STAYCATION SESSIONS—TRESTLES: THU 7.21.2011 EVE

Crew: Solo

Time: 1700-1900, 2 hrs.

Wave count: 9

Conditions: Gloomy skies returned, the sun never came back. Cold, very light on shore wind, solid 3 foot surf, but frickin' crowded!

Where Am I again?:

     I had a dream that I was underneath a car doing some kind of repair, but when I tried to get out from under the car, the light from the sun blinded me. I could hear kids in the neighborhood playing, but I didn't want to freak them out in my current state. I called for my sister Jenny who I thought was near by. I open my eyes and find myself staring at the “oh shit” handle above the passenger window. Where the fuck am I? The neighborhood kids I heard in my dream are just kids playing in the sand. It takes about ten seconds before I realize that I'm sleeping in the back of my car. Odd.

     I'm so very, very, very thirsty. That Butterfinger Sonic Blast was a bad idea. My mouth is parched with the faint taste of ice cream; I need water badly. I sit up in the back of my car still half asleep. It's overcast again, and cool wind blows in from the ocean. I watch this older guy with a peak all to himself. He's falling really awkward, and then I notice that he's riding without a leash. He's good though. Right after each pop up, he walks the length of the board to hang 5 off the nose. The immediate weight-shift brings power and speed, but he eats shit. His board shoots in the air and coasts to shore. He's coming closer doing the swim of shame.

I look at the waves, feel the wind in my hair, and look down at my ashy legs. I wonder if I've wasted my day. While I'm at it, my life for that matter. Hmmm, all thoughts of a drained surfer who wakes in the back of his vehicle/cabin. I start the car and head to the snack stand. Instead of a water I order a large mango shave ice.

     The old lady working the snack shack is a total bitch to the little kids. I hear her as I'm crunching away. “The waffle cone is one dollar, if you order the ice cream by itself, it's three dollars.” The kids are silent and fail to respond. She continues, “So if you buy the ice cream, it's three dollars, if you want it in the cone, it's four.”

     A kid says, “Can I have the waffle cone?”

     She replies, “So you just want the waffle cone with no ice cream in it?!”

     Jesus H, I think to myself. Why are there people like that who work in places like this. I was just like those little kids dealing with cranky old people when I was young. It makes no sense. Then a father brought his daughter over to buy her some ice cream. I'm trying to crunch away again, and then I hear him bitching about the price. “This costs four dollars,” he says.

     The girl tells the old lady, “I'll have the happy birthday ice cream.”

     “No, no happy birthday ice cream,” says the old lady. She goes over the flavors that she has.

     “Do you have birthday cake flavor?” the girl asks.

     Unbelievable. I drive back to my parking spot with my shave ice in hand. What the fuck is wrong with people nowadays? 

 

An Evening Battle:

     I feel like crap after Sonics. Klaude texts me and writes: Garbage in, garbage energy. I look at Churches and see that there's enough room for me to squeeze in, but I wonder how my spot at the cliff is doing. I don't paddle there; I walk. Damn, surf looks pretty dismal. There's more texture on the water, but it really just looks flatter than the morning. I get to the cliffs, and no one is out. But I have faith, and I sit right where I did in the morning. It takes about fifteen minutes before a wave arrives. It's a right, it lines up well, and it's good for two turns. After that, a couple more waves come that break too close to shore; I scratch out. At the twenty minute mark my faith is gone. I look at Lowers. It's working; it always works. Lowers is like a wave machine. It can be shitty everywhere, Lowers will always have fun, clean waves, and there will always be people on it. I can go back to Churches and catch one of those little shit peaks, or I can be a Spartan and “go for glory” by slithering my way into the Lowers line up. I can hang outside and get the scraps. I hate crowds, but sometimes you don't have a choice, especially if it's the only peak that's working. There are no other options.

     I squirm my way to the outside, and surprisingly, some of the plus size sets are double wide. Even though someone from the peak is on the wave, his section closes which leaves the second wave rideable. It's bigger than any of the waves that I had in the morning. I can't believe that I'm scoring. I drop in and set up, I want to crank out the gnarliest top turn that I possibly can. Why? Because I want to prove my fucking worth. Yes, that's right, motherfucker I belong here! It's too bad that my over aggressiveness led to my own folly. I cranked out the top turn but lost control reentering the wave. My nose pearled as I tried to transition back into the pocket, and I fell. As Chick Hearn would say, “I put too much mustard on the hot dog.” It's crowded, and I'm embarrassed, but I seem to be having luck on the outside. I'm like a scavenger, a surfing hyena, pouncing on waves that others will miss. Another wave is going double wide, I turn and go, but someone yells at me, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!” I miss the wave. I'm confused, no one's on my inside. It was my wave, right? It was some guy that looks like an AI wannabe. He's tatted up, a local. He paddles past me.

     With a hint of sarcasm I say, “Oh, I'm sorry, was I in your way?”

     “No, I just thought you didn't see me that's all.”

     I feel like I'm cursed when it comes to this, or am I the one that's wrong. I've always thought that, when paddling out, to paddle towards the white wash if someone's about to drop in on a wave. Isn't that good surf etiquette? It's happened in Bali and now here too.

     The scavenger technique stops working. No waves are coming double wide any more, so I have no choice but to be part of the crowd. I get into the mix and do a head count. There are twenty three surfers not including myself. Sure, Lowers is an A-frame peak, so eleven can go one way and eleven another. In a perfect world, everyone would share, but not here. Man . . . twenty three motherfuckers for one peak. Is that outrageous?

     Everyone sits in the same spot; they know what's up. A wave comes, and everyone scrambles while I'm still sitting outside of the pack. A random shift occurs in the the peak, for the next wave breaks slightly south by where I am. Awwwwesome! First of all, I don't want to surf in this crowd because these guys have probably been here all day. The last thing I want to do is be “the new face” right before the sun goes down. Second, there's no time for me to “ease my way in.” It's already late in the day, so I have to invade if I want to catch anything. Third, I'm not used to paddling to take away another guy's position. On this wave, there are three other guys going for it. I paddle as deep as I can to go right which forces the guy on my outside to back out. Meanwhile, I'm expecting the guy on my inside to go left, which he does, and we end up splitting the peak. It's my second chance at a Lowers wave. Two groms, a dude and a chick, are on the inside waiting to paddle if I fail. The waves at Lowers are so much better than Middles and Churches. It's so peaky, clean, bigger, and steeper on the drop. I slow my thoughts down on my bottom turn and calculate hitting the lip. When I do, I put everything into it that I possibly can. As I'm unwinding I'm pushing as much force as I can into the tail with my rear heel. The groms back off, and I get one more cranking turn before it's over. The feeling is sensational. But in the end, what am I really celebrating about, that I showed some groms who's boss? Am I celebrating because I battled it out with three guys on a wave that shifted off of the main peak? Or is it because of my awesome backhand snaps that everyone was “oohing” and “aahing?” Fuck . . . those groms have been scrapping for waves with the heavy hitters right in the lion's den probably all day, those dudes that I paddled against were probably scavengers just like me, and I'm sure that my performance on that wave felt better than it looked.

     Coming back to reality, I feel unsatisfied. I want one of the main waves. I've avoided crowds because I felt I wasn't good enough, but I mean, I've been to Bali. As I'm watching guys take off I know I have what it takes to paddle into them; the only challenge is the crowd. I remember what my brother told me about paddling: “Use your hands and your feet, be aggressive, if you really want it, it'll show, and people might back off when they see that.”

     I paddle forward and get on line with the guys at the forefront where everyone's sitting. I love outside waves, and I'm waiting for that pulse to shoot for. A small waves comes, people paddle for it, and in the distance there's a big set forming on the outside. I dart for it. It feels right, like I got a head start amongst everyone else. My paddle feels strong, and there's only one guy that's about to criss cross with me, but I have no idea what he wants to do. He's an older guy with a salt and pepper beard. I look at him, he looks at me. “Go, go, go!” he says. Fuck my life, the lip already seems to be curling. I'm trying to turn & go, but the crashing lip sends me straight too fast. I don't even know how the left or the right looked, but they are now gone and peeling away on both sides. I am splitting the “A” on the A-frame going straight. To save face, I at least stand up before I get off. I take the rest of the set on the head.

     What can I say? It was a humiliating moment. It was a defining moment completely missed. I feel like, that wave, if I got it, would've given me the respect to deservingly sit in the line up. And if not, then who cares? Mentally, it would have given me more confidence to put myself wherever I wanted. Also, it would've been a hell of a wave and a good story to take home with me. Instead, it's another due paid. Instead of a badge of honor, it's a badge of shame.

     I'm embarrassed again, and it's fucking with my head. How good was that wave that I missed? Who saw that? Did everyone see it? I try to think positive, but AI wannabe is the main attraction, catching every wave while everyone backs off. It's wrong to hate, but I do because I'm just a man, and I think that guy's a dick. I insert myself back into the line up. I'm not waiting for the big set. I just want a wave at this point. A peak forms and stands up fast. I'm paddling, splitting the peak with another guy, but I look back, and someone caught the wave late behind me. The section's running away from him, but I kick out anyway because, technically, I dropped in on him. Randy always said, “Just paddle for it, you can always kick out if you have to.” Well, I did.

     Every wave I go for has someone on it, but I manage to get one last wave that shifted off the main peak. In the midst of my saga, something else unexpected happens. I pull off a top turn that arcs so smooth that I pretty much draw a “C” into the face. I find myself turning into the pocket facing my oncoming wave. I have no idea what I just did, but . . . I think it's good? Since it's unexpected I don't try to rebound, and I fall.

     As I'm climbing back on shore I see AI wannabe with an old man and a grom, and then I tell myself that I shouldn't have put so much negative energy into him in the first place. I change, drive out the gates, get on the 5N, exit Camino Real, and go to Coffee Bean. I tell the guy behind the counter that I need something to keep me awake all the way to El Segundo. I tip him a dollar, and he throws in an add shot for free. There are still good people out there.

     The morning session was the true jewel, but it was nice to get a taste of competing for that Lowers peak. If I surf it again, I'll need to surf there from sun up to at least noon, but that's only if I want it. A good swell will sprout vacant peaks all over the place, hopefully soon. Oh, and my wave count was only 9 in two hours.

     It's a flat weekend of surf, and I've been away from home quite a bit. I think I'll take care of my woman and let my body recover.

STAYCATION SESSIONS—TRESTLES: THU 7.21.2011 MOR

Crew: Solo

Time: 0845-1145, 3 hrs.

Wave count: 24

Conditions: Overcast turned sunny, off shore to marginal wind, small, consistent, just under 3 ft.

The Turn Around:

     On the way home from Blacks, Khang had called and asked if I was going to Trestles the next day. I said yes, but that it might be a gamble because the surf could end up being really small. He said to just let him know how it looks when I get there.

     By the time Francis dropped me off, it was just after 2200. Lauren waited up for me and was nice enough to warm up my dinner. I was so tired, but I showered, ate, and spent a little quality time with her before racking out. There was no time to prep for the next day's adventure. My alarm was set for 0545. I'd have to get up, shovel down some breakfast, load the car, and just go. I'd be traveling on minimum rest, but South OC has the best surf forecast for Thursday, so I have to do what I must if I want good surf.

Another day, another adventure:

     If you can imagine, I hit that snooze button quite a bit before finally rolling out of bed. Butt naked, I brush my teeth using the faint morning sunlight. It's 0615, and I plan on hitting the road before 0700. No cooler and PB&J sandwiches today, I pack light again, but this time I bring my sleeping bag and an extra board. Traffic is light until I hit Long Beach. By the time that's over, I'm cruising through Westminister trying to make my way down south as fast as I can. It's another gloomy morning, and it tires my spirit.

     I pull into San O and cruise past all the campsites. There are vacancies. Would be nice to have a site. I park under the tree by Churches, the same place as the last time. The water is so glassy that it's like a mirror reflecting off of the sky, completely gray. There are only about six longboarders out catching two foot surf. I step outside to take a look next to another guy on the sand. I strike up a conversation. His name is Rick from Palos Verdes. He says he's a Marine St. regular and that he surfs Parks Beach sometimes too. Small world. After the morning chit chat, I sit in my car and text Khang. I tell him that it's small and that it may not be worth the drive. Makes sense, yes? I mean, it's only two feet. There's no need to burn that much gas over two feet. 

 

     I don't expect much, but I change into the short sleeve Hurley wetsuit that Manny donated to me. This suit and my shortboard is an opposite to today's longboard conditions. Instead of walking to Middles, I paddle out right where I'm parked and work my way down. The water feels cold. I doubt that I'll get another chance to bareback it this summer. I paddle out to the first peak by two other longboarders. A couple two-foot waves roll through, but I scratch out on both. On to the next peak. I sit at the next one, only longboarders are catching waves again, so I continue to Churches's main peak. I don't expect any greetings, but a surfer actually says “good morning” and asks what time it is. When I sit, it doesn't take long for some waves to appear. The longboarder I just talked to goes first, and I catch the next wave. It's probably only two feet, but it's so perfectly shaped that I'm stoked to be on it. No turns, just going down the line until it's shallow. Last time I surfed here it was blown out, but this morning has San Onofre's glassy and clean conditions that I've been waiting for. I feel confident and catch about four waves before I start to feel bad. I feel as if I can do this all day, but it's only one peak, and the other three guys here need to get their share too. Besides, a small Churches's morning like this shouldn't be a competitive one. I look north towards middles, and everything between Churches and Lowers looks flat, but I still make the paddle.

     I'm already thinking that this is a small, easy day. There's no rush. I paddle slowly without a purpose as I make my way towards the cliffs, just south of Lowers. I stop at the battle position and sit south of the small crowd. Most are longboarders, and they seem to be the only ones getting waves. I sit waiting for a pulse. Nothing. I paddle past a heavy set, red haired, guy with a beard. I'm silent, but he greets me with another unexpected “good morning.” I paddle north just outside of the pack. Lowers is in perfect view. I watch clean three to four foot waves peel through. I'm envious, but the crowd there is already thick. One day, I think to myself.

Hit the Switch:

     I'm already canceling out the double session in my mind. I drove all the way down, but I'm already thinking about home. Would be nice to get home early for a change. I can catch up on my blogs, relax, eat a good meal. . . . Just then, out of the gray flatness, a set comes through. It's double wide without a shoulder within my distance, but I paddle out to beat it. That was unexpected! The next wave breaks on the outside. It's bigger than two feet but not quite three. When I pop up I see it lining up nicely. I get two ugly turns on the warm up wave. There may be potential after all. For the first time, I click to the chrono feature on my stopwatch but soon realize that it's also a wave counter. I log in my first wave and see how much longer until the next one.

     I never would have thought this would happen, there's a good half hour where there seems to be a wave every three minutes. The spot turns on all of a sudden, and best of all, the crowd thins out even more. For two plus hours I only have four other guys to share the waves with, and everyone is so spread out that no one's in anybodies way. It's small, but God bless the shape. It's turning into the epic session that I've been waiting for. No, not epic in size, but epic in quality and abundance. It's a wave orgy with only a few riders on deck. The lefts aren't holding as well, but I'm catching right after right. Turns, turns, turns, finally, all morning, and all to myself. No one's there to validate them, but I'm getting at least two top turns on every wave, some three, and even four on one. Yes, I counted it, four. I didn't think a sub three foot wave would allow it, but it did. I talk to myself in the line up. In my mind, I'm thanking my brother for showing me how to use my feet when I paddle. It's working today, and I'm barely missing any waves.

     By now the sun is out. The gray water turns into more of a light turquoise color, while patches of dark blue can be seen out in the distance. I overhear an old timer talking to one of his buddies. He says, “It's sunny, there's waves, and there are only. . . .” He pauses and looks at the line up. “One, two, three, four other guys out.” It's a no-brainer. We all are feeling it; we've scored big-time.

     One guy leaves as another new face take his spot. The old timer knows this guy too. He's wearing a hat and ends up right by me after a wave. “Nice one, “ I say.

     “No, yours was better. I was watching you. Didn't think you'd get that one.”

     “Yeah, I got lucky. I'm pretty surprised. It's small but so good out, and there's barely anyone out.”

     He motions towards Lowers and says, “Yeah, or you could be out there, catching one wave every twenty minutes.” The energy is good, but we're too close. I paddle further north to get my original spot.

     At the three hour mark the waves seem to taper down in size just a hair, and it goes a little inconsistent. It doesn't matter. Three hours is a good cut off time, and some form of lunch is in order. I look at my wave counter, and it's at 24. It's the first time I've kept accurate track of my waves. I assume that 24 waves in three hours isn't that bad. Of course, I'm counting the waves that I caught at Churches, and I hit the wave count button about four times on accident, so it's still 24.

     On the walk back to my car I think about the sense of loss that I've had since leaving Bali. But then I realize that here I am at Trestles scoring good, uncrowded waves practically all to myself. I don't have to travel half way across the globe to get that. On this morning's surf session, I may as well have been anywhere in the world. I'm stoked. Three hours of silence, catching the wave, thinking about the wave I just caught, breathing, meditating, and then doing it all over again. I'm drained, speechless, and exhausted from all the surf. It's what we live for.

The Splurge Addict:

     I stop at the snack shack on the campgrounds, but nothing appeals to my appetite. There's a Carl's Jr. on Cristianitos, but I wouldn't mind trying something different. It's either a sandwich at the grocery store or Sonics. I've never had Sonics before, so I figure that this may be my golden opportunity.

     As I gaze upon their menu nothing seems too healthy. I know I don't want soda, but if I buy the combo I'll be forced to drink a soda. My only other option is to order the burger separate and order the Oreo Sonic Blast. But then again, hydrating with twenty ounces of ice cream, whip cream, and crunched up Oreos sounds preposterous!

     Why did heavenly father bless me with such a gift and talent for devouring ridiculous amounts of food. When I try to fight his “plan” for me, I fail at every attempt. I approach the counter, order the Super Sonic Burger and large chili cheese tots. At least I avoid the Oreo Sonic Blast. Instead I order the Butterfinger Sonic Blast, should be a little more healthy. I get back to the car and eat as I watch the surf. Churches is still consistent with a thin crowd of longboarders raking in more than they can chew. After I eat my food, I set up my sleeping bag for a cozy power nap in the back of the wagon. There are mustard stains all over my shirt. Flies buzz about as I drift into sleep. I feel like a bum.

STAYCATION SESSIONS—BLACKS, SD: WED 7.20.2011 EVE

Crew: Francis

Time: 1645-1845, 2 hrs.

Conditions: Overcast, onshore wind, scattered peaks, cold, 3 ft. 

 

Options?:

     We decide on taking another look at some of the other peaks that we passed up on the way to Blacks. We first pull into Solano beach on accident. There's no surf, it's a swimmer's beach, and you have to pay for parking, so we turn around. We pass some other breaks that I don't know, but there's traffic, and turning around's a bitch. Francis and I exchange farts the whole way. I can smell my own, but I can't catch his scent. We finally pull into a quiet beach parking lot. We are surprised that there are open spots and that it's, once again, free. We are at a lookout point right over Swamis. The wind here is light, the water looks glassy, the waves are clean, but they are tiny. It's barely two feet, and there are about eight longboarders out. Francis calls it “mind surfing.” We watch the waves imagining what kind of rides we'd get out of them, but we're both lying to ourselves. “San Onofre?” Francis says.

     I look at surfline's report. “The wind's dying over there. It's gonna be clean, but it might be too small,” I reply. I spend more time pouring over our possibilities. We finally decide to backtrack and go to Blacks. 

 

Cock & Balls Beach round two:

Uh oh. Bad omen?

      We arrive at a now crowded parking lot. The sky is filled with parachute gliders, and we still find an open spot with ease. In fact, it looks like the same spot we parked at this morning. We thought about trunking it after the first session, but the onshore winds definitely put a chill in our spines to beg the differ. “You gonna take your slippers?” I ask.

    

     “Nah, gonna keep my feet Hawaiian!” he says. We scale down the path again, stepping aside to let people hike up from time to time. Once we reach the bottom we see a huge White woman with her daughters. She's naked from the waist down; all we see are two huge, pale, bulbous cheeks. We walk towards the break, and there's a guy lying out next to his naked wife who's tanning butt naked on her stomach. Out of respect, I look out at the ocean, but Francis asks me a question which forces me to face the direction of the woman's pale ass. We near the break by the lifeguard hut, and a couple is body surfing waves on the inside. For some reason, the dude's girlfriend takes off her top and starts bodysurfing with her tits hanging out. “Floaties,” says Francis.

     “Unfuckinbelievable,” I say. There are only about six surfers out. It's just like this morning, no one's by the other random peaks, and everyone is concentrated in one area. It's a little smaller, the wind is putting more texture on the water, but there are still some corners to be had. As soon as we hit the water, the evening crowd starts to appear out of no where. Next thing you know, those peaks that we walked by fill up again with surfers. Despite the dwindling conditions, the surf is more fun than it looks. The rides are shorter, but I'm at least cranking out one turn before the waves close out. I sit just outside of the pack while Francis fully immerses himself amongst the crowd. Eventually I work my way towards him. We surf for two hours, milking the most that we can out of the session.

     On the way back to the truck I ask Francis, “So what's it gonna be this time? Cock, balls, ass, or vagina.”

     Francis has an aimless gaze but wears a smile. “Schlong,” he says. There's nothing on the way back. We're behind the lifeguard hill walking towards the steps, but as we round the corner we see what's behind the hill.

     “Fuck, you were right,” I say. Right there before us is a guy, butt naked, walking out for a skinny dip.

     “Told you.”

     We keep walking, but I turn to stop. I tell him, “Wait. We gotta wait til' he turns around.” The guy turns, and there's a huge patch of pubes where his penis should be; it looks like an eagle's nest. The guy can pass for a caveman.

The Great Churro Adventure: 

     We're dressed, it's just past 1930, and we're pulling out of the lot. I turn to Francis and say, “I had fun! It was definitely worth coming out, but next time we're gonna have to find that churro place that you were talking about.” Rewind to this morning, Francis talked about this churro cart in downtown SD and how they have the best churros. He opted not to go there because it could be hard finding the cart.

     “Let's go right now!” he says. 

 

     “No, no, I was just joking. We can go next time.”

     “Nah, we can find it. It'll go good with the coffee.” And just like that, we're heading south looking for some churro action. We end up in an urban Mexican neighborhood where the churro cart should be, but is not there. Francis takes some time to find the coordinates on his GPS, and he learns that it's just down the street a little bit more. “There it is!” he yells, as we spot the cart right in front of a Mexican market. I love churros. I'm so fucking excited to eat some without getting gouged by Disneyland prices; I can't wait any longer.

    The kid working the cart is named Luis, and Luis and Francis start hitting it off. Churros El Tigre is the name of the business. Luis offers their churro and fried banana ice cream dessert, but we tell him we'll do it next time. The churros take fucking forever. The kid is cool but can't stop talking, and we let him give our initial order to two ladies that need to catch the bus. A little over a half-hour later, we finally have them. Luis is cool, as he gives us an extra bag for our troubles. There are a lot in one bag. By the time I polish off one, I'm good on churros for a whole fucking month. We find a Starbucks, grab some coffees for the road, and hit the freeway.

 

     Today's staycation was well worth the trouble. We got some familiarity with a new spot, caught the best surf that SoCal had for the day, and scored waves on two sessions. It's still not the epic session that I've been waiting for, but it's the best session since being home thus far.