LINES LIKE DICK VEINS, WED 22OCT2014

On the way

Loc: The Cove

Crew: Bri

Time: 0745-0930

Conditions: overhead, consistent, unruly.

     Bri and I get to 26^th Street Manhattan Beach when it’s still dark out and, surprise surprise, it’s walled. The high school groms rush it. I can’t see much, but I can tell there isn’t shape. Fuck this. After yesterday, I need some shoulders.

     Bri takes off to PV. I trail behind her, stopping off at Torrance Beach for a gander. It’s light out now. There’s size here, too. I watch a guy pull in on a right and get a quick barrel before kicking out. There are a few guys with him. The paddle out is short. I could surf here, but I’m anxious about new spots.

     Bri Voxes me, saying that it’s smaller and that she hasn’t seen any good lefts come in. I’m bummed because I left the fish at home. Fuck it. I pull up and park. Bri’s already dressed, so she heads down right before I do. I race after her down the trail. The Cove is in the backdrop. First, I notice how much whitewash is churning on the inside, longboarders scattered and disoriented like ants washed away by a garden hose. Outside of the cove, I see huge lines coming in. An A-frame breaks, producing a big long left. Behind the wave are more lines pushing in. They look like giant dinosaur earthworms beneath smooth skin, like giant dick veins underneath a thin membrane. Looks like I didn’t need the fish after all. Suddenly, I wish I had a bigger dick.

     Bri paddles out first while I warm up. There’s so much water moving on the inside that I have to jump over a wave just to get through the rocks.

     The first incoming rows of water are weak. Little by little as I make my way out, I have to start going under them. When I reach the halfway point, the rows of whitewash are long and stampeding. Every time I duckdive one I get pulled back. Way up ahead, I see Bri going over a wave. How the fuck did she get out so fast? I’m barely past little reef. My board feels leafy and light over the churning surface. I think about the long paddles that I’ve done before, but that doesn’t matter now. All that matters is how my rear delts are on fire.

     When I make it further out, perfect inside waves start breaking. I could easily turn and go, but I don’t. I’ve learned my lessons in the past: Get to the lineup first, rest, and then go for one. I got all morning.

     I forgot to mention how the hill was packed with parked cars, which is funny because the lineup looks empty. Where the hell is everyone?

     Bri paddles for a wave. I yell, “Go, go, go!” but she scratches out. The second waveone of the set comes. She paddles into it and pops up. I watch the wave as it pushes forward. I don’t see her going down the line. When it’s gone, I get a glimpse of her NSP in the water, but no Bri. Another wave comes, and I lose sight of it.

     I’m mad worried. Mad because I wish she’d hurry up and appear so I know she’s okay. Worried because I’m hoping she’s all right. No waves are breaking where I am during her disappearance. They are all outside sets, so I maneuver around the lineup to duckdive them and stay in place. I feel sorry for those who are caught inside, but Bri has to be there.

     In the meanwhile, Ryan H. from Porto is out. He’s telling me how today’s bigger than yesterday. “There weren’t cleanup sets like this,” he says. “I caught this crazy right, and there was so much speed that I just face planted.”

     I tell him about Carlsbad and last Monday at PV, but I can’t really commit to the conversation. Where the fuck is Bri?

     Finally, I fucking see her. She skirted the north side of the cove to make it out. I throw up my arms.

     She shakes her head and says that her leash got caught on a rock and that she had to unvelcro it to get free.

     Scary. I don’t know. I just lost my mom in August, and I worry about Bri. I don’t want to lose anyone else.

     Another set comes. We’re in the impact zone. I duckdive, get sucked back, but still resurface with my board in hand.

     Bri gets shaken up again. She looks at me, motions towards the shore, and says, “I’m going in.”

     Another longboarder nearby is swimming towards shore. Broken leash. It’s one of those mornings.

     The longboarders up top are getting waves, but they’re kicking out early. The ones who ride them too far end up getting caught. It’s inevitable. A double-edged sword. More foam to paddle out faster or less foam to avoid beatings?

     There’s an SUP guy. He catches two waves in a row. He rides the last one in too far. After that, I don’t see him anymore.

     “Here’s a right!” yells Ryan.

     I turn and go. The take off is steep, but aside from that it mooshes out fast. I do a backhand snap and kick out. Same thing on my next right.

     The challenge is where to sit. Impatient, I move inside a little, and that’s when that great wall from way outside pops up. Some of them still offer a corner, but I find myself deep many times.

     With proper positioning, I get my first left, but I have to paddle in a little late. The waves aren’t critical like round barreling crit, but it’s just the size. The waves are well overhead, so purling means brutal beatings. When I pop up, the drop is long and damn near vertical. I’m taking precious care to make sure that my rear foot’s on the tail, keeping the nose out. Once I bottom turn, I’m precise on where I pump. There’s so much face that the objective isn’t to get a power carve but not to fall and to get down the line.

     After kicking out, there’s no avoiding payment. Here come the dick veins.

     My second wave is just a straight drop with the lip crashing right next to me into an explosion of whitewash. I know I’ll never forget this wave because I’m literally caught inside and stuck paddling for what seems like at least twenty minutes on the PV treadmill.

     I’m not the type of guy who paddles hard to get to the lineup. I paddle like I run—one pace unless I’m paddling into a wave. Just breathe, conserve your breath, conserve your energy, is what I usually say to myself. It’s not working today though. I see guys catching waves and kicking out not too far ahead of me. They’re right in the safe zone where they can make it back out in time. I’m just inside of them. Impact zone.     

     Let me be honest. I ditch my board twice, I’m so torched. I lack the energy to get deep. This is a major fail. I know it is.

     I stop short before making it to the safe zone, a premature rest break. There’s finally a lull. I’m all right.

     I’m next to Ryan and a couple of other guys. I paddle out a little further to make sure I’m safe and able to rest without being surprise attacked. Just then, another dick vein appears in the distance, its shoulder tapered. Sometimes these are hard to time. It’s like, you know its gonna break, you’re in position, and you have so much time, almost too much time, that you can easily give the wave too much respect or not enough.

     As it stands up, I’m deeper than everyone else. I should let Ryan have it, but I can’t help myself. I must. I turn and go. He looks right as I’m popping up. He backs out. It’s the most vertical drop that I’ve had all morning. A bomb. Sand and dirt is all churned up from all the activity that the water is brown, and it’s reflecting off of the sun as I drop down. I pump down its huge face, getting rhythm, making sure that my footing’s right. I have so much speed that I do a cutback high up on the face without losing momentum and rebound off the whitewash. As I kick out, I see Ross from 26^th Street riding the oncoming section towards me.

     I could go in. I’ve caught my fair share of rides. My arms are dust at this point, but . . . I paddle back out one more time. Each duckdive, I tell myself that it’s worth it.

     My last wave is a closeout, but I ride that fucker as long as I can to avoid a long ass paddle in. It takes me a little past half way.

     The tide’s so high, and the waves so big, that there is no shore. The waves are breaking all the way up on the dirt, covering the rocks. I’m slipping and sliding trying to walk out of that motherfucker. Behind me, I see an SUP guy getting knocked off of his board repeatedly, trying to make it out.

     Making my way back up the path, guys are coming down, asking me how it is. All I can say is that I hope they brought their paddling arms.

     On top of the hill by the cars, surfers are watching it, phones and coffee cups in hand. Grown ass men. Some of them turn around and leave. It’s crazy. Bri paddled out and caught a wave. These guys don’t even want none.

     I get on the phone and start sending out texts. Well overhead PV. I button up the wagon and blast some jazz music. Instead of taking the coastal route, I take PCH in hopes that traffic will be minor, but I hit just about every traffic light.

     Dry in my car with the sun blazing over my lap, I can’t believe that I had spent so much of my morning under water. 

GOT SANDBARS?, FRI 17OCT2014

Loc: PV

Time: 0730-0900

Conditions: 3 FT, inconsistent, glassy, warm.

     Tuesday, Wednesday I had dawn patrolled my local beach breaks, and they were all walled. Sure, there were probably some corners here and there, but I’ve been surfing long enough to know a walled day when I see one. In an effort to balance my life more towards publication than surfing, I took those mornings in stride and went to the library to write. Thursday I saw that it was still walled, so I ventured to Bolsa Chica. There were waves, but they were all breaking on shore. What the fuck. What happened to the sandbars? I drove all the way to Brookhurst, and the tide was killing the surf. Cruising down PCH, south of the pier was walled. The other beach breaks between the pier and Goldenwest seemed okay but not worthy enough to pull over for.

     I went back to Bolsa again, trying to squint out some rideable waves. Other than the Jetty towards Seapoint, most surfers were on the sand just watching. One guy was out at Tower 23, the guinea pig who’s supposed to sell it for us. He didn’t. Nothing but closeouts.

#

     Fast forward to Friday. I’m at 26^th Street Manhattan Beach, looking at walls again. Good things supposed to come to those who wait. I’ve waited all week. The sandbars are not holding. It’s frustrating. Back to PV I go.

     The reason why I didn’t go there mid week was because I knew it would be packed. Word had to have gotten out about how Monday was good, and I didn’t want to deal with a crowd, but here I am now, hunting for shape.

     I know the Fish is going to work today. It has to. The forecast is much smaller for today. With a fat morning tide, I walk to the water’s edge and jump on my board earlier than usual, and then I hear and feel one of my keels hit a rock. Don’t think about that now, I tell myself.

     The paddle out is easy. I keep an eye on the horizon. Surfers are stagnant on their boards. It’s smaller and much more inconsistent than Monday.

     “How was it yesterday?” says one longboarder to another.

     “Tuesday was good. Wednesday was small.”

     I should have come here Tuesday, too. Fuck.

     There’s this redheaded grom on a flimsy shortboard right next to me. He sits at the bottom of the wave, desperate for something that will stand up. He can’t compete at the top with the longboarders, and with the high tide he has to paddle in late. I manage some rides, able to practice my laybacks. Still too much pressure on the tail, hitting the brakes on myself and bogging out.

     I get a good right and crank out one big backhand hack. Feels good.

     Later into the session, only the top of the wave is working. Waves are swinging wide, but the longboarders are getting them first. I try everything, even paddle much deeper than them, but I put myself out of position. Longboarder after longboarder, they get the bombs. It’s their day, and I don’t feel comfortable sitting elbow to elbow with them. I don’t think I’ll ever be that kind of surfer.

     I had been in such a rush when I arrived that I didn’t bring my flip flops. It’s a sharp walk back, having to keep an eye on each step, avoiding jagged shards of rock. Back at the car, I take a look at the keel that had hit the rock. It’s a little scratched on the edge, but it’s not bad. I feel the board. The base of the keel pushed into the board and cracked the glassing. Fuckin’ A. Board repair here I come.

     If someone asked me what serenity is to me, it would not be this. 

TO FISH OR NOT TO FISH?, MON 13OCT2014

Loc: PV

Crew: Bri

Time: 0730-0930

Conditions: 4 FT+, consistent, glassy, warm.

     From the top of the cliff, the waves look small. I should have known. While Manhattan Beach is a great wall of closeouts, this place is tiny. Fuckin’ A. Though it’s a pristine morning, the sun still below the hills. Soft smooth lines creep into The Cove. I grab the fish. Might as well paddle out.

     Bri and I stash our sandals and make our way to the jagged paddle out. The main pack’s out there at the top of the wave. The air is cool under the cliff’s shadow, but as soon as I hit the water, I feel that it’s warm. Wetsuit jacket and shorts, it’s the right call.

     The inside is always soupy. Nothing breaks here. Halfway towards the lineup, I get a glimpse of a set breaking. It’s a little bigger than I thought. I look to my right, landmarking where I am. I’m just past Little Reef. There’s still a ways to go.

     Duckdiving, the fish feels huge and overbouyant. Outside, a huge wall stands up. I know I’m in the impact zone. Motherfucker. I have the WRONG BOARD.

     The primary swell is supposed to be backing off, but it’s still working. There must be a lot of west in it. Bri and I sit wide of the main pack more towards the center of the cove. It’s less consistent than the top of the wave, but when the cleanup sets roll in, we have the shoulders.

     I get my first left, and it’s a solid five feet. Solid, but clean and racy, a fast peeling shoulder that’s down the line and tapered. I pop up on my huge fish with ease—the fish that’s great when it’s small—and I find that I have way too much board. Like an abused dog with the gate open, the Zippi just fucking TAKES OFF. Holy shit. So much speed on this twin fin. I’m flying down the line. I try to top turn and nearly face plant. I pump further down the line and bring it back for a wrap. I pull off the cutback but do so awkwardly.

     And that’s how the whole morning goes. Perfect waves but too much board. I have to be conservative on the turns. Can’t be too aggressive or I’ll lose it. It’s not a depression session by any means. I’d rather surf conditions like this than a day that’s too small. The Zippi excels in other areas. When I’m behind a section, I climb the face and pull off floaters, touching the cloud and dropping back in with grace. Still, I imagine how much fun I would be having if I had brought a shortboard, the Becker, maybe even the Motorboat Too.

     Bri leaves for work, taking the waves with her. The surf turns a little inconsistent. I sneak up towards the main pack and find it hard to compete.

     I still got more than my fair share of waves. Driving home, I have Jazz music on blast with the windows down, cruising through Hermosa on the way back to El Segundo. If someone asked me what serenity means to me, it would be this. 

THE MOOSH, SAT 11OCT2014

Loc: Brookhurst

Crew: Bri

Time: morning

Conditions: 1-3 FT, crowded, high tide, inconsistent.

     We both needed a day to sleep in, so we took our time getting up and heading out. In an effort to mix things up, we headed to HB to catch some south swell.

     It was a little overcast upon parking, but we could already see whitewash exploding over the sandline, showing the swell’s potential. Cresting over the sand, we see that there are heads out. Normally this place is empty, but since it’s a weekend . . . sure. People. Uncharacteristically, there are funboarders and longboarders. A set breaks outside, super soft from the tide. Mooshy but rideable.

     We head back to the car, and I bust out the 6’0 Zippi. When we paddle out, we duckdive a set. Positioning is hard. Peaks are semi scattered. I move around the lineup, missing the good waves every time or get outpositioned. Afterwards, there’s a long lull. Waves look like they’re going to break, but they roll all the way inside and turn into shorepound. Little by little, all the longboarders move way inside.

     A decent window opens up where there are more waves, but after getting an initial turn, the rest of the wave mooshes out. We try. I have the right board, but it’s not enough.

     It sucks to drive this far to get mediocre surf, but it happens. It’s part of being a surfer, getting skunked like this. And it probably was good earlier. If we hadn’t slept in, we would’ve caught a better window.  

     The good thing is that there’s $3.50 chicken pho before getting off of the freeway. It makes up for the session. 

FISH TRIALS PT. III, THU 27FEB2014

Loc: Palos Verdes

Time: 1500-1730

Conditions: 5-6 FT, low tide, south wind, consistent

     With this morning’s rain, I don’t expect the surf to be any good. The swell’s late. It sure wasn’t around yesterday morning when I had waited at Manhattan Beach for it. But I just got out of class, and there’s no need to check the surf. The wind is up, and I can imagine that El Porto has its first dose of dogshit out of the storm drains by now.

     Shan calls. He asks if I’m going to check PV. I tell him no, unless the swell is starting to show. “Not unless the beach breaks are big and walled.”

     I hang up the phone and get to my car, but before turning the ignition I check the surf report: El Porto, occasional 8 FT.

     I call Shan back. No answer.

     From Long Beach, I catch the 405 N, 110 S, and take PCH to Palos Verdes. At a stoplight in Lomita, I look at some banners on the sidewalk, and the wind doesn’t look too bad.

     And then I round the bend towards the Cove, the moment of truth. A line of cars parked means that the surf is good. If it’s empty, it means it’s blown out.

     There are cars.

     I walk down the trail a little to look at the surf. The tide is so drained that rocks protrude throughout the whole inside. The shape isn’t perfect, but about a half dozen guys sit where it’s breaking, and four-foot shoulders peel unridden.

     I text Shan, letting him know that I’m paddling out. Pulling out my fish, I realize that the heat from the car has melted the wax. The coat on the deck is soft to the touch, so I decide to forego putting on any more on.

     At the base of the hill, an old longboarder behind me says, “Can you help me out?” He’s reaching for his zipper on his back, failing. “I can’t pull out the stuff. I usually cut it out.”

     I help him pull out the guts and the choker. Walking into the water, I am reminded of how I had cut my foot here during the last big swell. The old guy wades past me. “I’m following you,” I say. “I have a feeling you know the secret path.”

     He lies on his board and starts paddling. “You can pass me if you want.”

     We’re side by side, working through the shallows, and then the inside whitewash begins to churn a little harder. Luckily my fish paddles easy. Through the foam, the water is smooth. I’m just so happy to be in it.

     Once we’re near the impact zone, old guy gets knocked off his board. I do pass him, and I have to duckdive quit a bit to make it out. And then I get that queasy feeling in my stomach as I see the incoming set. I’ve said many times that PV is an easy wave, fat and mooshy, kind of like Old Mans. But I can tell that this is a juicy swell that’s on tap. I duckdive a mountain of whitewash, still holding onto my board but get pulled back. There’s a lot of water moving around. The queasy feeling in my stomach is a message from PV: Respect.

     The sun’s angle makes the water bright and blinding, revealing the blemishes on its surface. An Asian dude looks back at me, out towards the horizon, then back at me again. His face is pale, and he’s on a shortboard wearing booties. He wears an anxious grimace on his face. Probably out of his comfort zone.

     I’m a bit winded when I reach the lineup, but a left with a long shoulder pops up, so I turn and go. Time to see how this fish handles in these conditions. It’s exactly what I’ve been waiting for. What a better trial day to test this board.

     Paddling into the wave feels good, and as soon as I pop up, my front foot slips clean off the deck.

     Wax . . . I thought I had enough wax. I don’t. Now here I am. In the water, a long hike downhill from my car. I’m so desperate for wax. I imagine asking the guys in the lineup if any of them brought any out with them, but the only guy I know who brings wax to the lineup is Rick, and Rick’s not here. I thought I would have learned this lesson from Java, from that fateful morning at Choco Point when I had one of the worst sessions ever on a thumping day because my board didn’t have enough wax. My only today choice is to surf conservatively.

     Pale Face is sitting on the inside when the rogue waves roll through. I said that they looked four feet from the cliff, but in the water it’s more like five-to-six feet. After duckdiving, I turn around, and Pale Face is caught on the inside.

     Sitting next to another guy, he takes the next wave. As the wave breaks, his surferless board churns up and out the back. The guy who he was sitting next to shakes his head.

     I’ve never seen PV with this much punch. The drained out tide and powerful swell are making the waves stand up much more than I’ve ever seen before. Instead of the fat, mooshy peaks that this place is known for, the top lip is actually standing up and curling, not barreling, but vertical. The trick is to catch the waves that don’t section out along the whole bay. I need to watch for shoulders.

     On my second wave attempt, I take off on another left. I can’t say that my board has enough volume to get into waves that much easier, but as I’m taking off on a six-foot wave, I can’t believe how stable the board feels from the twenty-one inch width. Aware of my lack of wax, I keep my feet planted, pumping and staying conservative so as to not lose my board.

     The left is racy but still lining up to a shoulder at the end. I make the first couple sections, and then the wave turns into white marble. I get two check turns off the top before jumping over the lip.

     So I get two small turns, and it’s satisfying because it’s a big day. Paddling back out, my only goal is to make it to the lineup without getting worked, and my timing is impeccable, as I make it back unscathed.

     I need to be picky, but I have poor wave choice on my next couple rides. I take closeouts but kick out in time and away from the impact zone.

     Pale Face is gone, and a few more faces show up to rush the surf.

     A random right comes my way, and it’s shouldery. I’m still scared to lose my board, so I do a little backhand snap and then stall over the lip on my second turn.

     On my third wave, a left, I’m pumping down its face. My fish’s thin rails are set in the face so well that it feels like I’m on tracks. The shoulder is impossibly far away, so I can only go down the line and kick out.

     Paddling back, I see the lines in the horizon coming my way. The whitewash is mountainous, hard to punch through. Closer to the lineup, I’m in the worst part of the impact zone. Nevermind that I’m running on fumes—two apples, two tangerines, two cups of coffee. My muscles are burning. Underwater, my board is snatched away from my grip. PV has teeth today. My abdomen even starts cramping.

     Go home, is what the voice inside of me is saying. I’ve already caught some waves. On a day like today, what else is there to prove?

     Sometimes I hear surfers say that they’re not in as good as shape as they were on their last surf trip. I used to scoff upon hearing this, but now I understand. To think that in Java I was doing close to quarter-mile paddle outs (a good wave was well over a minute long)in surf that was easily a couple feet bigger than this. Donny Duckbutter, last May, would whip 2014 Donny Duckbutter’s ass. This is all I can do to motivate myself. I’ve been in worse. Afterall, it’s not like I’m being worked at Porto, Huntington, or Oceanside, where this size on a low tide would have enough power to suck you down and hit bottom. Tired as shit, I make it to the lineup.

     Being picky, I choose a smaller wave with great shape. The shoulder is fat and short, a perfect setup for a cutback. I’ve never been able to pull off frontside cutbacks so easily before. I don’t know what it is about this fish. I never expected to feel so fluid on a swallow tail fish with twin keels, but I rebound back off of the pocket, only stalling for a moment, and then drop back in. The only problem is that the big sets are coming again, and I get worked on the inside once more.

     On my next wave, same thing. I go a little too aggressive on my cutback, wrapping the board around too far behind the shoulder. When I rebound, I know I can plane through the flat sections to get to the shoulder, but it’s too big to do that today. I need to kick out and make it back to the lineup.

     My last wave is a big closeout that allows me to belly ride close to shore.

     Back on top of the hill, at my car, I feel so stoked about my fish purchase. It’s settled. This board is well worth the $140 that I had paid for. But next time I’ll make sure to wax my board. 

SHARP, WED 22JAN2014

Loc: PV

Crew: Shan

Time: 0745-0945

Conditions: 5 FT+, sunny, glassy, semi crowded, sectiony.

     Shan had texted me last night, saying that he’d hit up PV in the morning. After a day of much needed rest, I tell him I’ll be there at first light.

     This morning, after hitting the snooze button, first light is no longer an option. I get up at about 0600, make some coffee, eat some breakfast, and head out the door.

     I cruise along Highland Avenue, looking for signs of surf. Hammerlands has surfers sitting off of the jetty. Even the south side of the jetty has a pack, a small one. I see no heads at 45^th, but in passing 26^th Street I see a light crowd. There are definitely lines coming in, and I doubt that the local beach breaks can hold any shape.

#

     I score prime parking near the path at The Cove when I see a Japanese guy with long hair in a pony tail walking behind me.

     “Morning,” I say.

     “Hey.”

     I take a closer look and realize that it’s Ross, Manhattan Beach’s own, veteran ripper. “Not surfing local?” I say.

     He scoffs and says, “No! It’s been shitty!” He has his hands in his jean pockets, looking down at the surf. “I can’t tell if there are waves.” He paces. “Eh, I think I’ll just paddle out.”

     “Okay. See you out there!”

     I check my phone, and Shan says he’s leaving in five minutes.

     Down at the cliffs, two Japanese kids are about to paddle out. One leads out ahead of him, and the other kid hesitates, timidly taking small, awkward steps. He puts his board down to use it for balance. Even after I’m done warming up, he’s still trying to walk out to where it’s deeper.

     I take the same path he did, and I get hung up on some jagged rocks to. The water is murky, so I can’t see where I’m stepping. My left foot slips on a rock, and I feel it slide into a deep, jagged hole. I wince at the pain. I finally get to deeper water and paddle away.

     I’m gaining on the kid in front of me and think about the long paddle outs that I’ve had in Java and Bali. This is nothing. I expect to pass the kid, but then the white wash from the sets start rolling in. Duckdive after duckdive, it’s like I’m on a damn oceanic treadmill. My rear delts burn and my upper back muscles go tight. I guess . . . it doesn’t matter where you’ve been or what you’ve surfed. If you’re out of surfing shape then you’ll suck ass regardless.

     I overtake the kid and make it past the inside break. A guy on a longboard takes a left, heading straight for the kid, and then I see the longboarder kick out. He looks pissed. “Mannnn!” he says while throwing up his arms in disgust. The kid was in the way.

#

     I’ve surfed decent swell at PV before, probably six-to-seven feet. Today it’s not that big. During the lull, we all sit scattered. The sets are somewhere between five and six feet. When they arrive, they are mostly sectiony with a deceptive shoulder. Then the sets start breaking even further out, leaving everyone out of position.

     Even though there are a good handful of surfers here, the crowd is manageable. At any time, a surfer may be in the perfect spot, too deep, too far outside, or caught in the impact zone. It’s that kind of day, and I love it because it gives everyone a chance.

    

NO LONGER SPOILED:

     At Trestles Klaude had said, “This place is too easy.” I think Trestles is so forgiving and rippable that one can be easily fooled into believing that he’s an advanced surfer. But coming off of an awesome Trestles trip, I’m struggling with PV’s waves. Don’t get me wrong. PV isn’t critical. Even the time I had surfed it bigger, it wasn’t. I mean, let’s be serious here. The Cove doesn’t break “round.” It isn’t a fast barrel machine, it’s not a slap that will pitch you over the lip into the shallow reef. There are rocks at PV, but the waves break so far out that they aren’t really an issue. Even though PV can hold decent shape with big surf, it’s still a slopey wave. However, it is still a wave to be respected. On this morning, there is a lot of water moving around. Something about this spot makes me feel slower, paddling around on my shortboard. I can see why this is a good longboard spot; you need the extra volume. Also, since the waves are sectiony, you really have to be able to read them well or be good at making the sections.

     I go left on my first wave. I take off late, but the big, spilling lip sinks my rail as I slide down its face at an angle. My second wave has some decent shape, but my front foot slips off of the deck.

     Now I’m a little frustrated. I should’ve taken the time to strip my board. I had this same issue at Churches.

     Sets appear when I least expect it, and like a bunch of lemurs, everyone paddles towards the outside in unison. After duckdiving each set wave, there is another bigger one behind it breaking even further out.

     I thought I was in shape, but working through the whitewash wears me out.

#

NEVER FLAKE:

     I’ve been in the water for an hour, and Shan’s still not here. To give you a little history, he’s a guy who always hits me up the night before to surf and never shows up. I look around. Ross is still here. He has a short, fat board, and he’s ripping it on both lefts and rights. Even on the closeouts, he manages at least a turn. Other longboarders look back at his spray and then look at each other, as if saying, “Who is this guy?”

     Ross paddles up to me and says, “Ho! Fun!”

     I’m thinking about how I’m going to deal with Shan if he doesn’t show up. I picture myself back at my car, reading his lame excuse of a text, and then writing back: FLAKE. That’s it.  

     Looking towards the north side of the Cove, I see Shan paddling towards me. Right on.

#

     I’m trying to share some waves. Everyone’s a familiar face by now, and I don’t want to be greedy, so I’m a good sport. I hoot guys who catch the bombs.

     I get a rare left that has a long shoulder to it. I manage one top turn, and the lip pushes me back down the face so fast that I lose balance.

     On my next wave, I lose balance and fall half way into my cutback. It’s not a good morning for Donny Duckbutter. What happened to all the good turns I got at Trestles?

     By 0930, the lulls get a little longer. The difference now is that the rights are working much better now. The shape improves a bit. More shoulders instead of walls come through.

    

BEWARE OF NOOB:

     A longboarder drops in on a guy. The guy is yelling behind him, trying to call the longboarder off of his wave, but the longboarder doesn’t know how to kick out. After the wave closes out, they are both floating in the marbleized foam.

     I keep my eye on the outside. A left rolls in. A fishrider sitting south has a decent shoulder. Down the line, on his line, the longboarder is still there, stuck in the inside, off of his board. The fishriding has to jump off of his board and into the longboarder to avoid a collision with the boards.

     Now an outside, rogue set has sprouted up. I already know that I’m not gonna make it, and I’m prepared to duckdive. As the first wave breaks, I see at least five longboards get ditched. I mean, I haven’t seen nothing like this in a while. Just boards getting shoved aside in the lineup with their riders diving to save their lives, while their boards bob dangerously in the surf.

#

     At the two hour mark, I tell Shan that I’m taking one in. Meanwhile, the north part of The Cove is giving long, rippable rights. I catch a left, tagging the lip once before straightening out back to shore.

     A chick, who I usually see at Porto, paddles towards shallow water. Her man friend walks up to her and takes her board. They walk up the hill. He still carries her board. Fuckin A. SURF VALET!

     So it wasn’t that great of a session for me, and I can’t blame the waves. It’s just different here, and other guys in the lineup were ripping. I accept that I surfed shitty.

     The bottom of my left foot hurts, so I take a look. Right there, in the most critical and inconvenient spot, where the crease on the bottom of the bend of my big toe meets the ball of my foot, is a fucking deep and clean slice.

     I had cut my other foot last week and now this. Maybe it’s time for some booties.

     My phone has been blown up with texts about what the call will be on Friday because of the increase in swell. I just came back from a Trestles camp trip, so I might just come here. 

POST-OREGON SESSION, MON 30DEC2013

 

Loc: Palos Verdes

Crew: Bri

Time: 1500-1700

Conditions: 3-4 FT, glassy, soft, cool, sunny, low tide, crowded

     Bri and I got back from Oregon on the 27^th, but the surf has been walled since we’ve been home. We had checked Porto this morning but concluded that it was so walled that our only chance at decent surf was to go to either a point or a reef break.

     So it’s now the evening and the tide is dropping into the negatives. Any beach break in the South Bay isn’t even worth looking at, so Bri and I head straight for PV. On the way down the coast, I look for surf signs: cars, surfers, surfboards. But as we pass Torrance Beach, there isn’t anything of the sort.

     It isn’t until we approach The Cove that I see a line of cars parked. The conditions are right for The Cove to work: low tide, direct west swell, at least four feet of wave height. We park and take a look down the cliff. The longboarders far away are black dashes, paddling over smooth lines that look like dick veins. The inside is roaring white wash. I’m stoked.

     I whip out my 6’10 Becker Board just in case the waves aren’t as big as they look from the cliff, but I also want to sample it to see how it rides at PV.

     The tide is so drained out that we have to walk a good portion of the inside to get to deeper water. Rocks are sticking out that I never knew were there. My shoulders burn from the long paddle out, and when we reach the lineup there are more surfers than I thought I had seen earlier. Today, surfers are sitting directly in the middle of The Cove. I like to sit wide to the north, but the waves here are coming in walled.

     The main peak has the best waves. The sets roll in at about four feet, and longboarders are getting long rides, long enough that I have to back out even from my distant position.

     But waves do swing wide to where Bri and I are, but my Becker board feels sluggish. I still paddle and kick to get into waves, but I don’t feel the advantage of this board’s size. The best I can do is pump and get as much distance as possible. I get a half-ass floater that ends up being my wave of the day.

     With the sun already low, more people still paddle out. Now a pack of Brazilians sit next to me and Bri.

     The session turns frustrating, as I can’t scratch into the bombs. Even with this low tide and swell size, PV breaks so soft that big boards are the way to go here.

     Bri gets much better rides than I do. She even offers to swap boards.

     We surf until it’s dark, and even with only six guys left out, everyone is still greedy for waves. I sit in with the pack, and I still get outhustled by the longboarders.

     Back at the car, Bri and I change in the dark. I’m bummed that my first session back home has to be a frustrating one, but I hope that the swell improves. Maybe the shape will improve over the next couple of days.

TO SHARE SURFING, FRI28JUN2013 MOR

Loc: Palos Verdes

Crew: Bri

Conditions: 1-2 FT+, glassy, inconsistent, soft, foggy, kelp infested.

     How do most guys share surfing with their girlfriends? I had such a good session yesterday, but today, this morning, my girlfriend wants to surf. I know that the swell is pumping, the tide is low, it’s a little round, and . . . I worry about her safety in those conditions. She wants to surf, so . . . what’s a good boyfriend to do?

A.)    “I’m gonna surf Manhattan Beach. You should just go to PV by yourself. You’ll have fun, the waves are softer there.

B.)    “I don’t know about you, but I’m staying local. It’s fucking good right now. You should probably stay home.”

C.)    “We should surf PV. It will more manageable out there.”

#

     I’m lucky to have a girlfriend that doesn’t have a life that depends on caking on makeup on Friday nights and dressing up in short skirts that show her snatch to guys in the pubs and clubs. Fuckin’ A, man, my girl likes to surf. Thank goodness . . . no, no trips to the malls to go shopping for useless shit. My girl likes the sound of cobblestones when the waves hit the shore, campfires on the beach, the feeling of going down the line on her longboard, and coming home exhausted and salt riddened from good sessions. That being said, I must share surfing with her, and in doing so, that means sacrificing. I want to surf Manhattan Beach again after yesterday’s epic session, but the conditions are dangerous for her, and I can’t be selfish, thinking about my own surfing. We’ll share, so we drive through the fog towards PV, hoping that the swell has enough west in it to produce some decent waves.

Gloom:

     Yeah, forget about a sunny, summer morning. The fog’s so thick when we park that we can’t see the cove down below. Suit up and walk down, that’s the plan.

     A woman in a Ford Explorer parks behind us, one of the only four cars parked on the hill this morning. She steps out and says, “How does it look?”

     She’s a vet . . . maybe pushing sixty. Her skin’s light and weathered from years under the sun. She smiles under her short, blond hair and cherry-red lipstick. “I don’t know,” I say. “Can’t see anything.”

     She walks to the lookout point and comes back. “You’re right,” she says.

     Bri and I smile at her. She’s a nice woman, but for some reason I can’t help but fit her into the category of Crazy Cat Lady.

     We all change and walk down the hill at the same time. She says, “I surfed Ventura yesterday. It was fun! Oh, and by the way, my name’s Kat. What’s yours?”

     We go through the introductions and make our way down to the cove. The fog’s so thick that we can’t see the lineup. With the low tide, the rocks on the inside are exposed. One longboarder paddles towards us through the fog. “Are there waves?” asks Kat.

     The surfer smirks and says, “Yeah. . .” He frowns, and the look on his face spells disappointment.

     We walk to deeper water and paddle out. The water’s so clear that I can see everything beneath it, so it’s easy to avoid the rocks. The subtle white noise of the white wash gets louder. Clumps of kelp are scattered all around us like land mines. Two surfers sit at the south side of the cove, not far from us. On their longboards, they paddle into one-foot waves. I

     I like dense fog. It makes every wave a surprise. Who knows what’s out there when you can’t see? There might be a good wave coming our way, but on this morning . . . it’s inconsistent and small.

     “Sorry I made you come here,” says Bri.

     “No, that’s okay.” I look down at the Lost logo on my deck. “I was curious to see what this place was doing.”

     The conditions are right for this place: low tide, no wind, super glassy. But there just isn’t enough swell, and since it’s foggy, every surfer who came for a spot check has no choice but to paddle out in order to see the surf. The main peak is crowded. Stand up paddlers even make their way out.    

     The waves aren’t even three feet, but they are rideable. However, the kelp . . . the fucking kelp. Every time I try to set up for a turn, the kelp slows me down like speed bumps on a residential street. I lose momentum and can only trim.

     Bri’s doing fine. Even though her board snags on the kelp, her longboard is able to plow through it, giving her some decent distance.

     We surf for a couple hours and head home. I know Manhattan Beach was good, but that’s okay. It was a reasonable sacrifice to surf elsewhere. I can surf by myself any time I want to, but to share it with someone means to be selfless. I value Bri’s safety and stoke over my own progression. There will be other days to get barrel practice.

     Driving back to El Segundo, the fog finally clears once we reach PCH. I look over at Bri, happy that I’m not driving home alone.