HIGH TIDE BLUES, THU 05APRIL2012 MOR

    

Location: HB

Crew: Solo

Time: 0715-0845

Conditions: Inconsistent, high tide, burgery, swampy, offshore, 4-5 FT.

     HB can be excellent on a high tide. I’ve seen it. Francis and I have seen it. During a drastic tide change, we surfed both low and high tide to the point of exhaustion, and it worked the whole time. So even though a high tide was in the morning forecast, I thought it would be a good gamble.

     It’s 0630 when I leave Lawndale and hop on 405S. I’m making good time for a change, but I’m tired as shit, dipping at the steering wheel. When I enter the state parking area, there are only a few cars about. Also, there is zero sign of surf activity: no surfers walking with their boards, dawn patrollers, or other cars pulling in. I tell myself it’s because it’s Thursday morning. Of course it would be empty. I’m already wearing my wetsuit, so I throw on some wax and sunblock then hit the sand. I can see some exploding whitewash in the distance, so it looks promising. There’s a small group at the river jetties and two guys north. Once I reach the water, I’m not sure what to make out of the surf. It’s consistent, but it’s not breaking like classic HB. The lines are long, and the shoulders at the end of them are mooshy. The SS kicks in, and I think I’ll be able to get some rides regardless. 

     I have to duckdive quite a bit of waves, but I still make it out in decent time. My first wave is a right. The drop is steep, but after that the whole shoulder mooshes out. I’ve been watching the Rip Curl Pro, so I try to imitate the pros by staying in the pocket where the power is, but even that part fizzles away. Other surfers paddle out, and they’re not doing any better. The session is a tease: drop in and bog out. Although, there is size. The waves that break on the outside are big, but they reform, break, and moosh out again. I call it quits at 0900. I’ll never come here again during a high tide if the swell’s not big.

NO CROWD, NO PROBLEM, SUN 05FEB2012 MOR

Loc: Huntington Beach

Crew: Shan

Time: 0800-1030

Conditions: High to mid tide, mixed conditions with walls and shoulders, 3-4 ft, inconsistent, and EMPTY!

     Gas isn’t cheap nowadays, so I’ve cut down a little on the surf trips. However, I planned to surf HB on Sunday since the swell was increasing another foot. Even though Manhattan Beach was supposed to be bigger, I didn’t want to deal with the bigger crowds. Also, I’m tired of riding walls; I need some turns in my life.

     I send out the bat signal Saturday night. Klaude says he’s staying local to coach a basketball game. Khang and DK are in San Diego for a Super Bowl party. Francis is up north. Rick can’t go, and Dais is going to Santa Barbara with his girlfriend. Cheryl shoots me a text, asking where I’m gonna surf. I extend the invite, but she says, “Thanks for the offer. I think I’ll stay local. Huntington’s waves are so fast.” I missed Shan’s call on Friday, so I call him to see if he’s free.

     It’s 0715 when I pick him up. He’s living in his RV for the weekend that’s parked off of Rosecrans. I can’t remember the last time I surfed with Shan, but a lot has changed since then. We catch up with each other. He tells me about Veronica, and I tell him how Lauren and I are doing. He also fills me on his photography travels. Over the last couple months he’s surfed Honolua Bay and Pipe. 

     Turns out Shan bought an RV, the ultimate SBV (Surf Bum Vehicle). He says he’s taken it up north and surfed different spots along PCH, but that he hasn’t surfed in three weeks. I admit that I contemplated buying an RV when I was in Iraq, and in a way . . . I’m jealous. And then again, I do like space. There’s something about cooking eggs and bacon, butt naked in a big kitchen, with your balls hanging out that spells: FREEDOM.

    

     I brag about the state parking pass that I bought, but as we drive closer to the entrance, we notice that all the lots are packed with cars. They’ve even put a LOT FULL sign on the street. The state employee tells us there’s a marathon, and that all the lots are closed. So far for the parking pass. 

     Keeping stride, we park a couple blocks away. There’s no rush because we need the tide to go down. It feels like an easy Sunday. Like last week, there’s only a faint hint of offshore wind. The sun’s out, and it’s warm. Shan still ops to put on his booties and gloves. I imagine what my brother would have said at the sight of that. 

     My expectations are low. Even though we’re not at the water yet, I have a feeling that it’s not as congested as the South Bay. As soon as we hump over the sand, we see a vast and empty lineup. There are a few heads at the river jetties and a few dots north. The lot closure and marathon interferes with parking so much that it keeps the surfers away. We watch the water for a bit. The peaks are scattered, not making one spot standout more than the other. Unfortunately, the waves don’t have their peaky, defined, HB signature because they’re a little walled, but they still have corners at the end; you just need to be in the right place.  

     When we get to the lineup we notice we’ve drifted. “Watch the current,” I tell Shan. He hasn’t surfed for three weeks, so he’s in for a workout. 

     The tide keeps the waves from standing up. My timing’s off on my first attempts, scratching-out because I’m not deep enough, and then there’s a lull. “It was bigger when we first got here,” says Shan, but I have to remain optimistic. I’m sure there’s something. It’s inconsistent, but the first pulse comes. I get on the shoulder for a decent left. No turns yet, just trimming. A half-hour later is when the window starts to open. I get the jump on an outside wave, and I’m right on the shoulder before it jacks up. It’s four-feet, and four-feet at HB is fast. I do a small turn and set myself up for a carve. The extra foot makes a difference, as I’m bracing a lot of momentum going back up the face. I start my downturn onto the shoulder, but it’s a little too vertical. I lose balance from the speed and fall backwards, keeping my feet on the board. It looks like a deflated layback snap. Only if I knew how to shift my weight better, the potential for this rippable wave is unreal. 

     Shan and I spend most of the morning apart. I use the current as exercise, staying in front of our assigned tower. Other surfers pass by, letting the current take them. Shan’s trying. He’s paddling, but every time a wave comes our distance increases. I let him have a couple. I pass up my priority and tell him to go. He scratches out or waits too late. “I’m still trying to figure this place out,” he says. When I first surfed here I got my ass kicked, plenty. This is a different wave, so I understand. 

     The offshores are helping. I catch a right which is a pure wall, but the wind is holding it up. I climb the face twice, doing shallow little hacks on the lip. 

     My wave of the day is a really long right. No bullshit, like five baby turns all the way to shore. I don’t want to exaggerate. It’s just under four feet, and my turns are small because I keep expecting to bog out, but I don’t. Usually I try to put a little English on my backhand to throw a little spray, but I’m more surprised that the wave is pushing me down the line and that I’m not stalling over the lip. It’s a lazy effort on my part, probably due to having the place to ourselves. In a way it’s refreshing—no crowd, no pressure, no rush, just fun.

     At about 1000 the wind switches to onshore, but it’s still light. It’s the lowering tide that affects the shape. Walking back to the car, we see surfers just arriving. Shan and I are lucky we caught the right window.

     We head up the street for some chicken pho that’s only $3.50. We also order a side of spring rolls, and the bill is barely over ten bucks. Shan spots since I drove. When I drop him off, he invites me in his RV for a beer. I awake hours later, naked, with a sore anus. Actually, that part’s not true.    

     Klaude calls me later and says he got a couple long rides at 26^th. Rick says that the shape was good at Porto, but that it was a zoo. Right now, what I need from surfing is isolation and peace. HB gives me just that. Also, the shape helps. It was a good call.

TRESTLES: HELLO SWELL, FRI 7.29.2011 MOR

SKUNKED AGAIN!

Crew: Khang

Ran into: Uncle Miles from Parks Beach.

Time: 0845-1200, 3 hrs. & 15 min.

Conditions: Onshore wind, 3-4 ft., inconsistent, decent shape, overcast to sunny, and warm.

Roll Call:

     I wasn't as tired as I thought I'd be from the surf. I planned on going back to HB in hopes that the new swell would produce some good waves. I asked around to see who could go. Khang was the only one who was down. He offered to pick up some coffee and help out with gas. What a nice guy. The plan was to meet up at 0600 and hit the road.

HB, do your thing:

     Khang shows up with Starbucks coffee in hand. We're only a couple minutes past six but still on schedule. Surfline upgraded the El Porto conditions with a fair 2-3 foot rating, but their morning forecast doesn't sound too promising. HB has to be the best bet. Yesterday I got skunked, so I can't get skunked two days in a row.

     It's nice to have a buddy in the car with me. The drive goes by fast as we bullshit the whole way there. Everything's in place. We plan on eating some good Vietnamese food for lunch after the surf, and we're excited for some fast, peaky waves. Khang notices the flags as soon as we pull up. They aren't just blowing, they are flapping so hard that they look like battle streamers on a navy vessel. I say, “Yeah, but HB can still be okay with wind. There's a chance that there's some shape.” We pass some guys changing into their wetsuits, but my parking area is desolate again like yesterday.

     “It's pretty overcast here,” says Khang. It's another gloomy morning, but this marine layer looks pretty thick all the way out to sea and inland. The overcast and the wind are a dreary combo. I'm optimistic. I still haven't seen the water, and I'm thinking that anything is possible. We get close to the shore and notice the swell. It looks 4-5 feet, but there is no shape. The waves wall up. There are a couple shoulders, but they are marginal. Two guys paddle out. The second they hit the water, the current starts dragging them north. We watch them paddle, step off in shallow water, and then get worked by the white wash. They never make it out. “That one looks fun,” says Khang. He motions towards a left that's at the end of a wall. I watch this wave, but I'm over it. Once again, it's not the image I had in my mind. No one is here for a good reason.

     On the way back to the car, we run into an old timer, probably an HB vet. We shoot the shit about the winds and conditions. “I'm going to check out Bolsa and see if the wind's any better,” he says.

     Khang raises his head from his iPhone and replies, “Nah, Bolsa has the same winds right now.” It appears that everything in the immediate area has wind on it. It's another disappointment, but I'm getting used to it. We sit in the car, check the surf report, and discuss our options. Going back to El Porto isn't one of them; there's no surf there.

And Another One:

     God damn, I never planned on doing this much driving this week, but HB looks like shit, I know Porto's not looking good, and I want some good surf. This will be day number two with crappy waves. Today, getting skunked is not an option. We're on our way to Trestles. The drive is fast again. We see the flags on the campers blowing as well, but those cobblestones have to be making the shape better. Old Mans and Churches is more crowded than yesterday. However, we see solid three foot sets peeling away right in front of us. The overcast and wind add an ominous tone to the waves, but the shape is all that matters. The rights are holding. We watch a guy get four hacks on a ride. We walk towards Middles to do more recon, but the consistency of waves makes us turn back around to suit up. “You want to paddle out over here or walk up there,” I ask. I point towards Middles where it's less crowded.

     “Yeah, but, it doesn't really look that great over there,” he says. I usually skip Churches to see what Middles is doing, and then I make my way back if Middles sucks. But on this morning I'm open to getting out of my routine. I've been making some bad calls lately, so I think it's good to go along with someone else's energy. We paddle at south Churches were we saw the guy get four hits. We scratch out on two waves that break towards the inside, and then the spot shuts down. We paddle to the next peak over, and the lull has started. Nothing. We paddle to the main peak where Khang decides to stay. I don't want to compete with the longboarders, so I head to the south end of Middles in hopes for a random peak to stray my way. Finally, I draw blood on my first left. The peaks are long, but not as much as yesterday. The wave is fast but good for some fun pumping and top to bottom trims. My second left is similar. Khang paddles to me and says, “Fuck man, every time I was in position I had to back out of the wave. One this one right, the guy behind me asked me to kick out. He said, 'Please, kick out.'”

     “Fuck, no shit? Well, at least he said 'please,'” I reply. As Khang arrives, a bump forms in the distance. I paddle out to catch it before it breaks. As I turn and go, I realize that I'm right at the peak. The slopy, forgiving Trestles wave allows me to take my time as I pop up. I drop in, set up for my bottom turn, and hit the lip once. On my second bottom turn, a couple longboarders from Churches back out. I get one more before my ride ends. It instills new life in me, especially after the recent skunks. It just might be a good day.

To the battle position!:

     “You were catching waves until I came,” Khang says. We joke about how the waves turned off with his arrival. The lull is long again, and we're already into the second hour.

I say, “Hey, lets go further north.” We paddle in front of the battle position just outside of a small crowd that's been there the whole morning. We don't get anything there, so we paddle further north just past the cliff. It doesn't take long before a wave comes my way. There's a guy on my right, but he doesn't know that I want to go left. As I pop up I yell, “Left!” I'm not sure if he hears me, but I'm going down the line for a decent ride. Lowers is working as usual. Khang and I watch surfers tear the shit out of that wave, but we're happy as well because the cliff begins to turn on. I catch one of my best lefts since being home. I drop in at the peak again, the section isn't running away, and the shoulder is wide open for me to do my worst. Unfortunately, my front side abilities aren't that great yet, but I gather speed and practice carving the lip. It's not working. I shift my feet to practice a cutback, and half way through the arc I spring out of the turn. I feel my tail slide down with power as I redirect my board. It feels . . . like magic, amazing. I don't know how to describe it, but it's a very new feeling that I've only felt a few times. I ride it until the wave's barely a foot high. I kick out over the the small lump that used to be a wave. Khang sees me and shakes his fist with a smile on his face. I hold both palms open with my arms out on each side. I'm stoked.

     My next wave is a right-hander that I catch at the peak again. I swear, this wave is so forgiving. The lip feels as if it's keeping me up there, but the drop is so naturally delayed that it's normal, and yet it's a four foot day?! Some of the waves are so good they are breaking like Lowers. The shoulder's a little steep, and I shoot up the wave for a hack. The wave's shape forces me back into the pocket with speed, and I go back up the face for a second hit as the lip is starting to curl. It's a late turn, so my nose purls because I'm practically vertical when I reenter. I spin around and get whiplashed as my back smacks the water. I resurface, I'm all right.

     I paddle back to Khang. I'm so fucking happy at this point. The session has been officially “made.” Those two waves already made the drive worth it. “Fuck, I need to catch one,” says Khang.

     Reminiscent of the young Aussie, Dillon, that I met in Bali, I reply, “The next wave's yours!” Well, Khang doesn't really need my help, as he catches a wave that forms slightly north of our position. It's about three feet, but there's a little shoulder on it. He returns. “How was that one?”

     “It was okay,” he says. A set wave forms on the outside, and he catches this one going right. From behind, the shoulder is holding again. I scratch out on the next couple. He comes back to tell the tale. It was a good one.

     Just then, an old timer paddles by us, gets my attention, and says to me, “Hey, thanks for that wave earlier!”

     “Ohhh . . .” I'm awkward. What is he talking about?

     “You said, 'Left!' I didn't know which way you were going, I thought you were going right!”

     “Oh, did you go right on that one?”

     “Yeah.”

     “Good, good!” I reply. Man, it always lifts my spirit to experience a friendly exchange in the water like that, all due to good surf etiquette. Nice. I now turn to Khang and say, “Man, now you've turned on and I've turned off.” With Khang's luck comes my dismay. We sit at this spot for the remainder of the session. Khang chooses to sit in front of the BP while I remain at the cliff. I catch more rides, but none are as good as those two earlier ones. I turn to see if I can spot Khang, but he's returning from the inside. I don't know if he's scoring or not, but he's definitely catching waves. At the third hour I find myself scratching out and mistiming the waves. The Book of Randy says to take a break after surfing for two hours. What happens is that you get hungry, tired, and you start making mistakes. Also, surfing tired leads to bad habits. I signal Khang who's sitting at a different peak amongst other surfers. I point to the shore and show my index finger. One more and I'm going in. My last wave isn't spectacular. The section runs away and I fall after forcing a top turn. It counts.

     Standing on the shore I feel my stomach tightening. I need to put some food in there. We walk back, side by side, praising this morning's score. He says that he got a lot of waves; we both got our fill in. Clean shoulders are still rolling through as we leave to grab some food. Right before we pull out we see a familiar face watching the surf. It's an older guy wearing water shades; we've seen him at 26^th. “We need to say hi,” says Khang. We go out and say wassup. His name is Miles, but Klaude refers to him as Uncle Miles. When we get back the tide is lower, and the wind is stronger. We eat our sandwiches as we contemplate the next move. The window of good surf is closed. Surfers leave the Churches' lineup until there are only a half dozen at the main peak. The drive back home is easy with a co pilot. We say our goodbyes and save our energy for tomorrow. Today we gambled, gambled and won.

MIDDLES: THE SKUNK, THU 7.28.2011 MOR

Another overcast moring

Crew: Solo

Time: 0845 – 1245, 4 hrs.

Conditions: Overcast then sunny, hot, inconsistent, 2-3 ft., poor shape (except Lowers).

Roll Call:

     I was actually a bit desperate to find someone to roll with me. I don't know why. I guess sometimes it's nice to have company, also I think that it's always safer to have a battle-buddy. Last night I hit up everyone, but they had obligations. Well, I'm the only unemployed bum out of all of my friends, so I can't expect everyone to be free. Oh, but Dave was down to surf. I told him that I'd take a look first to see what it looked like. I was tired. Lauren even told me that I'm wearing myself out. I set my alarm for 0530. I'd get at least five hours of sleep.

High Expectations:

     I try to prepare for the possibility of crappy conditions, but with the hype of the new swell coming in, it's hard not to be excited. I'm on the road heading back to HB, and I'm hoping that the swell's arrived early. If not, it would be nice to get some peaky, fast, little waves. Dave texts me that he's ready to go. It's 0645. I call him and tell him I'll follow up with a report. As I enter the parking lot I see some surfers suiting up. It looks like a good sign, however, my staging area only has one van there. There's a little wind, but it's light, lighter than a couple days ago. Once I make my way over the sand I see my surf spot completely empty. It makes sense; the surf looks like shit. There's a little more size, but the morning swell is making the waves wall up. I look further south where the main pack is. There are a lot of people, but it doesn't look much better.

     I'm not surfing it. There's no way. I didn't wake up early and drive here for this. It's sad; it's a disappointment. I pull out my phone to check the surf report. San Onofre is 2-3 + with occasional 4 ft. I didn't plan on driving all the way down south. The drives have been kicking my ass lately, but it sounds like a worthy gamble. The thought of clean waves from a new swell creates images in my mind. I picture myself at my Middles spot with clean waves all to myself, another wave buffet. I picture peaky, glassy, waves forming in the distance, popping up and having my way with an open canvas of water. I call Dave and invite him down south with me, but he can't. The longer I sit, the more traffic is building. I need coffee for the drive.

The quest continues. . . .

The Addiction:

     On the way to the 55N I wonder if there's something wrong with me. It's a long drive, a commitment to a gamble, and gonna hurt my wallet as far as gas is concerned. I could go home. There are a lot of things I can do. I can play World of Warcraft, clean the apartment . . . check my shit list to see what else I need to do. Or . . . I can surf. How can I not surf? I justify it in so many ways:

• I don't have kids right now, so now's the time.
• School starts next month, so I need to find good surf NOW.
• I don't have to work yet, but when I do I won't have as much time to surf.
• The new swell's here; it has to be good. I've waited for this moment since coming back from Bali.
• Everyday we die a little. We're getting older. Why not surf right now, while I'm still young?
• Fuck the system, fuck everything. This is life. It's so short. Make the best of it and chase some waves.

     I pull into Starbucks, grab a venti bold and a bagel. I'm gonna need the extra carbs. One long surf session, that's the plan. I'm not gonna stay all day unless it's good, especially since I'm running late as it is. I'm going to surf as long as I can in one sitting.

Back Again:

     The coffee's strong. I only take about four sips. It's working. As I pull into San Onofre I can tell that there's no wind. The texture on the water is so smooth and glassy. Waves are breaking where there usually aren't waves. I look back and see a swarm of surfers at Old Mans. In the distance I see packs of surfers at Churches. There's no need to see anything else. New swell plus clean conditions equals motherfucking fun! I wish that I could just jump in naked, but I remember that it's cold, and I'd be paranoid about a fish nibbling on my worm or my balls getting sliced by a fin. I park and take a gander. Churches is clean. I see a couple legit three footers come through. It looks fun. To the south there are some random peaks that nobody's on. I change in a heartbeat.

     In the ocean there's something riding the waves, something small. I don't realize what it is until I see a couple guys on the sand with remote controls. Cool! They have remote control surfers, and those little contraptions are realistically riding the waves. A small crowd has formed, even the lifeguards are watching.

A closer look:

     Churches always looks good when it's clean. It's packed with longboarders. I plan to surf north of Middles, but I paddle out at the end of Churches to see if I can score there. As I warm up I watch the surf. Middles doesn't have shit. I watch the break in front of me, and the peaks are coming in too long, meaning that the peaks aren't defined. Once the shoulder forms, the section way in front starts spilling and running away. The shoulders don't have that “Trestles peel” for that signature, rippable wave that Trestles is known for. I look up north at Middles. It looks like a fuckin' lake. Ohhhhh . . . fuck my ass. I'm not giving in. It can't be that bad. I paddle out and get a left. I'm on the shoulder, I drop in, and I'm pumping. I look ahead, and the section's already running away and turning to white wash. I catch three more waves, and it's the same. I make the paddle to the cliffs just south of Lowers. There's only one other longboarder there. The waves are a little inconsistent, but they come frequent enough. It's all the same. It's a race to get down the line and a prayer that the shoulder peels slower, but the peaks are stretched out so much. On a couple waves I crank out single turns, but they're on dissolving lips, weak. I find myself inching closer and closer to Lowers. I'm just south of Lowers, and I get my first wave with shape. It's a right-hander breaking on the inside. The shoulder peels slowly, so I set up and dish out two top turns. Finally, it's that feeling, exactly what I drove down here for. As I paddle back out, there's another one coming. I turn and go. Success! That's two good waves in a row. Fuck yes, this is my spot! There's a lull that follows. Some small shapeless waves come through. I scratch out on all of them. I look at my watch. It's been twenty-two minutes since those two waves that I just caught. Fuckin' A. It was the kiss that wasn't supposed to happen.

     I'm even closer to Lowers now. Fuck it. I wait for a wave to swing double wide or shift on the outside where I am. Nothing. I count the line up and stop at twenty when I'm half way through the pack. There are at least forty motherfuckers there, all for one fucking peak. Amazing. It's impossible. There are so many people that when a wave does come my way, someone's on it. I watch the show. Four guys take off together on some of the waves. When it's time to bottom turn, a couple of them bump into each other and eat shit. On top of that, there are so many heads to weave through. I don't have the same hunger as the last time I tried Lowers. I'm turned off by the crowd; it's not the way I like to surf.

     I paddle back to the cliff, and it's even more inconsistent. It's the first time that I've worked the whole Middles area. I paddle all the way to north Churches next to two longboarders. The rides still suck. I contemplate on invading the Churches' line up, but then the cliff seems to be working now. I was just there by myself, but now there are four guys on it. I slowly make my way back trying to get rides along the way. By the time I reach the cliffs again, there are about ten people there. I paddle just north of that pack, and the spot has turned on again. The waves are a little better now, but not by much. Still, it's a tall order to get a decent turn. The sun finally comes out, the wind picks up slightly, and the waves get more consistent. The main issue is the wave quality; that Trestles shape is just not there.

I Tried:

     I look at my wave counter. I surfed four long hours and caught thirty-five waves. It sounds like a good session, but it wasn't. I feel confident in saying that thirty-three of those waves sucked. Despite the lack of stoke, I can't help but take in my surroundings on that lonely trail. It's a silent walk back. The sand burns my feet, dragonflies buzz around me, the sun bakes my back, the wind is calm, and I can only hear the breaking waves behind the brush. I look at the ocean from the path. The green bushes, white sand, and blue ocean contrast each other creating small paradise. It doesn't feel like California, but I feel like I belong here. The drive home is brutal. I debate on pulling over for a nap, but I push on through. When I hit the 105 W, my senses sharpen as the finish line nears.

     This evening I stopped by Rick's house to grab my JS board. It turned out that a repair's not necessary. He said that the air bubble isn't sucking in water. I told him, “Man, I thought I'd catch that swell early, but it wasn't there yet. HB sucked, Trestles didn't have good shape. I got fuckin' skunked.”

     “Well,” he replied. “You just have to pay your dues.”

HB: STILL WORKING, TUE 7.26.2011 MOR

Crew: Francis, Nicole, Dave

Ran into: Manny

Time: 0750-0950, 2 hrs.

Conditions: AM onshore wind, overcast early, sunny later, two footers with occasional three footers, inconsistent, warm.

      Last night Francis told me he wanted to take his girlfriend Nicole to HB. I took another look at the forecast. Things still looked small for Tuesday but obviously smaller in the South Bay. Why not? I tex'd Khang, Christina, and Dave to see if they wanted to go. Khang didn't respond, Chris had some tutoring to do, and Dave said he'd meet us there.

      It's another night with only about four and a half hours of sleep. What am I, in college? I need to start going to bed earlier. I wake up at 0531. I'm so tired that it's a mission just getting my underwear on. I reach for the same shorts and tank top that I've worn for the last two days. They smell, but I can go one more day before they go in the hamper. I plan on eating some cereal, but last night's cookie and ice cream binge is knocking on my anus. My shit's so creamy, it's like a churro machine. I'm so tired that I can't muscle out all of my poop. I'm still shitting when I get the text from Francis marking his arrival. No cereal today, just a banana and some water to go. We load the car and hit the road.

      It's another easy drive to HB. Dave shoots a text saying he'll be there in thirty minutes. Nicole says she's surfed HB with Klaude, but it's Francis's first time. I give them the same prebrief that I gave the other guys yesterday. As we pull in the parking lot, I can see that the onshore winds have started early. I'm disappointed at this. Yesterday's wind was so stale, but today it's prevalent. We walk out to take a look. There are less people than the day before, and to our surprise, some two-to-three foot surf is breaking on the outside with some consistency. We watch one local go for some nice rights. The rides are still kind of short, but it's enough to capture that feeling that we all came here for. We go back, change, and wait for Dave by the lifeguard tower. When he arrives, they all go through the introductions. Apparently, despite our connections through similar friends, they've never met each other.

      A local guy from yesterday, in a gray wetsuit, shares the peak with us. I'm not sure if he's aggro or not, but I see that he and Dave are having the casual morning conversation. My first couple waves bog out after their fast drops. Dave scratches out on a couple waves. I see that he's trying to paddle while looking behind him. I tell him that when his paddle is stronger that he can do that, but right now he should keep his head forward and just focus on paddling. Francis wastes no time, and gets some waves immediately. Eventually, I get some rights that hold some decent shape, but I rarely get more than one turn in. We all start to drift north, so I paddle down south to maintain my position. The conditions change a little, as the surf turns inconsistent. The lulls are longer now, and we all wait for the sets. I paddle pass the guy in the gray wetsuit. He comments on how the swell is backing off. I guess he's pretty mellow after all, good people.

      I sit in my new spot alone, and I get a fun left similar to yesterday's lefts. It looks small but doubles up on the inside. I try to stay in the pocket and get a novice whack at the lip, but I find it more necessary to keep up with the fast section. I stop short of two guys hanging out on the inside. Another sign that today is small is the presence of fun boarders, a lot of them. I'm not complaining, but I have to note this because I've never seen so many in one day at this spot. Usually HB has nothing but rippers, but today is not like that at all. I see Francis, Nicole, and Dave in the distance. Francis waves. I wave back. Just then I see Dave paddling for a wave. He's looking back. I expect that he'll continue to do so, but he looks forward and paddles harder. The lip comes down, and all I can see is white wash from my vantage point. Amidst the explosion, I see Dave stand and officially get his first wave of the day. I can hear faint cheers from the happy couple. We're all happy for him.

      The group decides to work their way back south towards me. Dave paddles up and tells me that they all did meet before. It turns out that Dave served them food at his job, but I guess it all didn't click right away. After a wave I see Nicole pop up on a right hander for a little ride. We're all catching waves. Francis is some kind of human wave magnet because I've been sitting for a while, and waves just keep coming towards him. Dave is a little north of me. He sits and watched the horizon. I look outside and see a wave forming in front of him. “Dave!” I shout. “Go for it!”

      “This one?” he says. He still has time to think about it before he lies down to paddle. I see the wave jacking up behind him. I'm worried that I called him too late on a late wave, but he's actually on the shoulder. In one fluid motion he stands up and catches his second wave. I wait for him to resurface, and I give him a thumb's up.

      When he paddles by I tell him, “You're no longer 'One Wave Dave.'” The waves become hard to read. They look flat, especially with the wind knocking them down, but they jack up early and throw off my timing. Francis goes left, Dave is in his direct line, the section closes, and I hear Dave apologizing to Francis. A three foot right forms in front of me. I turn around and paddle for it, and Dave is in my direct line. I grab my board and brace for my plunge, nose first. Poor Dave. He has to apologize again, but we're not sore. “It happens,” I tell him. We're all there to catch waves, and I'd rather have him in my way that not have him there at all.

      It's almost two hours that we've been out. Nicole's already on the sand taking a nap under the sun. I tell the guys that I'm catching my last one in. Once we're all out we say our goodbyes, and Dave walks back across PCH. Francis needs surf wax, but I don't know the local shops around this area. We park by the pier and head to HSS. I'm surprised to see how much stuff they have on clearance. Outside of the store are racks of clothes and surf gear. They end up eating lunch by the pier while I have a look around. I can't resist but buy a board bag. After the forty percent off it only comes out to thirty eight bucks, a no brainer. We people watch, check out the Hurley US Open event site, and watch the surfers by the pier. The north side is breaking better, it's crowded, but the waves are nice. It's a beautiful, sunny, summer's day, and everyone seems to be out. 

 

      On the way back to the car I see Manny walking towards me. I haven't seen him since I left for Bali. I feel more ashamed than happy because I'm wearing a tank top with a giant Billabong logo. He's given me so much Hurley gear that I should be wearing his stuff. I have been using the wetsuit he gave me. I tell him I have a shirt for him, but it's at the house. I introduce him to Francis and Nicole, and he invites us back to check out the US Open finals whenever it happens. Unfortunately I have work that weekend.

      And that's how it went. I still praise HB's surf on what's supposed to be a flat day. Even though it wasn't as consistent as yesterday, there were still enough waves for a fun filled morning. I've been trying to keep the ball rolling since returning from Bali. I need to surf as much as possible. Thank goodness we'll have swell this weekend. 

 

HB: SMALL AND ROUND, MON 7.25.2011 MOR

Crew: Christina, Dave

Time: 0745-1045, 3 hrs.

Conditions: Sunny, warm, empty, faint onshore wind, 2-3 feet, inconsistent, shallow, but . . . FUN.

The Call:

     It's no secret that surf is flat right now. I don't know if all my fellow west coast surfers have been glued to the reports as I have, just hoping and waiting for some kind of pulse to upgrade the forecast. Last night Christina presented the idea of heading to Central Cali, all the way up to Surf Beach by Vanderburg AFB, fucking three hours away. I was surprised to hear that signs of surf escaped my radar, so I took a look at the forecast and found huge green and yellow arrows which indicated blown out conditions. I told Chris the bad news, and she expressed her frustration from the lack of local swell. I think we all can relate.

     I didn't expect to travel for surf this Monday. Why travel for an extra foot that's not guaranteed? And then I thought about how my bro gave me his state parking pass for HB. It expires after August, and I haven't surfed there once since being home. El Porto was predicted to be 1-2 foot ankle slappers, while HB was 2-3 feet and inconsistent. I looked at Monday's roster and made some calls. Khang didn't answer, and Francis had to stay local because of work. I could've stayed home and kept it simple. Could have.

The HB Gamble:

     Despite just over four hours of sleep, I wake up at 0530 before my alarm goes off. I manage to pour some cereal and yesterday's old coffee. The JS is back at Rick's shop, so I knock the dust off the DMS. The poor board's lamination is coming off. I don't know how many more sessions she has in her, but she's still a loyal and trusty beast. I look out the window and Christina is by my car. I look at my watch. It's 0600. Punctual. Just as I'm about to head out the door I get a phone call from Deathwish Dave. He says that he's almost home and needs to grab his board. He's behind schedule, but he offers to drive and meet us himself.

     I kiss Lauren goodbye, and we're on the road mixing with the morning traffic. The sun is rising above a small patch of clouds making a bright orange background in the horizon. Rolling with Chris is like hanging out with one of the fellas. I treat her like a guy and blow a fart or two her way. It's the ethical thing to do because we are friends. Also, I think she likes the smell. She's just that kind of girl, a surfer girl.

     As we pull up to the state beach parking my phone rings. It's Dave, and he's already around the corner. The internal guilt begins. I don't know if it's a military thing, but I have to be on time. If I plan something, the ducks MUST fall in a row. On this morning, Dave was behind schedule, but he got here just as fast as we did.

     Chris and I hit the pissers first before checking out the surf. “It's so quiet,” she says. She's right. The air is stale, there isn't a cloud blocking the sun, the ground is heating up, and the parking lot is a few cars short of being deserted. This worries me. I worry that the ocean is mimicking it's surroundings. Please don't be a lake out there, I think to myself. We take the path that I've referred to as me and my brother's. Approaching the shore, I see no sign of surf, but once we walk up to the lifeguard tower we see more. To our south there are about a dozen surfers hovering around some scattered peaks, and in front of us there are only two guys. It looks like a small day that wants to be bigger. It's barely three feet, but the waves are still pitchy and fast. Small peaks form slowly, but the lip folds down fast with the precision of an envelope seal. The chain reaction pushes the racy sections in both directions with welcoming shoulders for those quick enough to pop up. Still, it's a small day, but I'm just emphasizing how it's such a different wave from El Porto and San O.

     Two to three foot surf here looks better than a Porto ankle slapper any day. We're stoked, so we head back to suit up. We see Dave crossing the street in the distance, and we meet him on shore. I run them both through the HB basics that my bro taught me: watch the towers to see if you're drifting, fight the current if you can, watch out for the shallow inside, and prepare for a faster wave.

     The water is kind of warm. Not warm enough to trunk it, but it's not as cold as it's been. There are only two guys to our north. Everything seems so wide open here. I catch a couple waves that are fast rides on the inside, nothing impressive. I go for my first outside wave of the day and paddle at the peak. Just as I'm popping up, the lip throws me forward. It's a classic “welcome back to HB” moment. Respect the wave.

     Soon Dave and Chris join me, but the current takes them a little north next to the other two dudes. I see a rare jewel, a long but shouldery peak forming on the outside. Dave sits in the impact zone, and I see him lie on his longboard to paddle for it. “Dave, watch out!” I yell. I assume he's going. Bad move in HB. The waves look slow, but they'll turn on you. It passes Dave, so he's all right. Chris starts off by catching the waves a little too late. I see her turning and paddling while the wave is only moments away from going round. I expect her to eat it, but she emerges in front of the wave and heads for shore. Not bad.

     The water's really shallow for a “high tide.” Other than the few gems, the waves break close to shore over shallow water, but to my surprise these are fun rides. On that tiny DMS, I'm managing to put in a decent wave count. Kicking and splashing water everywhere, I muscle my way in. These waves are familiar. They are the ones that I couldn't catch the last time I was here. Instead of popping up to see the section running away, I'm getting up faster, pointing my nose down the line, and somehow making the open face. These tiny waves get a little bigger towards the inside, and even though I'm over shallow water they are doubling up with open shoulders. The lefts are the best. As the section builds I draw a new high line to keep my momentum. It's enough to practice my frontside cutbacks and topturns. What my brother says makes sense: “Stay in the critical part of the wave to get your turns down.” I do, and it gives me more speed to work with which makes my turns easier.

     I get pitched on another wave, and I just slide off my board as I air drop; I'm not gonna make it. Dave and Chris are paying some dues as well. I see Dave paddling, but his nose keeps purling, and he either slides backwards or over the front. We talk about finding the sweet spot on the board, when to shift your weight to the front or the back, etc. Chris is going through the same thing too. I see her paddling for waves, disappearing, then her board shooting out while she's under. It's a different wave, I've had HB sessions where I do nothing but eat shit, but I'm stoked to see that they aren't backing out; they are going for it. With that mentality, their surfing can only get better.

     The onshore wind puts a little texture on the water, but we can barely feel it. Dolphins swim parallel to shore going back and forth. We even see a baby dolphin swimming close to its mother. Dave finds something that looks like half seahorse, half sea snake and picks it up. Chris and I can't help but paddle over for a look.

     There's window when the outside waves get a little consistent. I hunt for lefts, but I still get some three foot rights that line up nicely. I never get more than two turns on a wave, but the rights are so fast that my top turns hit the lip as they're coming down. I'd like to think it's a critical turn, but it probably doesn't look as cool as I imagine. I catch a small left that stands up so much that I can't help but lean my head in the curl. Clearly not a barrel, but I look down the line to see the shoulder building. One day.

     Chris makes her adjustments. She wipes out less and rides the face of the waves. Dave and I comment on her poses that she makes, one arm extended with her hip pointed forward. I paddle next to Dave to see if I can assist. I call a wave in the distance and make him paddle with me. We're going, and it's setting up for his longboard. Just as the wave picks him up I see his nose already under the water. He purls his board. Too much in front. We discuss how it's hard to “show someone how to surf.” We can demonstrate fundamentals and give pointers, but it's really up to the individual to get the wave. Dave's a living example, as I later see him stand up on his board for a short ride. He resurfaces smiling. I give him the thumbs up and say, “Still counts. You caught a wave!” On another outside wave I see him paddling for it. It looks like the wave's about to leave him, but he doesn't let up and drops in. I have to duckdive the wave, so I don't know how long his ride is, but it's something he should be proud of.

     By the end of the third hour the lulls are longer. It's a struggle to get that last wave, the cherry on top. Instead of cherries we get something else, but at least we don't paddle in. It turns out that Dave has to go somewhere in the OC anyway, so it works out that he drove on his own. Chris and I head back. I struggle to keep my eyes open, but we make it in good time.

Fro-Yo. Much healthier. Because I only live healthy.

     In my home, I kill off a huge plate of last night's pasta. For dessert, I have a huge bowl of frozen yogurt with two of Lauren's homemade chocolate chip cookies. Surfer fuel. It would've been nice if the surf was a little more consistent, but we milked as much as we could out of it. The gamble proved to be a good one. Someone said that the best surfer is the one having the most fun. We did have fun even though the forecast predicted that we wouldn't. Sometimes surfing is what we make of it, not just the conditions.