STAYCATION SESSIONS--TRESTLES: WED 8.10.2011 EVE

Crew: Solo
Conditions: 3-4 ft., light evening wind, inconsistent, light overcast with patches of sunlight.



Thought moves us to action:


    My phone alarm goes off. It’s 1845. I sit up in the tent and see that some clouds have moved in. There’s still onshore wind, and the texture over the bluish, gray water looks cold. I surfed earlier. I could just pass on this evening session. However, the thought of being on a wave has me thinking. So what if it looks uninviting? I don’t even need a turn. Going down the line on a nice shoulder, the more I think about it the more I feel like I’m missing out. It’s out there, that wave that I’m picturing in my mind. Why not go and get it?



Heaven might be right here:


    As I’m walking up to Churches the wind starts to weaken. Finally. Even though the bay is gloomy from cloud cover, beams of light shoot through empty patches along the sky. I see Lowers in the distance and the black dots massed around its peak, but watching the waves roll through so perfect and consistent makes me appreciate nature’s gift. There’s not one drop of anxiety in my blood at the sight of the crowd. Instead, the mellow evening has me over anticipating my paddle out. The trail is empty; I’m the only walker going to or from the breaks. Everyone that’s in the water is staying to wrap up their last session until the sun goes down, and no one that’s dry wants to paddle out so late. I can’t help myself. I paddle out just north of Churches to see if I can catch anything. Despite the scenery, scenery doesn’t make waves. Just like the last couple days, Lowers is the only place with any real shape. As I make my long paddle towards the wave machine I note the colors and shapes of the water. The gray ocean and reflections of pink from the sun make shiny, glistening spots of light in the midst of the wrinkled surface. It almost looks viscous and gooey, but my hand enters feeling nothing but fluid substance. Meanwhile, the wind is still dying, and each stroke towards Lowers is a stroke closer to ideal perfection. I’m tired, so I catch a wave in at the BP and walk closer.



Surf Scavenger:


    So I have my technique down. I sit just south of Lowers. On a good day, random peaks shift outside of the main pack. If I’m lucky, the main peak won’t connect with the peak on the side. These are the waves that I go for. Sure, the rides aren’t as long, but those rights still line up well, and you can catch them without five people going for them at the same time. Where’s the sun? I can only assume how low it is, but it’s obvious that its power is leaving and going beyond the horizon. As the evening crowd thins, I scavenge unridden waves from the main peak that roll in my direction. The lulls are long, but each wave is far from a throw-away; each ride is worth keeping. Even though it’s a shame that the swell hasn’t produced scattered peaks everywhere, one can’t deny how the wait is worth riding a perfect Lowers right-hander, a scavenged one that is. The minutes tick away as facial features become dark blurs. Surfers leave one by one, walking up the sand to call it a night. Some still catch rides all the way to shore, never breaking rhythm as they turn around for more. I can’t give a breakdown of each of my waves, but one stands out in my memory the most.



Feeling:


    Squinting at what looks like a bump, I can’t tell how far it is or how big for that matter. All I know is that it looks rideable. Away from the main pack, I’ve been engaged in my own existence. They probably never noticed that I was there, and on this wave I might as well be all alone for hundreds of miles. In my own little spot I’ve made a paradise for myself; who cares if no one knows I’m alive. I turn, paddle, and I feel that the lip is actually lifting to angle my board down. Popping up, I look down the face, but I only see bold, dark green. I bottom turn where the pocket should be and can only see small splashes of white that my wake is leaving. The lip’s crumbling white as well. My senses tell me to pump down the line, but I top turn and still keep momentum. The turns feel critical and late, and with my lack of vision it appears that I’m riding on smooth, dark green glass.

    Any traces of light are now faint and dissipating. Barefoot, I walk the trail back with only my last wave in my mind. It’s the perfect way to end the session. To non surfers, we find it hard to relate our reasoning and drive that makes us paddle out. Surfing is intimate, as it can mean something different for each individual. For me, it’s all about the sensation that I get from being on a wave. It’s too bad that words can only explain it so much.

STAYCATION SESSIONS--TRESTLES : WED 8.10.2011 MOR

Crew: Al, Kevin, Francesca (guard duty)
Ran into: Julian Wilson, Coco Ho, and some other pros that I don’t know.
Conditions: 3-4 ft+, onshore wind, inconsistent, high tide, overcast to warm, crowded.



Wake up to this:


    I shift the whole night. The surface in the back of my wagon is so hard I’m uncomfortable. I still manage to get some sleep. At 0530 I wake. I look outside and see the cloth trimming on the RV next to us swaying. I hear a tapping sound on the roof of my car. It’s from my surf board. The wind is already up before the sun is. I take a piss and sit next to the cold firepit for a look. Old Man’s and Churches looks crumbly and blown. I hoped for clean and glassy conditions, but instead it’s gray, windy, and cold. I start to doze off in my chair. There’s no need to rush it now. By 0545 I’m cocooned in my sleeping bag again. About an hour later, I see Al stepping out of his tent for the first time this morning. We discuss the morning’s conditions and decide to suit up regardless. Kevin’s lagging, so Al has us go without him. The crowd’s a little thinner from the unwelcoming conditions. We walk along Middles. Nothing is breaking. We walk by Lowers; it’s crowded as hell. We continue walking and Uppers doesn’t look so appetizing either, so Al says, “Fuck it, let’s just paddle out right here.” It’s another Lowers session. Competing for one peak is not my ideal surf sesh, but we came for good waves. Al and Kev go right into the thick of the crowd while I do my vulture technique to scavenge for scraps. Al surprises me with his first couple waves. He inserts himself into the lineup and gets waves all to himself. He’s a big guy is what I’m thinking. I guess no one wants to fuck with him. I wait for the peak to shift, but it’s more inconsistent than yesterday. After a couple waves, I find myself at the main peak. I notice a guy paddling out in a neon green Nike 6.0 wetsuit. Hmmm, that guys looks like Julian Wilson. Two chicks paddle up, and one looks like Coco Ho. That would be funny if the pros were out here, I think to myself. No one is crowding them, but the more I look at the guy in the neon wetsuit, the more I’m believing he’s Julian. His accent is Aussie, and as I drift closer there’s no doubt that it’s him.



Wave Hogs:


    I have the hardest time getting a wave at the main peak. I sit and wait for the outside wave, I paddle for it, a couple other guys paddle for it, and I’m surrounded by guys popping up just as I am. What happened to my wave position? I’m just not aggressive enough. Lowers is the only spot working, so this is what I have to deal with. The wave scatters everyone, and there’s only me and another guy left on the outside of the line up. Just then, another outside wave approaches. We both paddle for it and pop up. I look behind me; he’s going left. This right-hander is a legit Lowers wave. This isn’t one on the side, this is a plus sized jewel that I so happen to be in the way of. On the way down the face, surfers are everywhere trying to make their way back out. No one’s in the way, and I want to crank out some good turns in the company that I’m in. I get two solid bottom turns, nice and steep, that set me up for two good top turns. I’m a little rusty, so my turns fall short just under the lip, but it still feels like I’m carving well. I catch the wave to the inside and paddle back to my usual spot just south of Lowers. Al paddles up, and I say, “Dude, there are pros here.”

    “Yeah, I know. I saw Bethany Hamilton.”

    “What, she was here!?”

    “Yeah, but she paddled in earlier.” I’m shocked that I missed the opportunity to see her surf. I inform him on Julian and Coco’s presence in the line up. He drifts closer to the main pack, and Coco and her girlfriends are right next to him. Al looks at my direction and gives me a smirk. A little later, Coco is sitting right next to me. I’m a bit star struck. I want to say something, but no one has bothered any of them since their arrival. I go with the grain and give these surf stars their space as well. A wave appears, and I turn to paddle for it. I look towards my inside, and Coco is on it. I pull out gladly. I just pulled out of Coco Ho’s wave . . . FUCKING AWESOME! One can say that I’m exaggerating or that it wasn’t really her. However, her surfing shows that it’s her. They have professional photogs on the beach, and they’re fixed on Coco as she blows the tail then whips back around for some face-gouging cut backs.

    A set wave pops up at Lowers, and Julian has the peak to himself. He’s going right, so I have to paddle over the wave to get out of his way. I sit hoping for the next wave to swing wide, and it does. It’s a smaller wave more towards the inside, and I I’m in prime position for it. I turn around and start paddling, and then I notice Julian paddling back out, but he’s turning around trying to paddle for my wave. Fuck, I’m thinking. This is Julian Wilson right here, and he’s on my outside trying to take my wave away. I HAVE TO CATCH THIS WAVE! The pressure’s on. I start kicking and scratching to claim this one for myself. I’m one weak stroke from missing it, but I somehow pop up before the wave can pass. Julian looks back and sees that I’m on it; he pulls back. Holy fuck . . . I’m so fucking stoked. Not only do I pull out of Coco’s wave, but Julian Wilson almost drops in on me. Unfucking believable.

    The morning session is only two and a half hours. Al tells me that he’s about done. We catch a couple more then get to shore. We wait for Kevin who vents his frustration to us when he comes out. “There’s so many people out there,” he says. “How do you miss a wave when it’s coming right to you? These fuckin’ kids just paddle around you to take the fucking wave.” Shit . . . I feel his pain. But despite the crowds and lack of options for different peaks, I’m satisfied with the morning’s waves. Best of all, I got to surf in the midst of the pros for the first time. It’s funny how some of us try to be nonconformists and go against the grain of popular culture, but when we see the stars who are associated with the things that we follow, we can’t help but be in awe and feel the need to get a piece of them.



Doin’ it right:


    After the surf session, we change and head to my favorite spot for AYCE sushi. The lunch special is twenty bucks, and we devour a variety of different sushi for almost two straight hours. When we get back, we buy some ice cream and eat it with cookies. Kev leaves, and Al and Francesca have to visit their aunt in Temecula. I’m invited, but I opt to stay behind to write and do an evening sesh. The wind’s a little strong, the overcast is back, and I’m due for a nap. Lying down in the tent, I hear little kids playing with the sound of the ocean in the background. My eyes are getting tired. Today is a good day.

STAYCATION SESSIONS--TRESTLES : TUE 8.09.2011 EVE

Crew: Al, Kevin, Francesca (guard duty)
Conditions: 3 ft+, onshore wind, inconsistent, super high tide, warm.

Demobilization this time last year. Finally going home.

Military Bonds:

    My very first duty station was Germany. I was twenty years old and didn’t know shit. The daily rituals of military life were a given. Our leaders preached on the importance of serving the nation and emphasized hard on training. Although, most soldiers or veterans will let others know that the best thing about the military is the relationships you establish along the way. After each duty station and deployment, things are never the same. Good friends that become family come and go, and most of us never see each other again. In this case, my roommate from Iraq planned to camp at San Onofre. In an effort to keep these same relationships strong, I told him I’d be there to help him setup.

    I sent out a mass invite to see who else could go, but everyone was busy. Oh well. More waves for us.



Late Start:


    I usually get up at first light to score an early morning session, but Al is driving down from San Jose, so I have a lot of time until he gets there. Lauren’s not feeling well, so I opt to hang back to watch over her. I’d love for her to join me, but her job has her pretty busy nowadays, so I make the trip alone.

    I’m on the road my 1130. There are small pockets of traffic, but for the most part it’s a smooth and easy journey. Landmarks that I usually pass in the morning sun look different at high noon. I pull up to a busy campground and see a mass of black dots at Old Mans. I meet Al at the main office. His sister Francesca, who’s visiting from Ecuador, and his cousin Kevin are there. I haven’t seen Kev in a while, and I go through the introductions with his sister. We get our campsite which is right on the beach with firepit, water, and electricity.

    The onshore wind feels weak, the sun is out, and the water looks clear and inviting, but first we must get supplies at the grocery store. When we come back, we load the cooler and suit up for an evening session. Unfortunately, the wind picks up, and the tide is making things swampy. We walk in front of the crowds lying on the beach, and as I look up I see a girl waving in our direction. I look behind me in confusion and don’t see anyone. I continue to walk. I look up again, and the girl is still waving. I turn around again and ask Al what the hell they’re waving at. She points at me then waves again. There’s no doubt that they’re checking out Al’s lifeguard cousin Kevin. I say, “Hey, Kev, those chicks are checking you out. You better handle that.”

    “Which ones?”

    “Right there.”

    He looks up then looks forward again. “You mean those fat ones?”



Surfline, damn you!:


    Well, surfline can’t predict everything right? I blame it on the tide, but we sit just north of Churches, and the peaks are so long and crumbly that the waves shut down fast. We get turnless rides for about forty-five minutes before we walk towards Lowers. Al doesn’t want to deal with the crowd, so we paddle out again in front of the battle position. The waves there don’t seem much better, so I make my way towards Lowers. I sit just south on the outside. It’s inconsistent, but some peaks shift and build in front of me. It catches a lot of people off guard, so I get some nice right-handers to myself. Pretty soon Kevin joins me. Al’s stubborn, so he maintains at Middles where I can’t even see him anymore.
   
    There are some groms in the water that have a water photog with them; they are doing fish-eye shots. Kev competes with the wolves at Lowers, and I watch him pop up on a right-hander. One of the groms with the photog drops in on him. I see Kev looking at the kid waiting for him to kick out, but instead he continues to snake him and hits the lip to get his shot. Fuckin’ greedy. I have to back out on a lot of waves myself from guys on my inside, but I get enough random waves to make the session worth it. I share the inside with another surfer. I say, “So you didn’t feel like competing either, huh?”

    “No, it’s sooo crowded here. I’ve never surfed here before.”
 
    “Where do you usually surf?”

    “Oregon.”

    I’m surprised at this. It makes me think about Tom Leykis’s references: Porkland, Oregon, home of the other white meat. “How’s the surf scene up there?”

    She raises her eyebrows and says, “Uncrowded.”

    I can’t choose any memorable waves out of this session. If anything, our expectations are failed. We’ve been watching the surf forecast every day up until this moment to only find one break working: Lowers. Lowers is good, but we had hoped for more scattered, empty peaks. Without a choice, we were forced to deal with the crowd or bad waves.



The Real Experience:

    Back at the site, Kev hovers around the warmth of the fire. Francesca prepares the food, and Al has some sausages cooking on the grill. We eat hot dogs around the fire and listen to Francesca’s stories about Al’s drunken mishaps. I show them my Smores techniques, and we end the night with cookies and milk. At about 2330, only Al and I are awake by the fire. He asks about my journey to Bali, we talk about surf, and then the conversation moves to our lives and relationships. We’re here for the surf, but quality time with friends is something that you can’t put a price on either. I lay down my sleeping bag in the back of the wagon for a good night’s rest. Tomorrow, I plan to get up really early to catch the good stuff before too many people are on it.