LOOKING FOR WAVES IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES, SAT 24SEPT2011 MOR

LOC: County Line
Crew: Klaude
Time: 0800-1030, 2 hrs. & 30 min.
Conditions: Clean, glassy, no wind, overcast, inconsistent, long ass lulls, uncrowded, 1-3 feet.

    Yesterday Dais hit me up and said he, Khang, DK, and their homeboy Kataro were going to Trestles on Saturday. I initially told him that I’d go. Why not after all? I’m due up for Trestles. The last time I was there was during Al’s camping trip late last month. When I hit Klaude up, he said that he had to go to work, so he wouldn’t be able to go. Since he was staying back, I thought it would be a good call to gamble on a new secret spot south of Oxnard where I injured my shoulder. Klaude said he’d be happy to come along, so I told Dais that I catch them next time. However, this was a gamble. I made it clear; I couldn’t guarantee that it would be good.
   
    It’s 0515 when my alarm goes off. The plan is to pick up Klaude at 0545. I start the pot of coffee and pack my gear. As I pull up to Klaude’s, I notice that my tire pressure is low. My gas lamp is also on, and I doubt that we can make the sixty mile journey without sweating bullets the whole way. We load his gear, go to the gas station, fill up my tires, and Klaude tosses me some cash for gas.

    “Damn, looks like the swell is hitting the South Bay, “ says Klaude. 

    I’ve been so busy lately that I don’t really know what the swell is doing. We stick to the plan and head up north. It’s an empty Saturday morning. The cruise up PCH is too dark to see any surf. I’ve pacing our speed, as we keep passing CHP cars hiding in little cuts on the road; we see them. The morning is foreshadowed once the coast line becomes visible. Zumas to County Line looks flat as a pancake. We pull up to the secret spot which has a mountain of rocks blocking the water’s edge.

    “I don’t hear anything. That’s not good,” says Klaude. I step outside, and I’m in denial, trying not to let the silence in the air ruin my hopes. Once we climb over, we see that the high tide has brought the water all the way to the rocks. Waves are breaking, but they are really close to the jagged boulders. “Daaaaaaamn, skuuuuunked.”

    Fuck my life, I’m thinking. Klaude presents our second option of County Line. I’m usually stubborn in situations like these. Klaude takes a seat and as we wait for a miracle. I’m looking further north up the coast. Away from the rocks, some waves are breaking, but it’s mostly shore pound. In front of us, we see a set. There’s a fast peak working that looks rideable. “Break, break, breeeaaaaaak,” says Klaude. It breaks a little late, too close to the rocks. It’s too risky. This is a great spot. No one is here, and we can have this spot all to ourselves, but it’s not worth it. “County line?”

    “Yeah.” I’m still staring out at sea. “Let’s go.” Klaude heads back to the car and stands outside the door. I watch a little bit longer in futile hope. County Line it is.

    It’s about 0745 when we show up, and there aren’t many cars there yet. Another bad sign. Once we step up to the railing by the cliff, we see about four longboarders and two SUP boarders at the north point. The silence between us speaks volumes. We watch 1-2 foot, soft right-handers roll through. Towards the middle of the bay, there’s a fast peak that’s breaking close to the shore. Other than that, it’s pretty much a lake out there. We see some sets roll through that are just under three feet, but the lulls seem long. We are officially skunked.

    “What do you think?” asks Klaude.

    There’s another long pause. I’m still watching, looking, peering, and trying to transform this picture before us into something else. The waves are small, but the shape is clean. “I don’t know. There’s a little something out there.”

    “My concern is, are we going to be able to catch anything?” I see his point. The waves are small, and it’s definitely a longboard day. “26th, bro.”

    I still scan and watch for something. “You really don’t want to surf here, huh?”

    “I mean, c’mon. It has to be better than this. I mean, you’re driving, so . . . whatever you want to do.”

    The message is clear. It’s small here . . . tiny. But the thought of waking up around 0500 and driving all the way up here just to go back to the South Bay doesn’t sit well with me. It’s a selfish move, but I’m usually pretty stubborn and stick with my decisions for better or for worse. Sometimes, they work out, but sometimes I’m hating myself in the after math. Against my friend’s advice, I motion towards the call to stay.

    I take my time suiting up. Klaude’s faster than I. “I’ll meet you down there,” he says, and he takes off. I see another wave roll through. It’s barely three feet, but it’s so long and clean. It reminds me of Churches on a small day, not big but fun. Klaude and I paddle to the small pack of surfers by the point and wait for a wave. I stay south towards the outside, and a pretty, little three footer comes my way. I’m stoked; the wait isn’t long at all. The shoulder is so soft and clean, I’m looking down the line to set myself up. I bottom turn, top turn, but get stuck on the lip, and the wave passes me. Damn . . . I’m pretty rusty after a week of no surf and still rusty from my injury. I paddle up to Klaude with my post-wave grin.

    “Fuck, I had a good one, but I BLEW IT!” I say.

    “Yeah, there’s some nice ones out here.”

    I sit and wait for the next set. Two more waves come, and both of the longboarders I’m sitting with take them. After that, nothing comes for a long time. The lull is stagnant, silent, and frustrating. I look at Klaude, and he raises both of his arms to his sides with his arms out, the universal gesture for “where the fuck are the waves?” Some little waves come, but they’re too small for us to catch. A couple more people join our pack. Frustration mounts to anger and regret, not only for myself, but I’ve dragged Klaude down here too for some bad surf. I hate it when that happens. The tide drowns everything out in the first hour, and we don’t catch shit. Half way through the second hour, a couple more peaks start to sprout. Unfortunately, I’m working like a bad luck charm. Every time I paddle where the waves are breaking, they break where I just left. I’m lucky enough to catch a few, but the rides are short.

    Klaude gets a bad cramp and has to exit the water. Something happens after that where I get back-to-back waves. With the tide lowering, the conditions get a little better with more options. Klaude comes back to the lineup when I start getting some rides that go a little distance, but I struggle to crank out more than one turn.

    “You’re getting yours today,” Klaude says. At this point for me, I’m getting the day’s worth out of the session. I can comfortable walk away feeling satisfied that I’ve caught something. I think Klaude’s board may be a little too small for what’s on the menu, so I offer to swap. He grabs hold and mounts the JS. “It’s huge!” he says.

    “Yeah, but it worked in Bali.”

     I feel like as much criticism as I can get with that board, at least I’ll always be able to say that it worked for me during took my trip. Later I see Klaude returning from the inside saying that he finally caught one. I catch a couple on his advanced shortboard, but it feels like I’m sinking it when I’m on the wave, and my stance is too wide from the length change. We change back to our regular boards. Just as I’m returning to the lineup from the inside, I see Klaude all by himself as a set wave approaches him. I’m trying to get out of his way because I’ll be in his path in a couple seconds. He pops up on the shoulder, but for some reason he bogs out as the open, lonely section runs away from him. He’s not happy; I can relate. It’s one of those waves that you end up waiting for forever. And finally when it shows up it’s all yours. But for some reason or another, you blow it. For me, I’ve blown these kinds of waves because I’ve had too much time to think, and then my timing or positioning is off. I think most surfers are used to having that “other guy” to deal with, where you need to make an on-the-spot call on going for the wave. In this sense, time can be the enemy.

    I paddle up and try to find the right words. “We don’t really have the right boards for today,“ I say.
    “Nah, fuck that. . . . I should be catching them.”

  
It’s past 1000, and Klaude needs to get back to work. The tide approaches mid level, and the peak north of the point starts to get consistent, but we have to leave. On the inside, I catch an inside left that’s fast and racy. I actually get some decent frontside pumps before the wave closes out.

    “You’re pumping’s looking pretty good,” says Klaude.

    I smile at the thought, but then I realize that I missed an opportunity to do more. I could’ve attempted a couple floaters to make the section, but I still lack the talent to know what I should really be doing when the opportunity presents itself. It’s a reminder that I’ve still got a lot of work to do.

    It’s an easy ride back with minimum traffic. We actually reach a patch of sunlight near Malibu before it goes gray again. Malibu’s small, and Sunset isn’t breaking at all. Klaude gets a text from Christina. Apparently, she surfed 26th and it was really good. When I drop off Klaude, he grabs his things and throws them on the ground by his driveway. It’s out of character.     The day’s a gamble and a loss, and I’m the one that made the bad call not to come back to the South Bay to surf.
  

SOUTH OXNARD: YOU CAN ONLY SURF SO MUCH - SAT 14AUG2011 MOR

Crew: Rick, John A., Jordan, Klaude
Conditions: 3-4 ft., glassy, slight offshore wind, high tide, inconsistent, overcast, warm, fast, peaky, pitchy, brutal, round, slightly hollow.



Something Different:


    After getting skunked so much down south, I need another option for a south facing break. Rick has been telling me about his secret spots, so I try to make myself available the next time he goes. Yesterday on the drive back home, Klaude called to invite me to County Line. I told him that I’d see what Rick was doing first. Sure enough, Rick called me right after and invited me up north. Last night I told Klaude that I’d pick him up at 0615.



Your body will tell you:


    I’m up. It’s 0530. I sit up, and my upper back and shoulder muscles are aching. I make a cup of coffee and eat a banana. I have a bad feeling about this. In the back of my mind, I worry that I’m pushing myself too much and that I should take a little break from surfing. But today we’re going to a secret spot, and I have to surf it there with Rick to learn as much about it as possible.

    I text Klaude as I start the car. I’m late. He texts back: Whaaaat! Matt late! The whole world is coming to an end!

    It is a little out of my character. I pick him up, and we start our long morning drive on PCH. We pass Sunset. It’s small and crowded. Malibu is the same. County Line looks clean, but it looks kind of small and extremely crowded as well. No, not this morning. No more crowded surf, at least for today. We’re heading somewhere that I’ve never paddled out at before where no one should be at.

    We pass Rick’s vehicle on the road, but they don’t see us. When Klaude and I approach the beach, we can’t see over the big rocks, but when we climb over what we see doesn’t look too promising. There are peaks, well defined peaks. They are almost too defined. There’s a fast drop with a tapered shoulder. “Looks like mostly shore pound,” says Klaude.

    To me, he doesn’t sound stoked, but I’m optimistic. For one thing, there are only three guys out. The rides look short, but they are peaks and not walls. I can work with that. The sand bars spread the peaks out a little. Also, there’s no wind, and it’s glassy.

    Rick and company show up. They’re a little disappointed too. John says, “This is the first time I’ve seen this place so flat?” It doesn’t matter. Rick’s the first one to suit up, Klaude follows, and I take my time getting ready.

    I use my DMS potato chip for this session. Since the peaks look fast, I should have enough push to get me into the waves. We all paddle out, and the water’s so smooth that it’s hard to make out the curling lip. I eat shit on my first couple waves. They jack up so fast that as I’m popping up the lip’s already over me. It’s good, it’s a challenge. It’s a challenge and it’s rideable, a 180 compared to the last four days. It’s just before high tide, and the place just seems to turn on. Random peaks unexpectedly sprout. Sitting on the shoulder, we can see almond shaped slots when the waves pitch. Some peaks are so sharp they look like inverted Vs. Some waves transform into beasts that jack up violently and leave no room for error. I’m in awe, and today is only a four foot day on the face, maybe only three feet. Klaude turns to me and says, “I think it’s pitchier than HB.”

    “I was thinking the same thing.” Out of all of us, John makes it look the easiest. I don’t have full view, but he gets shacked on one wave. Rick paddles in to waves early with his fish and unleashes backhand hacks that spray water out the back.

    “I’m going for the barrel,” Klaude says. “It’s time to go barrel hunting.” Shit, he’s not the only one. I wouldn’t mind getting one too. I get a couple waves that moosh out after the drop. On some, the section is just too fast so I have to penetrate out the back. I do get some good rights which let me have a good top turn to end it. The waves aren’t the problem, it’s my body. Everyone fights the current to stay in place. I keep drifting north and away. Each stroke just feels tiresome. I actually welcome the lulls to catch my breath.

    One of those freak monster waves jacks up in front of Klaude. He’s paddling for it. As he pops up going left, it looks like he’s grabbing rail for a backside slot, but the lip comes down on him and pushes him towards the inside.

    A peak forms in front of me. I know it’s jacking up right away, so I turn and paddle early. I make the steep drop and look down the line. The section is building, but I’m able to pump my way around it. I see that the shoulder is standing up, and the lip is about to curl over. Rick is paddling out near the shoulder. He yells, “Yeah, Matt!” in approval. I’m feeling good. My brother told me to fade out, pull in, and check turn; I’m about to set myself up. Unfortunately, the wave’s speed has me on a collision course with Rick. He’s not over the shoulder yet. We both look at each other like deers caught in the headlights. What should I do? I should straighten out and avoid hitting my buddy, but for some reason I can’t stop my self from pulling in. Collision is inevitable at this point; I’m literally two feet away from him. The lip starts to curl, Rick starts to duckdive, and I start my leap over Rick to avoid a heavy impact with my board.

    We resurface and I say, “Fuck, Rick, I’m sooo fucking sorry! Are you all right?”

    “Yeah, Matt, I’m fine. Sorry, I had no where to go.”

    “I know, but fuck, I shouldn’t have ran over you.” We pull our boards apart.

    “It’s okay. I duckdived deep. That was a good one!”

    “I know. I couldn’t help it. I really wanted to get slotted.” My demeanor switches from that moment. God dammit I want another one just like that. I paddle closer to everyone, and we’re all hooting at the big sets that are rolling through.

    Unfortunately, the tide gets higher which causes things to get swampy. Just like that, it shuts off for a little while. The lulls are long again with a couple waves in between. Jordan’s practicing with us for her high school surf team, and despite the backwash jacking up the waves on the inside, she’s fucking charging. All morning long, she gets her fair share of waves, either ending her rides with good carves or semi floaters that she kicks out of. She makes me feel old, while the two brothers make me feel inexperienced. I struggle at this point. I’m repelling the peaks, and John seems to be scoring the most. Rick paddles up to me and says, “I got hit by my fins on the inside.”

    “What, where?”

    “On my head.”

    “Are you all right?”

    “Yeah, I’m fine.”

    “Put your head down.” He complies, and I see a small bright red square in his scalp. “Dude, your cut.” Poor Rick. He’s had concussions from snowboarding and surfing. His accident brings me back to the realization that surfing is dangerous, and we’re always one awkward wipeout away from being exposed to serious harm. A peaky left comes my way, I paddle for it, and as I’m dropping in I can see that the section is walling up. I try to penetrate out the back, but I get sucked down with the white wash. The inside is so turbulent, and that wave is pretty heavy, so it’s full weight sucks me under. The wash yanks my right arm behind me, and I feel a sharp pain from my right shoulder. I resurface laboring myself on my board. I paddle, but there’s pain in my range of motion. Every time I paddle with my right arm, something hurts in my rotator cuff. I alter my paddle to work around the pain. I think I get one more wave before Rick calls the session. It’s almost noon. Just like that, the whole morning is gone. It doesn’t even feel that we’ve surfed that long.

    On the way home I deny the pain, but I know that it’s serious enough to keep me out of the water. Coping with it is weird because surfing is a huge part of my life. I’d like to think that I just need a day of rest, but I know it will be more than that.



Aftermath:


    Sunday rolls around. I dedicate the day to Lauren. Klaude and Francis text me. It was a good morning for surf. Consistent 2-3 ft. at Parks and glassy. Just my luck. When I get injured, the surf is good. The Amador brothers were out there too. I’m missing out. My shoulder feels worse today. I’ve had partial tendon tears before, and I expect the same. I want to surf so bad, but the smart thing to do is stay out of the water this week. Lesson learned. It’s better to miss one day of surfing to give your body rest than to surf nonstop, injure yourself, and be out for a week. Damn, I miss the water.