Crew: Rick & the WHC, Klaude, Dais, and Cheryl
Time: 0700-0930, 1 hr. & 30 min.
Conditions: 1-2 feet, weak, inconsistent, high tide, overcast, cool, with periods of light showers.
Last weekend I got to 26th before 0600, and the surf was no good. This morning, I decide to sleep in and go later. After all, showing up at the butt-crack of dawn doesn’t guarantee good waves. Especially after getting skunked last weekend, it seems like a good idea to change the routine. Only one problem with this plan, all the free parking’s gone once I get here. It’s been a while since I did the meters, so I pull in without grumbling about my forced donation to Manhattan Beach. I call Klaude, and he’s heading towards free parking further away.
After yesterday’s surf, my shoulder bothers me a little, but I go for it anyway. It appears to be a beautiful morning minus the blinding glare from the east. While warming up, I see a guy on a gray fish milking a long ride out of a crumbly left; it’s Rick. “Rick!” I yell over the sound of whitewash. He scans and finds me waving.
Walking to the water, I wait for the lull since it’s crowded, and I don’t want to be anyone’s speed bump. The usual locals are here: Don, Don’s buddy, and another one of Don’s buddies. Unfortunately I don’t know all their names, but their faces are all too familiar at this spot. Rick points out where his brother Manny is and the rest of their crew. “You should have got here earlier,” he says. “It was much better when the tide was lower.” I see what he means. The waves are rideable, but they’re already mooshing out. I expect catching a wave to become harder in the next half hour.
Klaude and Dais are by the tower stretching. I manage to get a couple quick rides, but it’s another turnless morning. I blame the conditions, but Don and his crew have been getting nice rides. Also, Rick’s crew aren’t push-overs either. They all get waves: Jack, Chris, Dave T., and of course Manny. I think about how surfing next to those guys makes my surfing look like shit, but I also understand that it’s what I need.
Rick leaves shortly after KK and Dais paddle out. It’s a little crowded, but as the morning progresses, there are only small patches of surfers left. There aren’t many rides, but we don’t try to push or force the issue. We carelessly bob in place, and when guys at other peaks catch waves we merely watch without envy or disdain. We paddle for waves that don’t break until they’re in the shallows. Cheryl has the best chance out of all of us, but she purls on three waves in a row. She has a rip in the crotch area of her wetsuit. Bad luck I guess.
The sky grows darker, and I notice a disturbance on the water’s surface. I’m in denial at first, but it’s clear that it’s raining. It’s a morning without waves, but God damn, what a beautiful spectacle. Four marauders, close friends, surfers, in a turquoise pool. We all chime in on what we’re experiencing. Klaude notices the clarity of the water. So do I. I can’t see the bottom, but my submerged body and board may as well be in an aquarium. Despite the gray on the horizon, the ocean still sustains a tropical presentation. I don’t know why we’re so quiet. Our own interpretations in our minds, speech is unnecessary. The shower doesn’t last. Klaude paddles south to try his luck. When he leaves I get three waves back to back, but they’re still tiny boggers. It’s almost 0930, and my meter’s up. I give my regards and paddle in.
So why? Why on a day with barely any waves, a small day at that, does this morning’s surf resonate with me? That bracket of time when the rain started and stopped, that was just a rare gift given to us. The scenery and emotions leave me at a loss for words. The crowds left while those with patience received a small peck on the cheek from Mother Ocean. I guess you just had to be there.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Friday, September 9, 2011
WHY DOST THOU SNAKEST?, FRI 09SEPT2011 EVE
Crew: Solo
Time: 1830-1930, 1 hr.
Conditions: 1-2 feet, inconsistent, high tide, light onshore wind, clear skies, warm.
While running errands, I stop by at Porto for an afternoon check. It’s a little after 1500. The tide bottomed out a little while ago, and the onshore wind’s a little strong. Regardless, there are still some little two foot peaks sprouting up everywhere. I drive further down the lot and see a freak, chest-high set roll through. I stop, send a text out to let everyone know, and then I continue with my business. The conditions aren’t clean, it’s a little crumbly, but it still looks good enough for some fun little rides.
After bringing my niece home from middle school, I shoot straight for Porto for another look. There’s still some wind, but it’s not howling. Along Vista Del Mar I can see long peaks with little shoulders at the end. I hope for a little more definition at 45th. As I make the right turn at Chevron, I see numerous surfers and the first wave of a small set breaking. The low sun gives everything an orange glow. I notice a free parking spot to my right. There’s no way I’m not surfing today.
With a free spot, I take my time changing. The breeze on my face and through my hair feels like California. The hard pavement under my bare feet has some familiar significance; it’s routine. A dozen surfers linger in the parking lot. Two guys wait to use the shower. We’re all strangers but here to share something similar. A hundred sensations over a short walk and a deep exhale at the water’s edge. A whole day has passed, and finally I’m where I belong.
A short warm up and a scope of the scene, there are a lot of heads despite the lack of surf. The surfer I’ve labeled over the last couple years as “The Rastafarian” is out there putting on a show. On the inside he sticks a small, front-side, aerial 360. I’ve gotten over envying him. My wetsuit shields me from the thousand needle shock, but I find that it’s not that cold. Each stroke is slow, my hands enter unhindered, and my palms slide down as if with a painter’s brush. I find my position and am grateful overall just to be. The high tide makes the waves break late. Somehow I’m fortunate to get one to myself. No tricks, no turns, just going down the line. A span less than two seconds makes the whole day. How is that?
It’s consistent at first. I catch a small handful, but the sections are crumbling away before I can get to the end. A longboarder invades my space. I feel uncomfortable but try to let go of the negative. I go right. I’m on his inside, and he still goes any way. It’s a slow wave, I tell myself. No biggie. Again, another right comes. I’m kicking and wearing my best paddling face. There’s no way he can’t hear me. I pop up, and there he is; we’re sharing the wave. When the ride’s over I check to see if he’ll look back. I’m looking because I want him to see me, and then I stop. I turn, put my chin in my board, and head back to the line up. I think of all the things I can say. I size him up, eye his foam board and his tattoos. Douche bag, I’m thinking. I wipe him out of my mind and attempt to re-center.
The sun’s been down, and the line up gets dim. Someone next to me says, “Hey, sorry about those couple waves earlier.”
I turn, and it’s the guy. “Oh yeah. It’s cool. There‘s not much out here anyway; I couldn‘t catch you.”
“No, because I’ve seen you here before. I saw you the other day catch one all the way to the sand-”
“Ohhhhhhh,” I interrupt. It hits me that he’s talking about Tuesday when I ass-planted in ankle deep water.
“Yeah, and you just like, fell right there. I’m Pete by the way.”
“Matt.” We talk a little. I tell him how I messed up my shoulder, and he sounds genuine when he asks how it is now. Pete turns out to be one of the nicest guys I’ve met out there. Reality check: I’m the douche bag. I feel like an asshole for all the horrible things I was thinking earlier. I don’t preach God much, but sometimes these situations seem that they’re meant to happen. But also, life throws you moments like this sometimes.
Again, it’s a “beginning to end” session, where the whole experience is appreciated and not so much the waves themselves. Changing in the dark, a car waits to take my spot. Driving home with the music on, I feel complete.
Time: 1830-1930, 1 hr.
Conditions: 1-2 feet, inconsistent, high tide, light onshore wind, clear skies, warm.
While running errands, I stop by at Porto for an afternoon check. It’s a little after 1500. The tide bottomed out a little while ago, and the onshore wind’s a little strong. Regardless, there are still some little two foot peaks sprouting up everywhere. I drive further down the lot and see a freak, chest-high set roll through. I stop, send a text out to let everyone know, and then I continue with my business. The conditions aren’t clean, it’s a little crumbly, but it still looks good enough for some fun little rides.
After bringing my niece home from middle school, I shoot straight for Porto for another look. There’s still some wind, but it’s not howling. Along Vista Del Mar I can see long peaks with little shoulders at the end. I hope for a little more definition at 45th. As I make the right turn at Chevron, I see numerous surfers and the first wave of a small set breaking. The low sun gives everything an orange glow. I notice a free parking spot to my right. There’s no way I’m not surfing today.
With a free spot, I take my time changing. The breeze on my face and through my hair feels like California. The hard pavement under my bare feet has some familiar significance; it’s routine. A dozen surfers linger in the parking lot. Two guys wait to use the shower. We’re all strangers but here to share something similar. A hundred sensations over a short walk and a deep exhale at the water’s edge. A whole day has passed, and finally I’m where I belong.
A short warm up and a scope of the scene, there are a lot of heads despite the lack of surf. The surfer I’ve labeled over the last couple years as “The Rastafarian” is out there putting on a show. On the inside he sticks a small, front-side, aerial 360. I’ve gotten over envying him. My wetsuit shields me from the thousand needle shock, but I find that it’s not that cold. Each stroke is slow, my hands enter unhindered, and my palms slide down as if with a painter’s brush. I find my position and am grateful overall just to be. The high tide makes the waves break late. Somehow I’m fortunate to get one to myself. No tricks, no turns, just going down the line. A span less than two seconds makes the whole day. How is that?
It’s consistent at first. I catch a small handful, but the sections are crumbling away before I can get to the end. A longboarder invades my space. I feel uncomfortable but try to let go of the negative. I go right. I’m on his inside, and he still goes any way. It’s a slow wave, I tell myself. No biggie. Again, another right comes. I’m kicking and wearing my best paddling face. There’s no way he can’t hear me. I pop up, and there he is; we’re sharing the wave. When the ride’s over I check to see if he’ll look back. I’m looking because I want him to see me, and then I stop. I turn, put my chin in my board, and head back to the line up. I think of all the things I can say. I size him up, eye his foam board and his tattoos. Douche bag, I’m thinking. I wipe him out of my mind and attempt to re-center.
The sun’s been down, and the line up gets dim. Someone next to me says, “Hey, sorry about those couple waves earlier.”
I turn, and it’s the guy. “Oh yeah. It’s cool. There‘s not much out here anyway; I couldn‘t catch you.”
“No, because I’ve seen you here before. I saw you the other day catch one all the way to the sand-”
“Ohhhhhhh,” I interrupt. It hits me that he’s talking about Tuesday when I ass-planted in ankle deep water.
“Yeah, and you just like, fell right there. I’m Pete by the way.”
“Matt.” We talk a little. I tell him how I messed up my shoulder, and he sounds genuine when he asks how it is now. Pete turns out to be one of the nicest guys I’ve met out there. Reality check: I’m the douche bag. I feel like an asshole for all the horrible things I was thinking earlier. I don’t preach God much, but sometimes these situations seem that they’re meant to happen. But also, life throws you moments like this sometimes.
Again, it’s a “beginning to end” session, where the whole experience is appreciated and not so much the waves themselves. Changing in the dark, a car waits to take my spot. Driving home with the music on, I feel complete.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
ALMOST PERFECT, TUE 06SEPT2011 EVE
Crew: Dais
Time: 1845-1945, 1 hr.
Conditions: 1-2 feet, inconsistent, high tide, calm wind, sunny, glassy, warm air, cold water.
Pre Blog:
I decided to play it safe and not surf during this big swell that just passed. It was already surfacing during the middle of last week while I was still recuperating from the weekend. A very close friend of mine recommended sitting this swell out. I would miss a swell but with it I’d get more time to allow my shoulder to heal properly. Overall, I’d get more longevity out of my shoulder. I didn’t want to, but I remained a dry-walker until the swell made its exit.
Summer, are you here?:
I wore jeans today at school. Mistake. I was so frickin’ hot. I showed up to each class in a pile of sweat. Perfect day for the beach, I thought. Even though I was gone for most of June, the consensus has been that this wasn’t a “true” summer; it was still a wetsuit summer. With the business day’s end, I drove home in a hurry with only one thought: grabbing my board and heading to Porto.
Injury or not, I’m paddling out:
The last thing I ate was a banana after my last class. It’s 1820; I’m starving. I bust open the fridge and tear into the pie that Cheryl dropped off last night. What a godsend. No, it’s not the best surfer fuel, but with an empty stomach that banana cream pie saves my life. I don’t think twice about leaving my wetsuit behind. It’s too hot today; there’s no need for it.
My shoulder feels decent, but I’ll only know for sure once I hit the water. I look for signs of onshore wind on my drive down. The flag by the airport lookout point is dead, trees aren’t swaying, and the air remains stale from what I can tell. I pass Dockweiler but can’t tell what the water’s doing. I see Hammers and the southside of the jetty. It looks small. I can’t deny the classic, fall-season Porto atmosphere as I pull in. The sun’s getting low, the ocean is glassy, and the thin beach crowd is a testament to the summer’s end. I park at a meter that has over an hour of time left. Leaning on the rail I watch the ocean. Everything’s perfect . . . well almost. There are just no fucking waves. I send out a text to let everyone know the situation. Rick replies and says that I should’ve went to San Onofre with him this weekend. Dais replies and says that it looks better towards the end of the lot. I’m not sure if he’s watching the surf cam at home, but my pondering ends when he rides right up behind me on his skateboard and catches me by surprise. I haven’t seen him in over a week. He tells me that he and Khang scored at 26th yesterday. They caught an odd window in the late morning when the wind turned offshore, and they even saw some guys getting dry barreled. “You just had to be there, “ he says.
“Yeah, it’s just one of those moments. If you weren’t there, you’ll never know. But if you do go, then you’ll get rewarded.”
“I’ve never seen 26th break like that.” We look on into the bronze sky. “You going?”
“It’s so small, but it’s so nice out.”
“I’ll go if you go.” Just then a rare bump in the surface occurs, and some inside shoulders pop up; they look rideable.
“Yeah, I’m going.”
While I’m changing I meet a guy that’s packing up to leave. His name is Bobby. He tells me that he’s just making the transition from a longboard to a shortboard. I give him my opinion about the “learning curve” and how I went through the same. However, he reveals that he’s only been surfing for four months, and he’s going from an eight-footer to a 5’7” thruster. That’s a hell of a jump, I’m thinking. We shake hands, and I walk out with Dais to the sand. “I hope the temp’s not too bad,” says Dais.
I think about how musty my armpits were in class and how my stench probably turned off the sorority chicks around me. “Nah, man. It has to be warm.” It’s my first time surfing in over a week. I put my foot in. It’s kind of cold. I get waist deep. It’s pretty cold. I paddle into the breaking shore pound and get submerged. It’s freezing; I should’ve brought my wetsuit! The look on Dais’ face acknowledges my sentiments. Fuck my life; fuck our lives. There’s only one other guy bare backing it.
We only have about an hour to surf, and things start off slow. From the start, we don’t expect much. We sit and wait for the random bump. A couple come, but we both scratch out. I draw first blood on a small close out. I catch it too close to shore and jump ship in shallow water. Dais throws me a shaka. I yell out to him, “It still counts!” The tides too high; it’s drowning out any potential peaks that are smothered by the high water line. I catch another close out, but on the way back out I see Dais on a right-hand shoulder. At least we’re both getting something.
The sun’s just under the horizon. I see hues of peach and pink ahead. It’s a beautiful contrast with the dark sky to the east and PV’s lights to the south. The moon shines brightly above and shimmers over the slightly rippled water. I take out my trusty camera, but it doesn’t turn on. My poor JVC waterproof camera. This little gadget survived my whole trip to Bali. Finally, its life expires. It played its part.
It’s a miracle, but I manage to scratch for a left that has some shape to it. It’s fast, but there’s some length in the ride. Dais catches another one as well. Despite the lame surf, we’re still getting an experience out of it. And to think how spoiled we are. People all over the US take vacations to SoCal just to put their feet in the water, make a sand castle, or even see the beach. Us, we have it in our backyard. Who cares if the surf’s not great? We have to appreciate and value this. It’s life, it’s free, it’s nature, and we’re in it enjoying it all for it’s splendor and glory. And for how much? The low price of fifty cents since there was a free hour on my meter.
We call our last waves in. The darkness throws my depth perception off. I jump ship and ass plant in ankle deep water. Mental note: people get paralyzed hitting sand in the shallows, never again. At the shower there’s a beachgoer rinsing his feet. He has a chair and a cooler strapped to him. “How are ya?” he asks.
“Good. Beautiful evening!”
“Yeah. Finally . . . summer decided to show up!”
It did, at least in the air it did. I know that the summer’s over in the water, that’s for sure. No more bare backing attempts. It’s wetsuit time, time to invest in a 4/3 perhaps.
A simple evening and a simple surf sesh. I say bye to Dais on the way out. On the drive home my senses feel refreshed. There’s a slight blur in my vision from the saltwater, and yet the traffic lights have an ornamental quality to them. The reds and greens look like they could be on a Christmas tree. The sky over the ocean is so black that it’s stretches seem deep and infinite. El Segundo’s dark, but the street lights have auras. The seat warmer feels good against my back and is at odds with my lower core temp. All these sensations, they’re things I haven’t had in a while. It feels good to be a surfer again. Tomorrow I can feel good about today.
Time: 1845-1945, 1 hr.
Conditions: 1-2 feet, inconsistent, high tide, calm wind, sunny, glassy, warm air, cold water.
Pre Blog:
I decided to play it safe and not surf during this big swell that just passed. It was already surfacing during the middle of last week while I was still recuperating from the weekend. A very close friend of mine recommended sitting this swell out. I would miss a swell but with it I’d get more time to allow my shoulder to heal properly. Overall, I’d get more longevity out of my shoulder. I didn’t want to, but I remained a dry-walker until the swell made its exit.
Summer, are you here?:
I wore jeans today at school. Mistake. I was so frickin’ hot. I showed up to each class in a pile of sweat. Perfect day for the beach, I thought. Even though I was gone for most of June, the consensus has been that this wasn’t a “true” summer; it was still a wetsuit summer. With the business day’s end, I drove home in a hurry with only one thought: grabbing my board and heading to Porto.
Injury or not, I’m paddling out:
The last thing I ate was a banana after my last class. It’s 1820; I’m starving. I bust open the fridge and tear into the pie that Cheryl dropped off last night. What a godsend. No, it’s not the best surfer fuel, but with an empty stomach that banana cream pie saves my life. I don’t think twice about leaving my wetsuit behind. It’s too hot today; there’s no need for it.
 |
| Cheryl, you're awesome. Silverton too. |
My shoulder feels decent, but I’ll only know for sure once I hit the water. I look for signs of onshore wind on my drive down. The flag by the airport lookout point is dead, trees aren’t swaying, and the air remains stale from what I can tell. I pass Dockweiler but can’t tell what the water’s doing. I see Hammers and the southside of the jetty. It looks small. I can’t deny the classic, fall-season Porto atmosphere as I pull in. The sun’s getting low, the ocean is glassy, and the thin beach crowd is a testament to the summer’s end. I park at a meter that has over an hour of time left. Leaning on the rail I watch the ocean. Everything’s perfect . . . well almost. There are just no fucking waves. I send out a text to let everyone know the situation. Rick replies and says that I should’ve went to San Onofre with him this weekend. Dais replies and says that it looks better towards the end of the lot. I’m not sure if he’s watching the surf cam at home, but my pondering ends when he rides right up behind me on his skateboard and catches me by surprise. I haven’t seen him in over a week. He tells me that he and Khang scored at 26th yesterday. They caught an odd window in the late morning when the wind turned offshore, and they even saw some guys getting dry barreled. “You just had to be there, “ he says.
“Yeah, it’s just one of those moments. If you weren’t there, you’ll never know. But if you do go, then you’ll get rewarded.”
“I’ve never seen 26th break like that.” We look on into the bronze sky. “You going?”
“It’s so small, but it’s so nice out.”
“I’ll go if you go.” Just then a rare bump in the surface occurs, and some inside shoulders pop up; they look rideable.
“Yeah, I’m going.”
While I’m changing I meet a guy that’s packing up to leave. His name is Bobby. He tells me that he’s just making the transition from a longboard to a shortboard. I give him my opinion about the “learning curve” and how I went through the same. However, he reveals that he’s only been surfing for four months, and he’s going from an eight-footer to a 5’7” thruster. That’s a hell of a jump, I’m thinking. We shake hands, and I walk out with Dais to the sand. “I hope the temp’s not too bad,” says Dais.
I think about how musty my armpits were in class and how my stench probably turned off the sorority chicks around me. “Nah, man. It has to be warm.” It’s my first time surfing in over a week. I put my foot in. It’s kind of cold. I get waist deep. It’s pretty cold. I paddle into the breaking shore pound and get submerged. It’s freezing; I should’ve brought my wetsuit! The look on Dais’ face acknowledges my sentiments. Fuck my life; fuck our lives. There’s only one other guy bare backing it.
We only have about an hour to surf, and things start off slow. From the start, we don’t expect much. We sit and wait for the random bump. A couple come, but we both scratch out. I draw first blood on a small close out. I catch it too close to shore and jump ship in shallow water. Dais throws me a shaka. I yell out to him, “It still counts!” The tides too high; it’s drowning out any potential peaks that are smothered by the high water line. I catch another close out, but on the way back out I see Dais on a right-hand shoulder. At least we’re both getting something.
The sun’s just under the horizon. I see hues of peach and pink ahead. It’s a beautiful contrast with the dark sky to the east and PV’s lights to the south. The moon shines brightly above and shimmers over the slightly rippled water. I take out my trusty camera, but it doesn’t turn on. My poor JVC waterproof camera. This little gadget survived my whole trip to Bali. Finally, its life expires. It played its part.
It’s a miracle, but I manage to scratch for a left that has some shape to it. It’s fast, but there’s some length in the ride. Dais catches another one as well. Despite the lame surf, we’re still getting an experience out of it. And to think how spoiled we are. People all over the US take vacations to SoCal just to put their feet in the water, make a sand castle, or even see the beach. Us, we have it in our backyard. Who cares if the surf’s not great? We have to appreciate and value this. It’s life, it’s free, it’s nature, and we’re in it enjoying it all for it’s splendor and glory. And for how much? The low price of fifty cents since there was a free hour on my meter.
We call our last waves in. The darkness throws my depth perception off. I jump ship and ass plant in ankle deep water. Mental note: people get paralyzed hitting sand in the shallows, never again. At the shower there’s a beachgoer rinsing his feet. He has a chair and a cooler strapped to him. “How are ya?” he asks.
“Good. Beautiful evening!”
“Yeah. Finally . . . summer decided to show up!”
It did, at least in the air it did. I know that the summer’s over in the water, that’s for sure. No more bare backing attempts. It’s wetsuit time, time to invest in a 4/3 perhaps.
A simple evening and a simple surf sesh. I say bye to Dais on the way out. On the drive home my senses feel refreshed. There’s a slight blur in my vision from the saltwater, and yet the traffic lights have an ornamental quality to them. The reds and greens look like they could be on a Christmas tree. The sky over the ocean is so black that it’s stretches seem deep and infinite. El Segundo’s dark, but the street lights have auras. The seat warmer feels good against my back and is at odds with my lower core temp. All these sensations, they’re things I haven’t had in a while. It feels good to be a surfer again. Tomorrow I can feel good about today.
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