A SMALL VICTORY, TUE 7.12.2011 MOR

Time: 0700-0900, 2 hrs.

Conditions: Gloomy again, clean, 2-3 feet.

     The back of my neck is all rashed up from my wetsuit. I can't understand it; it's never happened before. The initial plan is to go to HB, but I have to go to the VA to see the doctor, so I have to surf local. I check Porto and 26^th, but Porto looks much better. The surf is a hair smaller than yesterday, but there's no wind, the waves seem clean, and it looks pretty fun out there.

     I wish I could remember all of the rides that I got. I can't because there is one wave that overshadows the rest of them. Practicing my barrel riding, I've been working on staying close to the face until the wave closes out. Even though Porto is small, the waves are standing up. They aren't slopey, the faces are vertical, and the shoulders taper sharply after the curl. On one left, I crouch close to the wall, but there is nothing going over me; I'm too far on the shoulder. On the next wave, the section in front of me goes vertical, but it's longer. Expecting a close out, I tuck in going front side and extend my right arm to make myself flatter against the face. Instead of the usual crash and darkness that follows, I watch the wave throw-out over my head for a solid two seconds. I don't fall. When the wave closes, I'm still standing after penetrating out the back. Yes, it was fast, just mere seconds, but it was a new sensation that I've never felt before. Who cares that it was barely a three foot wave. Stoked, I look around to see if I got any validation. Of course, there are no witnesses. It's something that only my perspective can appreciate.

     It doesn't count as a barrel, but it feels like I've unlocked something here. Before Bali I wouldn't have even imagined that Porto would have this kind of potential, especially in small surf, but now I know it's there.

     I spend the rest of the session trying to reduplicate that wave, but it doesn't happen; I can't force it. I hope this is just a small taste of what's to come.

NOT SUMMER, MON 7.11.2011 EVE

Crew: Rick A.

Time: 1900-2000, 1 hr.

Conditions: Sunny, cold, windy, choppy, and crowded.

    I will always regard Rick as my first surf mentor. Sure, he's a bit longwinded at times, but there's a lot about surfing that the Venice alumni knows, so I listen and say “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” if it's the hundredth time that I've heard it. I do this with the utmost respect of course.

    Rick tex'd me to ask if I've been in the water. I told him about how China Airline's dinged the rail on my JS, so he said to head over for the repair. I show up with some offerings: a sushi platter from Trader Joe's that tastes like the $5.99 that it cost. Rick's doing a repair on his favorite fish, so he already has the materials ready to go. He makes me put on some gloves to help him out. He's giving me a seminar on what his mixture consists of, what to use, where to get them, and so forth. I try to absorb all of this, but . . . I don't remember any of it for the life of me.

     He says he wants to rush it for an evening sesh. The wind's been up all afternoon, but how can I tell the guy no? He's fixing my board, I haven't seen him since I left, and sometimes the paddle out is all about spending time with friends more so than the surf.

     

    
    I expect nothing, and El Porto has nothing. My God, it's so choppy. Everyone's sitting so close to the shore, as that's where the waves are breaking. There are little, random lumps that jack up for a short ride. We only have an hour, so I trunk it, thinking that I can endure an hour of cold. It only takes fifteen minutes before my teeth start chattering. Summer my ass. The DMS feels too tiny for this one to two foot surf. I catch a left and go as far as I can. Rick points out that I'm too far ahead of the wave, the same thing that Randy told me after a video of myself at Churches. Front side turns, I'm aware of my weaknesses more than ever now.

     There are guys finding some gold nuggets in the midst of it all, still getting some nice looking waves despite the evening chop. None of my rides are significant. My fever bothers me, I'm cold, and I feel like shit. The setting sun turns the sky orange, the dark blue water keeps every surfer bobbing in place, the waves seem to be rolling through in fast forward, and my eyes squint from the pain; I'm sick.

     I catch a close out as the meter maid shuts the 45^th St. entrance. I'm forced to park by the bathrooms, as the old man starts writing up tickets for the cars parked next to me. I feel like shit. I need rest.

PORTO REVISITED, MON 7.11.2011 MOR

A conversation weeks ago at Dunkin' Donuts, Bali:

I asked, “So when you came back, did you feel like your surfing improved?”

“No,” said Randy. “I had to get used to wearing a wetsuit again and riding small waves. . . . I sucked.”

Crew: Jon M.

Time: 0645-0800, 1 hr. & 15 min.

Conditions: Gloomy, slight north current, 3 ft., random peaks.

Since landing in LAX on Thursday, I had to get ready for work on the weekend. Facing brutal jetlag and a cold upon landing, I muster up the energy to surf as soon as possible. I told myself in Bali that I'd “kill the ego,” but I am human. I've waited for this moment, the moment I'd paddle out at my local break to see and feel my improvement first hand. At the same time, I don't want to be an asshole or get too cocky. I know I didn't “conquer” Bali. In fact, I know that it's just the first of many trips in the making. Nonetheless, aren't we all human? Can I blame myself for wanting to see how I'd do at Porto after my month long experience?

A mantra of old, and I'm now doing it again. I pull up to the Porto lot with my friend Jon trailing behind me. He's from my original surf group, back when I was on the gayest, epoxy 7'10 NSP with bright red flames on it. I let him sample my 6'6 Merrick MB, and I have no choice but to use my backup 6'1 DMS because China Air dinged my JS. It's weird looking out at the ocean and little peaks here and there. It's crowded, and it's not the same kind of crowded that I dealt with in Bali. In Bali everyone masses at the peaks. Here, it's just one continuous line as far as the eye can see, with thicker concentrations in front of 45^th, the shitters, and the sandwich shack.

We walk to the tanks (or now it's just one tank) like the good old days and time our paddle out. Jon tells me that regardless of his recent weight gain that he's one of the standout students at his martial arts school. Unintentionally, I cut him off as the last wave of the set dissipates. I grab my board, run out, and say, “I'll see you out there!” Porto's gray waters welcome me. My timing is off for the paddle out, but I still get to the line up with ease. I turn around, and I have no idea what the fuck happened to Jon.

I look back to check my position. Right here, in front of the small, white tank, this is where I'm holding. My first couples waves have no shape, but at least the little three footers are standing up a little for a fast ride. The waves are closing, but I still tuck in and practice staying close to the face. I get pinched, but why not get pinched? There's no reef, nothing pokey below, it's not five feet Randy/Bali scale, and the paddle to the lineup is ridiculously short from the shore; from now on there is no reason not to go for it. When I recheck my position, I see that I've drifted north. I look for Jon; there's still no sign of him. Where the fuck is this guy?

My wetsuit is loud. A gift from Manny A., a free “hand-me-down.” It's a brand new Hurley wetsuit, dark blue, it has light blue lines on it, there is white trim on the back, and it's short sleeved. It attracts attention that I don't want, but ninety-nine percent of surfers are unsponsored, so what right do I have to complain about a free wetsuit. Thanks, Manny, I'm grateful.

Carrying the same attitude from Bali, I say hi to the locals that I paddle past. There's the heavy set guy with a beard on his longboard. “Good morning,” I say.

“Good morning!”

There's the local guy on his short board, Caucasian dude. “Mornin',” I say.

“How are you?”

“Good, good.”

I look north and see Jon sitting on his ass on the sand. He's by the smoke stacks. Fuckin' A. He walks in front of me and starts pointing towards his van. I wave at him, motioning my arm as if to tell him, “Get your fucking ass back in the water!” He sits and watches, and I go for more waves.

My DMS feels so tiny compared to the JS, but to my surprise I'm actually catching waves. I should be scratching out, but I'm popping up before the lip curls. No, no fancy turns this morning, but it's still an awesome feeling being back in the water. I'm paddling hard, kicking my feet, no one's getting in my way, and everyone seems pretty mellow. On a left the section tries to close out on me, but I pump ahead to keep momentum, walk the nose, and take it to the inside. My rights are rusty, as I lose speed on my top turn. In Bali I barely caught any rights.

I look back to see Jon giving me his final wave as he walks back to his van. After my next ride I am faced with an oncoming set as I paddle back out. Testing my duckdive, I see if I can make it under the waves effortlessly. I fail. My board's still snatched away on a couple waves. It's a reminder that I need to work on it. A guy paddles next to me. He's short, stocky, dark like me; has short, even length, black hair with a little salt and pepper look to it. He looks Polynesian, but I can't tell for sure.

I say, ”Good morning.”

“Weren't you over there?” He's pointing towards 45^th. 

 

“Yeah, I was, but I got washed around a little, so now I'm over here.”

“Oh . . . because I was watching you.”

I can't read this guy's mind, but the whole energy of the conversation feels positive. I guess I was doing something right for someone to be watching. Two of the local rippers--this young guy with long, curly hair, and this other guy with short hair wearing a grey wetsuit with what looks like a Swiss emblem on it--show up on the scene. I become self conscious of my loud attire then feel the pressure to do good. It throws me off a little. I tell myself to be humble and that just because I went to Bali doesn't mean that I'm the John Holmes of El Porto now. It's almost eight, it's time to pay for parking, so I cut my session short to start the day's errands.

I'm ashamed to say that I expected to hit the water and just shred. Again, I'm not perfect. But it was still a good welcome home session for me. I'm thinking positive and looking forward to my progression back home.