeling friend who is taking a break from his photo shoot. I also say, “And he has very nice abs.” Alex, who’s standing there shirtless, doesn’t see this compliment coming. Four sets of eighteen-year-old eyes look down towards his six pack and package. Alex . . . you’re welcome.

#

     Alex takes off to catch the Argentina vs. Netherlands game, while Bri, Francis, and I opt for an early afternoon surf session before the tide kills it once more.

     We surf north Churches again, where the Japanese contingent still remains. It’s good for the first hour. It turns a little inconsistent. More people leave, and we have it to ourselves.

     Francis rides the Kadowaki single fin, styling on his rides. Not as many turns this time, but hot-dogging poses. He surfs it well.

     I’m here for the lefts, getting my turn of the trip, frontside pumping and getting a legit forehand snap right in front of Francis. He cheers me on. I’m going to miss how much he pushes my surfing.

     It’s an early end to the afternoon sesh. The sun’s still nice and high. We kill a beer at the showers, a classic tradition started by Fransauce.

Chef Briana, propane stove extraordinaire. 

Seba is late for the surf, but not late enough to take off his shirt! Seba, Francis, Alex, Rick.

     Alex returns. My buddy Sebastian shows up to hang out. Rick gets the grill going. Bacon-wrapped hot dogs. Alex ends up roasting marshmallows with one of the teenage chicks by the grill. They whisper softly to themselves. Why, if Alex were a lesser man, he’d . . .

     That night, once all is settled, the moon nestles behind some low-lying clouds, but its light is still bright. Our once-quiet campsite is now filled with teenage giggling, the annoying kind.

     This time, we bring our beach chairs out to the sand. We’re the only ones on the beach.

     “What’s your best wave this trip?” says Alex. We all take our turns. Next is the Best-Non-surf-Moment category, and we go over that, too. My favorite memory is that night at Jack In the Box, just seeing all my friends and my woman so stoked over the day’s events.

     It’s our last night here, and we try to milk it as much as possible. The moon only peeks out for quick moments at a time. Still, if we stay out here and refuse going to sleep, we can make this whole trip last just a little while longer.