Softtop Destination: Day 2 & 3

Soft Top Destination, Day 1

With a 11 days off, I wasn’t sure where Bri and I should go. It wasn’t long enough for Indo, and my flight benefits wouldn’t cover the costs to catch the little puddle jumper flights. Better to fly direct… Puerto Vallarta became an option, but the idea of going to some country I haven’t been to before was too hard to pass up. So the options came down to a remote location in El Salvador or something more touristy like Costa Rica’s Tamarindo. After including my wife in the process, we decided we’d hit a tourist town. Crowded lineups or not, we were willing to catch foam waves with the crowd and hit some beer and tacos after.

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The flight…First class was a nice surprise. With the flight being wide open, and my wife and I the only standbys, calling it luck would be an overstatement. Another surprise was the other family sitting across from us. A fifty-something dad who was drunk and covered in tattoos was being loud and obnoxious with his wife and daughter. And of course, his wife was equally buzzed, and everything she said was accompanied with flailing her hands and arms. It was high drama for a red eye.

When the customs forms were passed out, I used my own or, and when I heard them ask the stewardess for one, for which they rarely do, I tapped him on the shoulder to give him my own. When the sun came up about five hours later, I was still penless. I asked his wife for the pen, since she was the one using it, and she pulled it out of her bun and handed it to me with the cap missing.

Upon deboarding, I heard her complaining to her husband how she wanted her pen back for her hair. Wow…she had even thanked me last night when I handed the shit over to them. Lesson learned, don’t give up your pen unless asked. The customer is the enemy.

#

The host of my Airbnb place informed me not to pay over $60 for a taxi into town. Right when Bri and I exited customs, we were aggressively corralled towards a line of taxis by this dude. “How much is it?” I said.

“Right this way, Sir, and I’ll tell you.”

Motherfucker. Here we go again. I may as well be in Jakarta. I’ve always been a terrible bargainer, but when I pushed for he price he finally said eighty dollars. In my shitty Spanish we went back and forth, me lowering he bar at forty and he not budging.

In the humid morning air, I walked further down the curb to get a second opinion from some workers. The woman told me it was a hundred dollars. Get the fuck outta here. The other guy told me eighty, and then he flagged down a taxi driver who said he’d do it for sixty. “A todos,” I said, pointing to me and my wife. He agreed. All looked well. Then he pulled up to another taxi, told us to hop into it, and then another guy hopped in. From there I restated the sixty dollar agreement. “Si, si,” he said. “Sesenta con propina. Ochenta dolores.” He smiled at me through the rearview, brandishing a gold-capped tooth.

Bri could tell I was losing my shit. “Did he get us?” she said.

I told him to stop the car. Bri seconded. “Autobus,” we said. With the car in motion, I opened the car door.

“Sesenta es okay,” said the driver, but Bri and I were not. It was a tense hour long drive. The guy made two phone calls bitching out the other guy about why he’s taking us to Tamarindo for such a small fee. But when we approached town, the driver kindly asked where we wanted to be dropped off, and gave us an enthusiastic, “Pura vida!” As we left.

The breakfast in front of the beach was classic tourist cliché. It was a slow morning with a cool offshore breeze but humid. Out check in time was at 1300 and it was only 0800.

$27 later we were walking the south end of the beach where we saw a small crocodile at a small river mouth. At the very end there were a ton of people getting surf lessons. The wave itself was small, but the water so tropical that I wanted to jump in there myself to get relief.

As we started our trek towards the north end of the beach, our backpacks started getting heavy. My arms were shiny with sweat, and my farts were getting moister each time. We watched the main peak by the northern river mouth. The waves here were better but three times as crowded. After cruising around and checking about surf rentals, we stopped at a bar and ordered a pitcher with nachos. By the time we were done it was time to check in.

The lady at the Airbnb site said no one had told her we’d be coming. Of course, the whole conversation was in Espanol, which means I sounded like an idiot. After that hurdle all that mattered was the AC in our room. My tank-top tan was legit. Cold ass shower was perfectly fine.

#

After a solid nap we walked out in time to catch the sunset. A Euro couple approached us and attempted their best Spanish in asking me to take a picture of them. It was the second time that day someone assumed I was fluent. Now the sunset…it was gorgeous. With the low tide runners breaking in shallow water with the fire in the sky engulfing everything, I knew this trip was something special. Even more special was the fucking sweaty ass humidity even in the night.

“You like weed, blow?” said some local in a baseball
cap, long curly hair spilling out over his ears. That was the mantra of the night, weed and blow offered to us in every dark corner. Right on.

And with the tourist season officially dying, the hosts for the restaurants seemed desperate to lure us into their venues. And yeah, I’m a cheap fuck, so all those restaurants on the beach were fucking expensive. I came for tropical water, fun-sized surf, and cheap beer and tacos. Fuck the bullshit. So we went about a block into town and found some small outdoor eateries lined up next to each other and settled on a large $11 pizza that stuffed both of us.

#

First impressions? Thank God our Airbnb joint has AC and a kitchen. The kitchen is going to save our asses from spending money to eat 3 meals a day out on the local economy. Pay with your credit card as much as possible because the exchange rate from your bank is better than what the vendors/shops will give you if you pay in cash. I’d have more to write, but this is only day 1. Tomorrow, we surf.

SOFT TOP DESTINATION: Day 2 & 3

After soMe research, I found out that the surf shop with the best selection charged the most, so we went back to a shop called Kelly’s where a dark gangly kid with long curly hair works. He showed us the foamies and NSPs that only cost $10 a day. Since the surf looked small leaving our room, I decided on a 6’6 fish shaped NSP and Bri went with a 6’8. Finally for the first time we were on our way to paddling out into some surf.

Most of the surf schools were at the main peak in front of Tamarindo Daria, but the rivermouth had a long soft right that only had about 6 longboarders on it. Surprisingly, just a little south of it was a smaller but empty left that no one wanted to sit on. Naturally, Bri and I paddled for it.

We had been sweating our asses off before jumping in, but, fuckin’ A, goodluck on the water providing any relief. Bri called it “the surf sweats,” and it doesn’t get much more accurate than that. I mean, literally, THAT FUCKING HOT. Now as much as I’d like to pump up the surf to you, I won’t lie. People had already been telling us that Tamarindo is a beginner wave. I’m sure when the swell is solid overhead it’s another story, but the current swell is small. Yet, despite how mooshy and small the lefts were, it felt great to catch waves in this tropical place. We had the right boards for the occasion. I struggled to turn my beast of a board. I think you have to be really good to do a legit cutty on one of these things.

We traded off waves for a couple of hours, even tried to duke it out with a couple of legit nose riders at the top of the river mouth but just couldn’t put maneuver them. Afterwards we went back to El Vaquero for “Nachos as Big As Your Ass” and a pitcher of Imperial Beer. All was well, but then we had been sweating so much that the beer dehydrated the shit out of us. We were in headache country and headed back to the room for a nap. When we woke up we both felt like shit.

We still had the boards for a couple more hours before we had to turn them in for the day, but then the tide was drained so low that the shit was closing out like Bay St., Santa Monica on a bad day. A few Advils later and we cooked some spaghetti with the groceries we got from the market. We went to bed a little uneasy, thinking about the small surf, daily expenses we were incurring, and if spending a week here was too long. At least, we somewhat felt this way until day 3.

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Day 3

Playa Grande is north of Tamarindo separated by a river mouth that looks shallow enough to walk across but just this pas September a tourist had his leg severed from the knee down by a croc. Jeffrey, the kid who we rented out boards from showed us the pic. “Never swim across the rivermouth,” he said. So after choosing a Rusty longboard for Bri and a huge and chunky CI Average Joe, we paid the boatman $1 each to get across the river mouth. Jeffrey tried to point out the Playa Grande break from his shop. 10 minutes he said. No…the walk was fucking LONG. We passed closeout beach break after closeout beach break until stopping at the south end of Playa Grande, next to a few lone surfers. Armed with a huge hug of water and boards in hand, we decided to paddle out for at least an hour before heading back. Lo and behold, the surf was actually much better than it looked. I’d compare it to HB on a high tide but with a long face that holds shape. I even  got three hits on a backhand right. It’s fun trying different equipment. I’d never ride something so chunky back home, but I made it work and had so much fun doing it. The surf was consistent and more rippable than Tamarindo. Best thing was, we had that shit all to ourselves. We had a serious case of the surf sweats but trudged through it until the tide topped out around 8ft., and the winds chopped it out. Still, we had that shit for like 2 hours.

The walk back was tiresome but satisfying. We legit scored empty surf in Costa Rica just a hike away from the main tourist trap. Another $2 and we were dropped off a stones throw from our room. Lunch was cereal, pastries, and bananas.

After a few errands in town, we paddled back out at the Tamarindo rivermouth. Because of the low tide, no one else was out. We caught some rights to ourselves for about a half hour before we were joined by a Chinese guy on a longboard. He said his name was Joe and that he was from New York but originally from Torrance. We all shared until 6 fucking guys from Encinitas invaded our spot and sat right on us. One of them actually apologized and said, “I know what you guys are thinking, you guys are out here all by yourselves and here come these motherfuckers.”

Just then, the clouds from the mountains swept into the lowlands. The wind changed. Thunder started, and the rain began. People started leaving the lineup.

We turned our boards in and got cover underneath a garage overhand. The rain was torrential, coming straight down, heavy, and all at once. 10 minutes later, and it was over. Back to the room with our leftover spaghetti and ice cream from the market. Bri and I kept going over how grateful we were to be able to do things like this together.

RICK’S BIRTHDAY WEEKEND PT.V, SUN 09NOV2014

Loc: Lowers

Time: 0630-0830

Conditions: 2-4 FT, overcast, cool, glassy, consistent, crowded.

“To Lowers or Not to Lowers”

     Rick, Juan, and Gary make a beeline straight to DMJ at dawn. Personally, I’d like to just paddle right out here at camp somewhere instead of hit the road again, especially if the surf has a strong chance of being like it had been yesterday.

     Bri’s knocked out. Daniel and Nate head to Lowers, still dressed with boards and their backpacks strapped on.

     “See you there,” I say. After a banana and some coffee, I change and start trotting on the sand.

     This morning isn’t as classic as the last two. For the first time during this trip, the morning sky is overcast and gloomy. Yup, definitely looks like winter. Even the Churches’ lineup is pretty empty. People are either unmotivated by the weather or the surf report. Maybe both.

     I stop short at Mons Pubis, eyeing a lonely peak. This is my spot. I can have it to myself, but I have to shortboard it today after yesterday’s board casualty.

     Three fishermen cast out their lines from shore. It’s just me and them. Why not paddle out here?

     Did I say how much I hate this leaky wetsuit? Fuck. Hurley is great for everything, I love their apparel, except wetsuits. I’ll take Hurley shorts and shirts any day over Quik stuff, but their wetsuits suck.

     I’m cold as shit. Water infiltrates my wetsuit around my balls and then the small of my back. Lame. I get four waves, but they’re too soft for my board. Lame. I surf them like shit.

     Instead of getting out and walking, I paddle through Middles. The waves are too soft here as well. Paddling my way into Lowers, I see Nate and Dan still dressed and sitting on the sand. They have to recognize me. Why wouldn’t they? I’m right in front of them. When I make it up to the Lowers pack, I turn around and see them heading back towards camp.

“Fifteen”

     Sad to say, fifteen people sitting on Lowers is actually a manageable crowd. I sit wide south to catch the spare rights. I’m surprised at how many swing wide my way, and then I’m not surprised. No. The wide rights aren’t standing up that well. There’s more size here, but after my first snap, the wave goes soft. Too much tide.

     Now I’m at the main peak. The crowd seems mellow. A peak rolls in. Everyone turns. I’m in prime position. Now there are only four of us. I want the left. Someone has the right already. I look down my line and see two groms still paddling for the left.

     “Which way you going?” the kid next to me asks the kid on his outside.

     “Left!” I say. The kid next to me backs off, but his homie snakes me. I’m riding the wave right behind him, and he does a tight frontside wrap, causing me to fall in his wake.

     Fuck . . . I’ve always hated kids. Even when I was a little kid I fucking hated kids littler than me. Today’s no different. I paddle in circles, fuming. The kid’s friends don’t want to look at me. I stare at all of them. Please, please don’t let me be the guy who goes off on kids.

     The little fucker comes back. I circle and stare. He doesn’t look up once. As long as he knows. . . As long as he knows.

     Then, I don’t fucking no how, but sitting a little wide north, I catch a legit left. Motherfucker. I forgot how the lefts stand up more than the rights here. The section peels vertically. I’m caught off guard. Plus, I really don’t want to fall. Instead of attacking the wave, I do a measly check turn and try to snap the end section, but the wave’s lost its steam. Fock. That’s right. Fock with an O. Shit.

     Paddling back to the lineup, the last wave of the set sprouts up. Two guys are going for it. In a moment of confusion, they look at each other in a stale mate and accidentally let the wave go. I mean, the wave is already peeling. The first section’s gone to waste, but I’m ready to turn-and-go on the shoulder to milk the final two thirds of the ride.

     I slide into the wave on a steep and rampy section. Bottom turning, I climb the face and crank out a layback snap. I’m shocked when I ride out of it, rebounding and still flying down the line. I’m not a pro, so I’ll do the same damn turn twice. Again, I end the ride with a small layback on the shoulder. My laybacks are ugly and need work, but I pull off both of these practice sons of bitches.

“Twenty”

     Twenty may not be a crowd for others here, but for me it is. I sit inside and try to go for a wave. When I turn around, there’s a guy paddling back out in my way. He throws up his hands and says, “Really?”

     Fuck. I’m confused. Is that bad etiquette on my part? I guess there’s more about surfing that I still need to learn. But what if I have to turn and go on the spot? I don’t let a perfect wave go, right? I’m the surfer. Don’t I have the right of way? Can’t he just paddle around?

     The same guy turns to his friend and says, “I just got burned on the right by some kid.”

     I feel the lineup grow tense. Yeah. The energy’s switched.

     On my next left, some old fucker in a neon green wetsuit snakes me. Second time this morning. I could strangle someone.

     “Yeah,” I say out loud. “Nice wave! Keep going!”

     The guy falls on his turn. When he resurfaces, he puts both of his hands on his face, shaking his head, embarrassed.

     Whether he looks at me or not, I don’t know. I don’t even want to see his fucking face. Back to the lineup for me.

“Working for Waves”

     I don’t want to deal with the main peak. Too many assholes. I sit wide on both sides or inside of everyone, picking off the smaller waves that people let pass. Some of them paddle for them, but I know they’re not in position. Haha, twenty people at Lowers means that you can at least get insiders. How’s that? What’s working on my side is how the waves are coming in. It’s scattered and consistent here. The waves are shifting all around the main point. Twenty people at the top of the wave leave me to my own devices.

     I can’t say that the rest of my rides are solid, but I at least crank out single shot turns on each. Better than DMJ. Also, I’m able to put my shortboard to use. This is the third board that I’ve used on this trip.

     After getting snaked a third time, I’m over it. This guy, he’s good. He’s so fucking greedy though. Everyone here is.

     We were both going for the left, and when he popped up, I mean, he was fucking gone. I couldn’t even say anything. I literally had just pushed my chest off of my board, and this guy had already gotten up to his feet and swooped away.

     “Hey,” says a voice from behind. “I’m sorry about snaking you earlier.”

     I turn around. It’s that old guy in the neon green wetsuit. He’s actually apologizing. I wipe the anger off of my face, smile back, and say, “It’s okay.”

RICK’S BIRTHDAY WEEKEND PT.IV (double), SAT 08NOV2014

Photographer unknown, but he's rumored to be a barrel expert.

Loc: Churches

Crew: Rick

Time: 1230-1400

Conditions: 1-3 FT, sunny, cool, offshore, consistent, mid tide.

     I’m supposed to be cooking lunch back at camp, but none of us are hungry after eating at Roberto’s Diarrhea Tacos. Despite the funky surf at DMJ, the surf at Churches is looking just as pristine as yesterday. It’s about mid tide, and the peaks are starting to stand up and peel nicely, especially without the tide being totally drained. The surf is hitting that really good window right now.

     Nate and Dan paddle out first while Rick takes his time getting ready. Bri opts to chill on the sand and read her book, so I grab the Zippi and go looking for the other guys.

     Heading towards North Churches, I don’t see any of them there. The main point has a lot of guys sitting there. It looks better, but there are too many people. I push it north to Mons Pubis where there are only two dudes.

     I can’t get over how cold the water is. It’s bone chilling, but my wetsuit jacket is enough to keep me semi warm. At least the water’s glassy and the sun is out. The glare coming from the sun and off the water is fucking intense though. It’s a squinty session.

     Soon Rick paddles out on his Neckbeard. We share a couple of waves, but he works his way back towards the top of the wave.

    

“That Guy”

     One of the guys next to me is on a longboard, but he’s sitting too far outside. He tries to turn-and-go whenever a peak rolls in, but he keeps scratching out. Another guy is sitting in a good spot, but he’s on a shortboard. Again, he’s another scratcher who can’t get waves.

     The Zippi catches everything I paddle for with ease. While the two guys remain stagnant, I run circles around them the whole time. Even being picky works for me, passing up what looks like a small wave and then seeing a bigger one out the back.

     Three footers start rolling in a little more consistently, a hair bigger than yesterday. I can’t say that I’m “ripping” because I have to ride this fish a certain way. When trying to get backhand snaps, I’m sluggish. Better to just choose a good line and walk the nose on the rights. But on my forehand, I’m able to get some wraps and rebounds. I think the last time Bri and I had taken a day trip here, the waves were a bit juicier, and I was able to practice some layback snaps. Not today.

     I catch waves all the way into ankle deep water. I lose balance after a wave and accidentally shoot my board into the air. Everything still seems cool, but I notice some sea grass that’s stuck to the nose of my board. I pull it out and realize that the grass was stuck in a nasty crack on the rail. Fuck . . . I had fucked up the board on that wipeout.

     Now I have every reason to get out. I’m usually anal about dings. Gotta get the board out of the water to keep the foam from getting soaked. I think about tomorrow. There’s still all day Sunday to surf, and I won’t have my primary weapon that’s made this trip so fun.

     I’m done after an hour and a half with the surf still pumping. I’m that guy who fucked up his board and has to get out early.

     Back at camp, I take a hot shower and start to cook dinner. Juan shows us some pics that he had taken of the beach.

Juan didn't take this pic, but whoever did is known to be good at cooking tuna.

     After dinner, I’m so drained that I can barely keep my eyes open. There’s so much wood left to burn. Only Daniel, Juan, and I are sitting around the fire. I tap out, say goodnight, and crawl into my fart sack next to Bri.

      

Juan did take this one

Some of Rick's friends came down to visit from the South Bay.

RICK’S BIRTHDAY WEEKEND PT.III, SAT 08NOV2014

We were up pretty early. 

Loc: DMJ

Crew: everyone

Time: 0700-0900

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

     We’ve all been obsessed about one particular surf spot, a spot where your friends will have a hard time pulling you away from, despite the forecasts and better rational judgments, no matter how obvious. For Rick, his special place is DMJ. Aside from 45^th Street, he’d surf DMJ every day if he could. So on this weekend, even with small surf in the forecast, DMJ is the call on day number two.

     Once again, we’re not expecting much. The swell and the tide are against us. When we make that ill fated turn towards the beach, we can already see that the surf looks like Lake Placid.

     All we need is a little bit of size and shape to have to have some fun this morning.

     DMJ is so exposed. Behind us, the backdrop is open land with mountains in the distance. Cool offshore wind hits our backs. The sun’s out, but it only provides a hint of warmth. There’s a peak wide north of the jetty. There’s a left breaking on the jetty itself, where two guys secure it. The tide’s coming up, so we’re going to have to hit it fast.

Photo by Juan A. 

     I’m first one out, leaving the Lost Mini Driver in the van and opting for the Lost RV again. Paddling out first doesn’t guarantee first blood. Bri gets a wave before I do. Peaks approach on the outside. They look like they’re about to break, but they keep on rolling rolling, and then they finally stand up towards the inside.

     Meanwhile, the top of the wave is working a little better. The two dawn patrollers, who had beat us out here, aren’t giving up any space. Rick finally paddles over to sit on top of them and begins his campaign.

     Birthday Boy’s outdoing us all. On a swampy day, he’s getting good lefts on his Neckbeard, frontside, throwing buckets out the back. Gary’s a close second, milking the lefts as well.

     It’s too much competition where they’re at, having to battle it out with the two guys and then Rick and Gar, so the rest of us sit wide.

     Nate goes switch foot on a left, J.O.B. style, and catches the wave in. Done.

     Daniel may not be heat winner, but he gets the most waves. He sits even further north, sitting deep and catching all the inside waves.

     I’m cold. My leaky Hurley 3/2 is taking in a lot of water. For some reason, the seals start to wear out so quickly. I follow Daniel’s lead and start sitting more inside. I manage to paddle into little lefts, trying to do my best to get some turns. I do . . . meh. I’m not doing much damage today, but I build up my wave count and at least catch something.

     Juan’s on shore, snapping away on his camera.

     Afterwards, we all go to Roberto’s Taco Shop for breakfast. I had vowed to never eat here again. Last time, their chicken burrito gave Rick diarrhea. I had ordered the chorizo burrito, and it tasted like shit.

     Bri and I go for the machaca burrito. It’s not bad. Half way through, and nearly a cup of juice starts spilling out the bottom through the tortilla. Fuck. I should have learned my lesson the first time.

     From there, we visit Gary’s parents in Oceanside and pick up two nights worth of firewood from their backyard.

     Back at the campsite, I’m drained. The drive did it to me, and I was just a passenger. Rick’s reserved the campsite for another night in case Bri and I decide to stay longer. I don’t think I’ll be able to make it. 

RICK’S BIRTHDAY WEEKEND PT.II (double), FRI 07NOV2014

Dirt Dan, Nasty Nate, Juan, Bri, and I, standing by for the evening call.

Loc: Churches

Crew: Bri, Rick

Time: 1545-1715

Conditions: 1-3 FT, glassy, sunny, cool, consistent.

“Zippi Time”

     When Bri arrives after work, she brings the rest of our camping gear. Most importantly, she's brought the Zippifish, which I’ll need for the small surf forecast.

     Having missed the first session, Bri paddles out right away while the rest of us head to the store for supplies. Dinner’s gonna be gourmet chili dogs by Chef Gary. I pick up Negro Modelos and tomorrow’s lunch, Spam Loco Mocos.

     I’m itching to paddle out and join Bri for the evening sesh. The tide’s pushed so far out that all the cobblestones are exposed. Conditions are still glassy, and the peaks are coming in small but consistent.

     Rick and I get our gear ready, but I head out ahead of them. Juan opts out of the second session but preps his camera and tripod.

     Walking towards North Churches, I spot Daniel doing some tide-pool recon. He hollers out at me, “You should wear shoes!” I know what he’s talking about. I’ve received my share of cobblestone cuts in the past. No matter how much you think you’ve mastered walking over the rocks here, there’s always the possibility of taking that one misstep and then SLICE. You’re out for about a week.

     Bri’s sitting wide north of three people. A shortboarder paddles out just ahead of me. Even though the water’s cold, I still opt for shorts and a wetsuit jacket. Better to keep my wetsuit dry for tomorrow morning.

     As fun as the RV was for the first session, nothing I ride catches waves easier than the Zippi. It’s just so thick all the way up to the nose. The nose just slides down and gets into waves no problem. Peaks are coming in small, but with the low tide, they are so easy to paddle into. It’s like a repeat of the first session, but instead of trying to get turns, I focus more on distance. The waves are lining up much longer from the tide, and the shape is even peakier.

Photo by Juan A. Camera zoomed with San Onofre in the distance. 

     Juan’s on the cobble stones at the edge of the water, snapping pics. We all score with the sunset in the background. Bri leaves first since she’s been out the longest. Rick follows suit, and then I walk back with Juan.

Juan snapped this iPhone pic as I was getting out, looking back, stoked on small surf.

     Back at the campsite, Gary’s got the chili dogs going, and there’s something about camping that just makes everything taste delicious. We could’ve eaten Cup Noodles for dinner, and I would’ve been happy.

     Now we’re sitting around the campfire with a full moon above us. It’s so bright that we can still see the surf in front of our camp site.

     The call is DMJs tomorrow. Even though I know I should get to bed early, it’s hard to fathom it. Completely beached with a beer in my hand, hot flames warming my face, I look at my watch. It’s barely six thirty. 

RICK’S BIRTHDAY WEEKEND PT.I, FRI 07NOV2014

Here's Rick my surf mentor and former platoon sergeant. When I'm in my 50s, I'll be lucky if I'm ripping like this guy.

Loc: Churches

Crew: Rick, Juan, Gary, Nate, Daniel

Time: 1100-1230

Conditions: 1-3 FT, glassy, sunny, cool, soft.

     Rick’s secured a campsite for the whole weekend. Unfortunately, the surf forecast is dismal, probably the main reason why some of his main homies have backed out of this trip. But Rick’s like a dad to me, and I don’t give a shit if it’s only half a foot out there. I’m going.

     It’s an early start. I get up at 0420, Rick picks me up at 0500, and then we rendezvous at Gary’s house in Torrance. From there, everyone else shows up. I’ve surfed with Nate in the past at DMJs, but this is the first time I’ve met Daniel. They’re both Russ’s childhood friends, and Gary’s coached them when they did hockey tournaments as teens.

     After battling traffic, we arrive at Churches in good time. With a six-and-a-half foot high tide, the surf is swamped out. The conditions are excellent. The sun’s shining brightly over two longboarders sitting in the lineup not catching shit. A fisherman on a longboard paddles out. There’s a crate on his deck, fishing pole, too. Yet, there is an occasional one footer that breaks. The surf wants to do it. A good sign with a tide this high.

     Then it’s breakfast at Pipes Café in San Clemente. It’s practically empty. Their $6.95 French toast special is a small unfulfilling meal, but thankfully the rest of the guys don’t know how to eat, so I polish off a couple their leftovers.

     By 1100, the tide is beginning to go out. Small-wave peaks are rolling in. There’s no complaining from any of us. No moans or groans about the surf. We all knew the forecast before coming out here, so there’s no bitching aloud.

     Gary lets me sample his 5’9 Lost RV. The thing is over 21 inches wide, so it should do great in these conditions.

     Nate and Daniel head to Lowers but stop short and paddle out with the rest of us when we set ourselves up at North Churches.

     The longboarder and SUP guy at the spot can’t be happy with our invasion. I’m trunking it with a rashguard, and fuckin’ A, the water’s cold. What happened to hot November? To compensate for the temp, I paddle with a purpose for every wave and move back and forth through the lineup.

     Rick gets a lot of waves on his green longboard. It’s a 9’6 singlefin. Gary’s on his Pill. One of the other guys is on the Lost Lazy Boy.

     The last time I had sampled the RV was at Jalama in big rippable conditions. Basically, I was using it in the wrong conditions. Now in legit small surf, I’m testing it out with my SA2 quad setup.

     Even though the surf is small, it’s still fun out here. Trestles, Churches, San Onofre just have good shape, and you don’t always need a longboard. Right now, the RV is working, and I’m catching waves pretty easily. Of course, not as easy as the Zippi, but I’m getting quality rides on this thing.

     I start off with some noserides. Some occasional lefts sprout up at three feet. The smooth shoulders line up perfectly as I pop up, get in my first two pumps, and wrap the RV back and rebound down the line again. As much as I love rippable surf, I know how to have fun in these conditions, too.

     It’s a short first session, more like a go out just to make the camping trip official. We head back, snack, and wait for the evening window to surf again.  

All set up for a dirty-old-men weekend. That's Juan, looking depraved and hunchbacked. 

A JACKASS IN JAVA: DAY EIGHT (25MAY2013)

     Without consistent and reliable internet, Al and I are at the mercy of gaining our intel through other people, whether it be the tide or the swell. There’s this guy who lives upstairs who I kind of look like. He is supposed to be the guy to tell us these things, but now Al and I have to fend for ourselves.

     Grant and Reese have become our tour guides now, and even though their humor may be different and our personalities might clash a little bit, they are good guys and have been more than willing to take Al and me to check out different surf spots as well as places to eat.

     So after the failed trip to The Machine the other day, the whole group has decided to stay local once more. It’s something about the wind and the swell. It is forecasted to be ten feet today. I’ve heard that The Machine is too heavy in swell that size.

     I check both the harbor and Choco Point. As usual, they are not working that well in the morning. Choco Point for sure is a guaranteed evening spot, and like yesterday, there’s not much else to do but go back to the room and write. Al goes to Compound One to avoid the boredom of watching me type away on my laptop. I polish off as many blogs as possible. When he comes back around 1100, he tells me that Grant’s about to paddle out at Chocos. “How’s it look?” I ask.

     “It’s all right. There’s some size, and the shape is okay.”

     I close my laptop and start to get ready. Meanwhile, “the guy upstairs who I kind of look like” is walking by outside our window. Al goes outside to catch him. Shortly after, Al comes back into the room and says, “I just asked your brother what’s going on with the ‘cold shoulder’ he’s been giving me. I apologized for dropping in on him and his friend and asked if he’d accept my apology. He walked away and said, ‘I’m not in the mood right now.’”

     I’m baffled. What can I say?

     “That’s fucked up,” says Al. “I think your brother treating me this way is more fucked up than me dropping in on him and his friend.”

    

First Session:

     The tide’s still a little high. Grant is out there, kind of where the right is, but the waves are a bit racy. At this hour with the sun so high, the water looks like pure mud, and it’s at a simmering temperature when we enter it. No one else is out surfing it, let alone looking at it. Even though the wind is still onshore, the waves are about three-to-four feet high. Al and I paddle out right in front. The inside is a little consistent, which requires some duckdiving. By the time we’ve reached Grant, we’ve drifted a bit down the beach away from the point.

     Grant looks at me and says, “It’s not so bad now is it? The wind’s not so bad, and there’s a little bit of size.”

     I paddle into a wave, but it closes out. I paddle a little further out, and the rest of the waves are too mooshy. Outside, waves are starting to break at the top of the wave. I paddle as hard as I can, and reaching the point is becoming quite the workout. Al’s way down the beach. Grant caught a wave, so he has even further to paddle. I sit for a moment, and I’m still not out far enough. The rest of the session is spent paddling and duckdiving. “The guy who lives upstairs who I kind of look like” had told me that the river mouth is a long paddle out. I’m not even at the top of the wave yet, but I turn and go on a wave. I pump down the line, but I can’t beat the section in front of me. Now I’m in the impact zone all the way on the inside. The waves pick up in size to four-to-five feet. Every time I duckdive, there’s a similar wave coming towards me. I gain a little ground, seeing the wave break before it turns to whitewash. I can’t see beyond the rows of foam. I turn around and realize that I’m pretty close to the shallows. Now it’s an issue of pride. I keep on paddling before sitting, turning around, and riding in.

     Reese and Ana are parked next to my moped. I walk towards them, feeling like a buffoon for not being able to make it out.    

     “I was over here laughing at you,” says Reese in his Australian accent. “I knew you weren’t goin’ anywhere.”

     I really don’t like people talking to me like this, especially after I’ve paddled my brains out, but he’s right. It’s his sense of humor, the brash personality that he is; he’s just being himself. “Yeah,” I say. “It became more of a pride thing.”

     “Yeah, stubborn just like me I reckon.”

     We look out. Al’s now at the top of the wave. Grant’s on the inside where I was, but he rides the current in the shallows all the way back to the point. Al catches a wave in, and we leave Reese and Ana and have a look at the harbor. When we get there, we find that it’s unsurfable.

     Back at the compound, Al and I shower all the shit water off of us. Reese and Ana show up about thirty minutes later and ask if we want to go and grab lunch. Before heading back out, we catch Reese coming in from his session.

     “It got quite good after you two left,” he says. 

Grant and Reese

     We go to compound one and wait for him to change, head to the Indomaret for some soft drinks, and then to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant that Reese is curious about, where they sell nasi pecel (rice with vegetables). The restaurant’s dark on the inside, but the portions are good. It takes forever to pay for our bill, and we’re surprised to see that we each only owe 5000 IR, about fifty-two cents.

Ana in the background, fumbling with her bike.

XL Chocolate:

     By the time we’re done eating and driving around, we stop by Choco Point again before heading to the compound, and the surf is lining up much better. Even some local grommets are on it. Or . . . it’s kind of hard to call them grommets because the kids who are at high school age have tatted backs and smoke, but of course who doesn’t smoke in high school? Without much delay, even with our stomaches still full, we head back to our respective compounds and change into boardshorts. Manny Amador had hooked me up with some Hurley Phantom Xs that are a little above the knee. They have the trademark, dual band over the left thigh. Today I whip out the red and black patterned pair with the black bands, no rashguard. 

     All we recognize is the shape when we get there. The tide is a little low know, and the tide push is about to start. It’s about 1440 hrs. Out the back, long lefts are starting to form. It’s definitely rideable and it looks like maybe four-to-five feet. 

     Instead of paddling straight out, we try to do what the locals do: walk along the cliffline where the sand is still shallow, all the way up to the point, and walk out as close to the lineup as possible.

     Al and I work our way through the chocolate stew. Once in deeper water, he paddles towards the main pack, who are sitting a little away from the point because the tide is still low. It doesn’t seem like the surf is too challenging, so I sit on the point.

     It’s hard to gauge the size here, or should I say that it’s hard to rate the size because the wave is very slopey, even sloppier than Trestles, but it breaks longer than Trestles. To compare this break, I would say it’s a cross between PV and Churches, but a Churches' left.

     A four-footer comes my way. Today I’m sampling the Tokoro from the guy upstairs, which is smaller than the Lost Board that I brought with me. It’s a little harder to paddle into the wave with it, but I catch it. A long line forms in front of me, but it’s not a closeout. There’s a chick sitting on the inside, so naturally, I put a little mustard on my style and try to look as relaxed and fluid as possible, but why not? I feel good barebacking it for a change. Being a Cali surfer, this is something that we barely get to do. And I’m in a cool pair of boardshorts. Yes, I am guilty of “accessorizing” when it comes to boardshorts. But think about it, if you live somewhere where you rarely get to trunk it, how many boardshorts do you have just collecting dust, or that you can only wear around the house or on the way to check out the surf? The last time I used these shorts in the water was almost a year ago. So, here I am, pumping, fluid, relaxed. I have to race the wave a little bit because even though there’s a workable face, I don’t want to fall behind the section. Once I feel confident that I’m in good position, I do a slow and drawn out top turn, bringing me back at mid face, and then do it again. I get about three turns before the wave is running towards the inside, where the current makes the wave choppy. I kick out clean and stoked. It’s the best wave I’ve caught here so far.

And Then . . .

     What the fuck. I’m on the inside now, and out the back is pure roaring white wash. I paddle and duckdive wave after wave. It’s a repeat from this afternoon. I’m thinking, fuck . . . this place is turning to shit. Instead of wasting my energy, I walk out of the water and head back the same way that I came in, but on the way there I witness something different. With the tide push the waves are increasing in size. It’s hard to tell in the distance, but they are an easy six feet. The lineup has shifted. Everyone has moved closer to the point, but they are so far away that their heads look like little, black blobs paddling over the waves. Some of the sets are so big that everyone is behind the section, and the shoulders are so far away from the point that no one is sitting there.

     The walk takes a long time, and when I paddle out to deeper water, I am already in the lineup. There is this tiny chick, Indo grommet who’s five shades darker than me. I saw her paddle out at the harbor. I’m not sure who she’s sponsored by, but she had a guy filming her. She’s out here with her brother. I paddle away from the point because I don’t want to compete, so I sit by her. There are a lot of people out, but by Cali standards the crowd isn’t so bad. There are maybe twenty heads, but only half of us can surf while the other half are on fun boards and get pummeled every time they turtle dive. Unfortunately, Ana is one of them.

     It’s hard to describe how far the paddle out is. First of all, right now, I’m sitting in between the middle of the wave and the top of the wave, but still, the outside sets are further out from the point. Also, the shore is already faarrrrr away. One of those gnarly sets break wide, a set that no one at the point can get. Next to the ripper chick, we paddle out to beat it. It’s much bigger than I thought it was. Now in front of me is a massive, chocolate wall. I’m hoping that it holds shape before it feathers out. It does, and I only have to punch through the top of it before it breaks. There is a lot of water moving around. The ripper chick is still next to me, and I’m surprised. I thought she would have gone, but her eyes are wide. She’s scared. Lightning behind us flashes through the sky. The darker clouds move in closer, and then, it’s pouring rain. The drops hitting the water create a xylophone the size of a small country. The water’s surface calms even more because of it. Yet, I am still warm.

     I start to paddle towards the top of the wave, but I misguide myself. Foolishly, I’ve paddled at an angle directly to the crowd, but the outside sets have redefined my spot as the impact zone. Al is on the wave that I’m duckdiving, and the forecast is correct. By Cali standards it’s an easy ten feet, a mooshy ten feet I guess you can say. Al’s pumping and pumping, too far forward on his board, and he’s not using the face to go top to bottom. I’m caught for a little while duckdiving, getting front row seats of the action. This smaller Tokoro that I’m on is a mistake. With the distance to paddle and all the water moving, this board is like a leaf in a river; I need more volume.

     Even an average guy who is staying at Compound One, a Swede, is taking off on the bombs. This is the thing. A lot of people are backing out of these waves, but it’s because they don’t realize how non consequential they are. Once you pop up, there is so much face to work with, and the wave peels so slow, that all you really have to do is watch the sections and make sure you don’t fall. The Swede who I’m talking about is a regular footer. He looks awkward, but he’s on a bomb and practicing his cutbacks. Standing a little stiff, he is working the face, slowly drawing a highline, turning, and then cruising back into the pocket for more.

     Now on the outside, there is Reese, Grant, and some Japanese surfers. I wait patiently for the waves that swing a little wide. The second I see that the shoulder is away from the point, I dart for it. You see, the guys at the point are too deep. Even if they paddle straight out to meet the wave, it’s gonna feather out and run away on them. I said ten feet earlier, and this is accurate.

     The drop . . . it’s been so long since I’ve taken off on waves this big, but playful big. I have so much speed as I’m going down the face. The wave has a bowl effect, where I can tell that the wave is standing up from the curvature of the face. Even though the wave is mooshy, the racy sections have to be pumped through. Surfing a ten-foot face is different than surfing a three-foot face. What line do I draw? I’m pumping, damn near squat pumping to full and compressed motions. Once the section slows and peels I do a long, drawn out cutback. It’s to the point that I’m redirecting myself and looking at the wave behind me. I turn back to draw my line. This is where the section is going soft. I crouch down in the pocket, wait for the wave to stand up again, and then it’s pump city once more.

     Huge cutbacks, where I’m frozen in my pose, feet on my outside rails, arms extended in a power stance, but so graceful that I feel like I’m flying. Hair wet with wind in my face, it’s a game of cat and mouse: too high of a line will make you lose the wave; drifting too far from the pocket will put you where the wave cannot keep you. But still, I’m turning off the top, hoping my carves are throwing something out the back. My thighs are burning. Lefts, I love lefts. Now there’s a section in front of me that I know I cannot make. A floater seems too dangerous. I should kick out, but I’m too greedy. I gamble on the section but am forced to straighten out. I look behind me. Like a monster whose grasp I have barely evaded, the whole wave crashes down, leaving an explosion triple my height. I feel like claiming it, like raising both arms in the sky, but all I can do is smile. Yes, I’m smiling, until I’m back on my board looking at the point. I’m so far away that I can’t even see the surfers. It is such . . . a long . . . paddle . . . back.

     I thought that I had some long paddle outs in Bali. Nusa Dua was long. Uluwatu took some work, getting out of that cave. Back home, the paddle from Churches to Lowers can be a bitch sometimes, but this. If you wipe out on a good wave or catch a small insider, you will be in the impact zone for the larger sets. Since I caught a set wave as far is at can go, I have a long but safe route back to the lineup. There is no current. Ten minutes later, I feel like something must be holding me back, the point seems like it’s in reach, but the surfers are just beginning to be little dots. I think in my head how long this paddle is. I’ve heard stories of mile long waves in Costa Rica. I’ve never been able to fathom such a thing until now. Yes, it is possible, and some waves are fucking long. Closer to the point, my buddies are on their waves. We barely see each other in the lineup because of the length of the rides and the distance to paddle. Reese is a fellow goofy footer. He takes off so deep. Some guys are so deep on the bombs that you don’t expect them to make it, but they pump their asses off and reach the face. Imagine, a guy who’s half a football field away, and you have to pull out because you know he’ll make it.

     In the lineup, Al and I meet for the first time. It took about twenty minutes to reach the point again.

     “Dude,” he says, “I got a big one.”

     “I saw you,” I say. I give him some constructive feedback, not to be a dick, but Al has told me before that he sucks on lefts. “Top to bottom,” I say. “Use the height of the wave to your advantage. Turn off the top, rebound off the bottom.”

     Need I tell you more about my rides? I don’t think so. This place is holding ten-foot plus surf, and it is playful. It’s not standing up as much as Lowers does, but it doesn’t matter. The canvas is set for one who wants to experiment or practice his/her turns or cutbacks, and it’s at a size that makes you respect the wave.

     Doc is out here with his longboard. He goes the deepest and makes all of the sections. Ideally, this wave could also be a longboarder’s dream. All a longboarder would have to do is not be intimidated by the size and stand up quick enough, and she could get a ride at least a quarter-mile long, just standing or hot dogging.

     This trip is finally living up to its expectations. On the way back to the lineup, I see Al, heading straight towards me. I have time to watch and cheer him on before I go over the shoulder. This is what a surf trip is about, being stoked yourself, being stoked for your friends, and seeing your friends on the waves being stoked themselves. Al’s not going straight, this time he’s turning off the top, progressing.

     Can I explain the feeling of popping up and dropping in steep, pumping and turning, doing S-turns on a huge face? For the first time in my life, I’m doing cutbacks on this liquid playground. Even on the mooshiest sections, I know how to play this wave. I crouch low in the flat pocking down at the base until the pocket rises and the section in front of me is screaming, “Now hurry, go!”

     I’ve never top turned into a cut back before, where I’m whipping myself around at the base of the wave, stalking, waiting for the section to build, to pump again with arms wild, and then turning, holding that arcing line in a heavy metal, power stance. This is my world where I’m the best and freest that I can be. This is the IDEAL.

     Al and I are the last ones to leave. Giddy again, we pound fists on the sand. The sun’s long gone. We buzz through the muddy path back to our compound while bugs buzz through the air hitting our faces. Al speeds up next to me in the darkness and says, “Dude.”

     I reply, “Dude.”

     “Dude.”

     “Duuuude!”

     Bromances are pretty gay, but this one is well justified. After showering up and cleaning our ears with Q-tips, we go over the play by play of our rides, anxious for our turns to speak.

     “That was like Churches on steroids,” says Al.

     There’s a knock on the door. It’s dinner time. Ahhhh yes, priceless waves and filling your belly for a little over a dollar. What a life to live.