Crew: Francis
Time: 0915-1215, 3 hrs.
Conditions: Overcast, dead air, clean, scattered peaks, 3 ft.
Sense of Loss:
It's been weird being back home, especially with the lack of swell. I drove to El Porto on Tuesday morning to have a look. It was so small, dismal, and crumbly. Still, so many people were charging the sand, hitting the water running, and skimming the oncoming waves on their longboards. I know I probably sound like an asshole. This is L.A., and it's not always like this. There will be days with waves, but I have to be honest with the way that I felt. I thought about the days in Bali. Sure, not every day in Bali is thumping with heart dropping, epic waves, but even on the smallest days, there are spots on the island with at least three feet of surf. And three feet Bali scale is a big “three feet.” I thought about the anxiety I felt before paddling out on a big day, anticipating the ass kicking. Who'd have thought that I'd miss getting my ass kicked?Enough. I went home and looked at surfline's forecast for any fair rating. It looked like I'd be taking a drive to get some good surf.
Escape from L.A.:
I met Francis through Klaude. He's a homegrown Oahu boy, and he's one of the most mellow, local guys that I've ever met. He's a true ambassador of Hawaii and is a living example of “Aloha.” He called me on Tuesday and said that he wanted to surf HB. I had to break the news that HB's forecast was only 1-3 feet for Wednesday, and that staying local for a chance at poor-fair 2-3 foot surf would be a better call. He was pretty adamant at scoring some kind of surf, as he kept blowing up my phone throughout the day. I told him that South San Diego had a good rating for Wednesday, and that's when he said, “Lets go to Blacks, I'll drive.” Well . . . how could I turn that down? It's a hell of a drive, and his willingness to commit himself to day long adventure caught me by surprise. That's Francis, I thought. Awesome. Let's get the fuck out of L.A. and score some waves.
History:
The last time I surfed Blacks was over four years ago with my friend Jon M. He used to surf, and he's the one that took me there while he was going to SDSU. I was on my DMS shortboard but shouldn't have been. I was overwhelmed by the fast and hollow left-handers. Basically, I got my ass kicked. I wondered how I'd do now, years later.
First Times:
I wake up with the expectation of packing light: one board, one container of Lauren's homemade choco-chip cookies, one wetsuit, and one water bottle for rinsing. Francis pulls up in his Tacoma at 0600. We have a hell of a drive ahead of us. I take a look at the morning report for Blacks, and it reads: 2-3+, mainly waist high, some belly high, and clean. The conditions are listed as fair. I relay the info to Francis; we are stoked.
We pull off at a Chevron to prevent me from ruining my shorts and change routes to a scenic drive. We drive through Cardiff, Swamis, and Del Mar. I'm not familiar with these places at all, and it's my first time seeing the breaks and surrounding beach communities. Free street-side parking and Mexican food joints dot the journey. We drive along a cliff, look down, and see scattered peaks with empty line ups. It's a good sign, and we can only imagine what we might score up ahead.
Francis has been to Blacks to check the surf before but has never surfed it. I call Jon to ask for directions to the residential area we parked at last time, but he can't remember. We end up parking near UCSD in some dirt lot. It's so quiet; it's different. I'm so used to airplanes flying overhead, but there are barely any cars around, and the air is so stale from the lack of wind that time seems still. Best of all, parking is fucking free. Damn, it sucks how we're raped in the South Bay when it comes to parking. And here we are at Blacks, a premier SoCal spot, and parking doesn't cost one red cent. Unbelievable.
A local guy comes up from the stairs and changes next to us. We ask him how it was, and he says that there's barely anyone down there, and that it's pretty spread out. His energy is mellow, and it's a great way to start the session at this new spot. He tells us how to get down, where to sit, and wishes us well.
Did I say stairs? It's more like a cliff trail down, a steep one. It's narrow with some old shoddy stairs built into the dirt. On the way down we pass more local guys heading up. “Have fun!” They say. I expected a little localism here, but so far, we're happy with the positive energy.
It takes a long time to get down, but we finally do and see uncrowded, scattered peaks before us. We wonder where everyone is, but as we make our way further south, we see a small pack of surfers in the line up. We're surprised that no one's surfing the peaks closer to the stairs, so we decide to stay close to the crowd because . . . well, they surf here every day, so they must know something we don't. Right?
We drove a long way just for 2-3+ feet of surf, but it's better than what's in the South Bay, and the gamble pays off. Obviously, the conditions aren't remarkable, but some of the three foot waves are clean A-frame peaks. It's low tide, so some waves double or jumble up which hinders the conditions, but it's still the best surf that I've seen since I've been home. Francis chooses our peak, and we start making our way out. I notice a sting ray swimming out to sea in the shallows. Oops, not just one, there are two more. I look at Francis, and he sees a couple more by him. Fuck. “Drag your feet,” I tell him. I hear Rick's coaching in the back of my mind and recall the times he's told me to do the same, even at Porto. I step on something slimy. Yuck, I hate that feeling.
Once we're out there, I look behind me to mark our position. There's something that looks like a metal globe on top of the cliff, so I mark that. I'm still working out the cobwebs since being home, so I'm hoping to get some good waves. I can't remember everything wave for wave, just the ones that have some significance. I draw first blood on a left that closes out. Most of my rides to start off the day don't have many turns. I try to make it a point to practice on my frontside. Randy recently told me to stay in the critical part of the wave to help with my turns, so I give it a shot. Instead of pumping all the way to the weak part of the wave, I practice fading out and top turning with the curl. On one attempt I hit the lip, top turn, but my board doesn't turn with my body, so I ended up falling on my side. I'm not sure what happened there. Maybe I'm too far up on my board and need to be on the tail more?
Soon the rest of the morning crowd starts to show, and everyone shifts to the empty peaks that we saw earlier. Just our luck, we could've had those peaks to ourselves, and now everyone wants them. The current takes us just a little south in front of a structure that looks like a roman palace. It's square with tall pillars reminding me of Caesar's Palace in Vegas.
Francis does his thing, there's no need to be concerned about him. It's already a familiar sight. He paddles, pops up, disappears, and before I can breathe he hacks some water off the top. We both paddle around looking for the best spots that suit ourselves while randomly coming together depending on where our waves take us. A peak forms between us, and we both paddle for it. He gets there first, and I yell, “Go!” He's two strokes away from dropping in when I see that there's a Japanese chick behind him that just popped up. “Watch your left!” I yell again. It's too late. The wave jacks up, moves past me, and they both disappear. The chick's boyfriend is further north watching too. I hope to see someone kick out or penetrate out the back, but the wave finally explodes without a sign of either one of them. Once the foam settles, both of their boards are together, and both of their heads reemerge. I can't hear what they're saying, but Francis paddles back and checks his board. “You guys all right?” I ask.
“Yeah. Was she behind me?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh shit, I didn't see her.”
“Yeah, I know. I tried to warn you, but you were just going for it. Was she okay?”
“I asked her if she was hurt, and all she said was, 'blahhhh-nahhhhhhhuy.'”
He mimics the noises that she made, but I can't reproduce them verbally or even in text. No bodily or board damage in both cases, they survive.
My best left of the day is motivated by Fransauce's smooth cut backs. In Bali I practiced getting a lot of speed going left, especially at Balangan. On my next left I get two good pumps to gather momentum to set up for a top turn. I stomp on the tail, stretch out my arms, twist my torso down the wave, and puff my cheeks on a deep exhale. Surprisingly, my board follows, and I cutback cleanly into the pocket. Too bad the wave bogs out right after which ends the ride right after. Eh, it's not the cleanest cutback. I recognize that my frontside turns are still rough, but it's still a small breakthrough for me, and residue from the sensation remains for the rest of the day.
At the three hour mark we're getting tired. The crowd's thinned out, there are still waves, but it's taco time.
So it's that kind of beach:
On the way back to the stairs we see a guy in flesh colored shorts squatting down. When he stands up, we realize that those aren't shorts; they are bare ass cheeks. He's old, fat, wearing a fisherman hat, and everyone else around him is clothed. Francis and I get through our “what the fuck” stage just as the old man turns around. “Damn,” says Francis. “Schlong and all.”
The walk back up the stairs is brutal. It takes us double the time it took to get down. It's a true workout.
Nourishment:
We're so thirsty and hungry. I tell him that a giant smoothie from Jamba Juice would do us some Justice. “Let's find one,” he says. He gets on his GPS, and we're there in minutes. Each frozen sip reenergizes my body. We're the darkest guys around, salty as ever, in this high end mall. The lack of minorities makes me nervous, so we GPS the closest Mexican food place in town. Afterwards, I take a shit at Vons. Round one complete.
