AT TIDE’S MERCY, WED 26OCT2011 MOR

Location: Newport
Crew: Khang, Francis

Time: 0700-1100, 4 hrs

Conditions: sideshore wind, high tide, 4-5 ft, less consistency as tide rose.

            I believe every surfer does the same: keep a close eye on the surf forecasts during a flat spell. On this occasion, Wednesday brings in the new swell from the SSW. Obviously, surfing in the South Bay is out of the question. Tuesday night is filled with calls and texts back and forth with Francis and Khang, figuring out which call to make. I haven’t surfed Trestles in a while, and HB sounds like a guarantee. Finally, we settle on Huntington. Stirring things up, I get a phone call from Cosmic John. He tells me he’s driving from San Fran to the OC tomorrow, and we should meet for lunch. Because of this I motion towards surfing in Newport because Cosmic will be in the area. Another major factor affecting this swell is the huge tidal swings. Low tide is around 0200, and high tide in the morning will be over six feet around 0900. Surfline warns its viewers of things being drowned out early, but I have the day off, and I haven’t surfed since Friday, so I’m optimistic that this risk is worth it.

            I wake up at 0500 and put on my wetsuit. I used to do this a while ago, and it’s a habit that I’m trying to pick up again; it saves time but sucks if you get skunked or have to take a shit before leaving the house. I load up the whip, and Francis shows up right at 0515. After crossloading his stuff, I get a text from Khang saying that he’s a little late. It’s no matter. The dark atmosphere lets me know that we have a lot of time before sunrise. 

            We’re on the road at about 0530. With only one board each, all of our equipment fits with room to spare. Usually a drive like this is drowsy, but our sense of energy and stoke for this dawn patrol keeps us awake and aware. We reach Newport in no time and find parking with ease. As soon as I step outside of my car I feel the wind blowing hard—bad sign. Francis has to piss, so I follow him to shore for a look at the water. I can’t make out the waves, but the ocean is definitely alive. I can make out the whitewater, and it sounds fast. The wind isn’t quite onshore but more sideshore from the north. So far for clean conditions. 

            Once we start our walk on the sand, the sun is giving signs of light behind the horizon. There is decent size, easy 4-5 ft. Unfortunately, the tide is already too high. I don’t know this spot well, but the first break we see has two big waves breaking on each side of the jetty, and its waves are breaking close to shore. Moving towards the next break, the shape isn’t holding at all. We are forced to surf where the crowd is. Surfers occupy both jetties, so we sit in the middle with a couple stragglers. Surfline’s right about the swell, but the early morning window just sucks from the tide. I let a couple waves go after they just explode on the sand. The smaller waves hold the shape a little better. I catch a couple closeouts to start things off. My first decent wave is a fast right. It’s walled, but holds shape before it crashes down. I try to do a critical top turn on the lip that’s folding, but by the time I stick the landing I’m over shallow water. I’m forced to bail; waves like these are dangerous. We’re all going through the same thing while watching both jetties. In particular, I keep watching the left. The set waves are refracting off the reef. The guys paddling into them either scratch out or can’t make the sections, but there are shoulders at the end that should be makeable somehow. On a smaller wave, I catch my first left. I have to pump on the low line to escape the crumbling section and make it to the shoulder. Once I do, I’m able to get one turn with a little tail slide to end the ride (Barney tail slide). I’ve been working hard on my frontside turns, and the feeling of arching my tail down with speed is still an unfamiliar but exciting sensation that I strive for every time. 

            The tide’s only getting worse, but the conditions are still manageable. Khang takes off to surf the right-hander off the jetty. Only one surfer remains by the left at the south jetty. Francis says, “I’m gonna check it out,” as he paddles away. I sit in the middle sharing waves with a couple groms. It’s almost 0900, and I wonder why these kids aren’t in school yet. 

            I join Francis at the left, and the other guy there leaves a little after I show up. The waves off the jetty aren’t that clean. It’s all about the refraction. The wave’s disagreement is evident, as the take off seems very fast with a section that already has a head start. I’ve always been uneasy surfing right next to piers or big rocks; it’s eerie to me. Also, the sight of the sets forming in the open ocean approaching the rocks gives me a sense of feeling trapped. In this case, I paddle out to the very tip and catch a set wave. It’s so fast. The refraction causes a great deal of white wash, and I’m almost submerged in foam while feeling for my board. Once I make it to my feet it’s a wild ride: the speed, the momentum, the sound of the crashing water all around me, and yet there’s still the open face that I’m trying to get to. I now know the challenges of the other guys I watched in the morning. I manage to draw a good line to avoid the spilling water, but I’m already near the shore before I can reach the shoulder. So these waves at the jetty are too fast for turns (especially for this Barney), but they’re still really fun. Khang paddles over and says, “I need to get in on some of this.” He says that the right at the other jetty was fast. 

            So for about an hour we have this left all to ourselves. A grom on a funboard joins us, but there are enough waves to keep the rotation flowing. I have to give the kid credit. He was probably only in middle school, and yet I know some grown ass adults that would opt to sit this one out. It’s about 1000 when a fresh crew of three surfers invades our area. Hmmmmm, the spot has waves, but I don’t really feel like competing for them. I tell the guys that I’m paddling back towards the middle, in which they follow my lead. “We milked that left for what it was worth,” says Khang. I concur. 

            Unfortunately, the next half hour is the tide’s max in height. The waves are breaking too close to shore. There are three groms cranking out some nice turns on the right, but we don’t want to invade their fun zone. I paddle around the north jetty to the next break, and the waves there are even worse. The fellas shift over to where I am, and then we end up walking back to our original break. Now it’s about 1100, and the tide is draining back out causing some very choppy conditions. Khang and Francis get their last waves while I struggle to get one that explodes on the sand. I can’t say that we’re exhausted. We hoped to score, but the conditions weren’t prime. However, we did make the best of it, so much that we invested four hours despite the backwash. We milked it, and it was worth it. 

            Back at the car I have a missed call. Cosmic John is in the area. He just got here literally as we were ending the session. I give him a ring, and he tells us to meet him at the café around the corner. Khang spots him first. He’s wearing a straw hat, shorts, t-shirts, some awesome shades, and he’s barefooted. I yell out at him, and he gives an enthusiastic double shaka and says, “Heeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyy!” We shake hands through the car, do a rough greeting, and introduce Francis while a couple cars have to drive around us. Cosmic introduces us to his young apprentice Jordan who’s come along on his drive from San Fran. We turn the car around to park while they have to walk the remainder. The scene is truly that of Master and apprentice. Despite the red light at the intersection, Cosmic John walks across paying no mind to the street. Meanwhile, Jordan stops abruptly, furiously hits the walk button then finally shuffles along to catch up with the Polarity Therapist. 

            In the café we congregate by the entrance to do proper greetings. I try to ensure that Cosmic gets a good intro with Francis, but that appears to be happening on its own will. I end up talking to Jordan a bit which somehow leads to a conversation about PC gaming and Battlefield 3. The two old Asian ladies at the register keep asking if we’re going to buy something, and it’s obvious that they’re perturbed. After we buy our sandwiches, we all sit and engage in some morning conversation. Cosmic gives me the details of his Philippines fundraiser event that’s happening next month in San Fran. I tell him that Lauren and I will be there, and he’s delighted to hear it. He says that Clay Marzo, Jamie Sterling, and Rusty Long will be there. He also tells us about some of the things to be raffled off like surfboards, a GoPro camera, and even two tickets to Fiji. I ask him about the area because I’d like to take Lauren out somewhere nice to eat, and he says, “Don’t worry, you’ll be eating with us.” His reply actually makes me nervous. I don’t do well around celebrities, but . . . if I never get out of my comfort zone I’ll never learn anything. 

            Breakfast ends with a positive vibe. Cosmic’s goodbyes are with hugs, firm handshakes, and huge smiles, embracing all of us as if he’s known us for years. Once the three of us are in the car to take off, Cosmic returns to drop off a little something from up north. His kindness and generosity blows our minds. He didn’t have to turn around, come back, and do that.

            During the drive home, Khang and Francis talk about trying to get the days off to make it to the fundraiser event. Cosmic’s energy is so positive it’s contagious. I’m happy to have a free spirit like that in my life and happy about how the day’s events lined up. If we surfed somewhere else the day would have ended on a different note.  I’m glad it ended on this one.

LIKE CUMMING DUST, FRI 21OCT2011 MOR

BAJA VIDEO

Crew: Solo

Time: 0700-0845, 1hr & 45 min

Conditions: Gloomy, onshore wind, 1-2 foot surf, weak, and crumbly. 

            This weekend I am obligated to take a trip to the Ocotillo desert with my childhood friends. Unfortunately, none of them surf. It’s actually quite the opposite: they love dirtbikes. I have been up to my nose in midterms, papers, readings, and homework to the point that I haven’t surfed since Sunday. I know for “normie nine-to-fivers” a surf schedule like this is normal. Perhaps I’m spoiled, but for me that’s a long time. Finally, it’s Friday, and I’ve done all my homework for the weekend in advance to free me up for this trip. It pains me to leave the ocean, so I must, at all costs, get some kind of surf in my veins to hold me over for the weekend. Driving to Porto, I already see that it’s blowing onshore a little. Even though surfline forecasts the surf to be minuscule, I can’t help but be optimistic. After all, it’s been four days since I’ve even seen the water, so the image in my head is ideal. I score the last free spot on 45^th and take a look at the surf. It’s gray, overcast, and the waves are looking more like ripples. Any other day I would turn around and go home, but surprisingly I am so surf deprived that I’m already dawning my Jedi robe to change-out. I know it’s small. . . . Fuck it. 

            Vans and cars pass me on their way to the lot. I wonder if they think I’m wasting my time. The goal is to catch anything rideable. Getting one turn would be considered a miracle. The lot’s pretty sparse, indicative that people pulled up and left no sooner than they could give the sigh of disappointment that we all know so very well. Once again, fuck it, I’m here. It’s kind of hard to write this session because I feel like I can sum it up in a paragraph. There are mostly longboarders out, but there are a couple guys on thrusters too. I sit and let small waves go by until I accept the fact that this is all I’m gonna get. Waves that look like lefts and rights end up being fizzlers that have me going straight. I feel like a fool in my disco wetsuit, for these are not the conditions for an ocean disco. I get a couple waves that have shape, but they are so weak that I can only go down the line. If I pump too hard I stall, so I lightly trim until the spilling water hinders my progress; it’s one of those small days. I surf until 0845, just in time to escape being sodomized by the few, the brave, the Manhattan Beach parking enforcement. 

The Trip:

 

            My best friend Manolo is the most unorganized person I know. He doesn’t think; he acts and cleans up the mess after. Basically, he’s my polar opposite. It figures that we’ve been best friends since sixth grade, and since second grade we hated each other. He’s at the dealership getting an oil change on his truck. The plan is to meet up and have breakfast to kill some time. I take him to Bob’s Hawaiian Restaurant in Gardena, where Klaude and I ate last weekend. It’s still gloomy in Gardena, and this Friday morning brings an empty atmosphere.

            A table of Gardena city employees eat their breakfast; three of them look local (Hawaiian). An old Japanese man enters by himself, sits in the corner, and orders scrambled eggs, spam, and two scoops of rice. Manolo’s grateful that I’ve taken him here, and coincidentally our table has a map of Maui under the glass. I take a look at my beloved Napili until the waitress places my plate on top of it. Manolo orders the machaca which I’m surprised is even on the menu. The waitress easily passes as a local chick; this restaurant really resembles a hole-in-the wall local spot. We talk shit and go over the daily plans. 

            Afterwards, I drop him off and am ready by 1100. He’s lagging. I call to see what’s going on. He says he’s still packing but to come over anyway. When I show up, he’s throwing shit in his cab and truck bed. No folding, no placing items appropriately where they fit, he’s just chucking shit here and there. He looks at my two items, a duffle bag and gear bag, and says, “Damn, Matt! You were in the military. I can’t pack that light!” 

He goes back into his house while I try to make room for my things. “Really, Three comforters?” I say to myself. He spends the next hour trying to rearrange Smokey’s dog cage, two dirtbikes, and some other camping supplies. I grit my teeth, holding myself back to tell him this absolutely can’t be done. Finally, he sacrifices the dog cage and extra bike. 

The next stop is at the motorcycle shop to get some tie-downs, and from there we pick up my dirtbike from our other friend Boris’ house; he’s meeting us on Saturday night. By the time we’re on the road, it’s 1600. We reach Mission Viejo to meet our other childhood friend Sebastian. He’s an amateur dirtbike racer, the grease monkey of the group, and the organizer of this whole getaway. 

Numerous problems occur on the way to Ocotillo. One, Seba’s truck constantly needs to be jump started. Two, they fuck up our order at Carl’s Jr. which results in us going back and acting like assholes. At 2200 we finally reach Ocotillo Wells where we encounter our last problem of the night; Manolo’s truck gets stuck. The sand is so powdery, fine and soft. Also, not having two-wheel drive doesn’t help. Going into the weekend I justified this trip in my mind. These are my best friends in the whole world, and trips like these are necessary. All three of us are on our hands and knees digging out the truck with firewood, the closest thing we have to a shovel. 

 

It’s 2345, and we’ve finally reached camp. It’s hot. Fall weather? I don’t think so. Even with the sun down, the earth radiates energy like a boulder that’s been smoldering in fire. It’s Smokey’s first camping trip. Manolo got Smokey days before his execution date at the pound. Sure, he slobbers all over the place and is so hyper it’s annoying. However, he’s loyal to us and barks or growls at anything foreign; he’s one of us. Seba’s on the phone until we fall asleep. His friend Mike is lost and can’t find the camp. 

It’s about 0730 when I wake. I’m dirt-tired, but the sun’s rays are putting a hurtin’ on our tent; it’s more like an oven now. It’s so early and already so hot. I turn over and see Manolo sleeping butt-ass naked. Stretch marks on the side of his ass are visible. Hmmmm, nothing spells out “close friends” better than tent nudity. He scratches his balls as I unzip the tent. I damn near trip over Smokey who’s spent the night at the entrance. 

The heat constipates our progress. Mike finally arrives, and by the look of his tattoos, weird gums, and ear rings, I figure that he’s a filthy animal like the rest of us; a pirate. Manolo’s in charge of breakfast which . . . to me is a big mistake. I fight my control-freak tendencies and let him do his thing. Copious amounts of Rachael Ray cooking oil get poured onto the pan. He cuts the potatoes on the dirty ass table that’s been exposed to the dust all night. There’s no sanitizing here; this is some straight-up man shit. Bacon, eggs, grease-soaked toast, and potatoes . . . gawd damn it’s good, but it’s so oily that I feel a light headache coming on.

We gear up, warm up the bikes, and head out. Seba always takes the lead, as we would be lost in this vast land of dust, hills, and sand. Unfortunately, Mike misses our cue and darts away from us. We wait . . . we wait . . . and then we wait some more. The fucking guy is gone. This is against dirtbike riding protocol. We always leave together and stay put if we get lost, but he’s drawn his own line and gone rogue. After riding around for an hour looking for him, we decide to go back and rehydrate. 

 

When Mike finally comes back to camp, he says he assumed we were behind him. Oh well. So here we go, our official riding can officially begin. I’ve never been a motor head. I had a phase in my younger days when I upgraded the turbo in my Ford Mustang which led to $$$$$$$ in racing parts that I’m ashamed to admit. Thank god that’s over. I’m no better on a dirtbike. When I ride I ride to survive and return uninjured. Manolo likes to take ridiculous risks. Years ago he ended up down the side of a mountain. Seba and I were sipping our beers waiting for him when we heard his cry for help. He wasn’t seriously hurt, and it actually ended up being fuckin’ funny seeing Seba recover his bike in the bushes and seeing Manolo with all that dirt and grass in his helmet. Good times. Seba’s a pro in my book. He would be a contender in the pro circuit if he had some kind of sponsorship and more resources. Jumps, hill climbs, he can do all that shit. 

So here we are following Seba. The cloud of dust is so thick that I have to hang quite a ways back. I’m always last, and I’m approaching a little hill. Once I’m over it I realize that there’s nothing under me. I’m catching air on what appears to be at least a six foot drop straight down. What should I be doing? From my time on the bike, I’ve learned that I should be hitting the throttle to raise my front tire, but . . .  all I see is the ground below, my handle bars and wheel getting closer to it, and I’m struggling to keep my feet on the pegs. When I land, in that fraction of a second, I’m thinking, Yes, I fucking made it! But what really happens is my front wheel gets buried, my grip is ripped from the handle bars, and my head feels like it crashes into a wall as it hits the sand. All I hear are engines. Dust and sand are in the air, and I slowly . . . slowly get up to raise my bike. I see Mike yards in front of me. He’s standing, but he’s slumped over his bike and holding his chin. Once I start it and join everyone else, I learn the outcome. Seba accidentally led us over a razorback. Manolo followed, and the king of spills miraculously made the landing. Mike’s chin slammed into his handle bars. His back is tweaked, but he never fell off his bike. Blood drips down his chin and onto his shirt. It’s hard to assess the damage because of his beard, but he downplays it and motions to continue. 

We ride the sandwashes, check out the geological sites, and watch Seba practice his jumps. We stop at the Blue Inn for cold drinks and ice cream. The cashier sees Mike and offers a wet rag for his chin.

We’ve been on the saddle for over four hours. Seba is pushing us to the limit. Manolo lets his frustrations be known. I do my best not to throw in the towel and let Seba know I’m tired. We’re dehydrated, Mike’s legs are cramping to the point that he can’t kick start his bike without resting. We’re all out of water. After Seba’s last couple jumps, we enter the dry river bed which is a straight shot to our camp and Smokey. We’re all fifth gear pinned at good intervals. I approach a cloud of dust and see one of our riders on the dirt. I think it’s Mike, but it turns out that Mike is standing over Seba. Gawd damn . . . it just doesn’t stop. 

 

Poor Seba. He’s a good rider, but he’s not completely in sync with the differences with his two-stroke from his four-stroke. He popped a wheelie at fifty-five mph. With a four-stroke, letting off the throttle would drop the front wheel, but not with his two-stroke. The horse broke loose which flipped and rolled him over the hard, compact dirt. “That must’ve hurt!” Manolo says. “I ain’t never seen Seba that fucked up.” My childhood friend, 6’3”, the same guy I saw knock out the neighborhood gangbanger when we were kids, disrobes all his gear down to his bare chest and lies down. His pants are ripped, and he has two raw road-rash marks behind his shoulders that look like strawberries. 

He pulls out his cell phone, calls Boris, and leaves a message: “Guy, we’ve encountered some difficulties. I’m pretty fucked up, the bike’s fucked up. It’s better if you stay home, guy.” He gently places the phone on his chest and rests another fifteen minutes before heading to camp.

Vicodin and beer rescues the wounded. Mike comes out of the darkness near the camp fire and says, “Look, it’s like a vagina.” He spreads his chin apart to reveal a deep, fleshy wound. I cringe, Manolo cringes, and we can’t believe he functioned like that throughout the day. After verification that none of us know how to stitch, he opts to see the doctor during the week. 

The rest of the night is buffoonery. We eat so much that we require Smokey’s services to kill everything off. A couple gunshots later and a propane tank nearly misses Manolo’s head as a mushroom cloud of a fireball erupts in the sky. Seba puts a cardboard barrel over the fire without telling us that he’s soaked the inside with two-stroke fuel and gasoline. When it catches, everything around us turns to a bright orange followed by immense heat over our exposed skin. Everyone, including the dog, gets up to run away from the heat. 

In the morning it’s another splurge fest. We pack up, hit the road, and say goodbye to Mike at the gas station. Mike ends up being a really nice guy. Manolo and I give Seba our approval for him to be part of the crew. We follow Seba home to make sure his truck doesn’t die, and by 1700 on Sunday I’m home. 

I missed the surf, and this whole weekend, on its surface, looks like one big debacle. But now, looking back, I appreciate this weekend so much. We’re not kids anymore, and with our own agendas (like surfing) it’s so rare that we get to see each other. I love seeing my best friend, the disaster that he is, live his life on improvisation. No matter how messy and ugly, he manages to get from point A to B every time; isn’t that all that matters? Seba, with the appearance of a beastly man possesses a forever giving heart. He’s been persistent over the years until we give-in to make these trips happen. So selfless that he’s taught me how to ride and maintains my bike without request of reimbursement. Days later, we call or text to see if we’re all right. Who am I to be so selfish with my time. More than family, these guys are my blood. Good friends are hard to find. 

SURPRISE-SURPRISE, SUN 16OCT2011 MOR

Crew: Rick & Klaude

Time: 0645-0900, 2 hrs & 15 min

Conditions: Clear skies, warm, mid-tide, crowded, 2-3 feet, scattered peaks, semi consistent.

            After missing Rick and Manny at South Oxnard yesterday, I make sure to meet up with Rick today. Last night he told me that he’d be surfing at Porto at first light. I wake up at 0545 and pull out of my parking space by 0605. Klaude gives me a call, and I tell him where I’m heading. The gate still isn’t open at Porto yet, and it’s too dark to see what the water’s doing. For some reason, nobody wants the free parking on 45^th St. As soon as the gates open, I pull over to the right and park my car. I walk down to the rocks. The tide is still on the low side. I can see some peaks, but they are long with little corners at the end. I shoot a text to Rick, and he says that he’s leaving his house. When he parks, he says that it should get better as the tide rises. I don’t expect much, but I want to get some face time with my surf mentor. I go back to my car to change. Klaude calls. Apparently, there’s some kind of race that has Vista Del Mar shut down. I tell him to park behind my car. He doubts that the space will still be available. 

            On the sand, Rick and I recap over yesterday’s surf. He tells me that they surfed Point Dume and that he got some really long rides. Our paddle out is easy. Surprisingly, a little left sprouts up in front of me. Rick lets me have the wave, and it actually has a soft, peeling shoulder. I underestimate it, get lazy, and never make it to the open face. It’s such a mellow morning, especially after the brutal session at HB, so I’m just cruising with an easy paddle to get around. Rick comments on the red tide. The water has a reddish-brown tint to it and smells poopy. Some three foot sets actually come through, but the bigger waves are on the walled side. None-the-less, the smaller waves actually hold shape. Rick does his thing, paddling into everything he can get for rides all the way to shore. Klaude paddles out to join us, and he tells me he parked right behind me. He’s riding Rick’s fish that he loaned to him. “Looks like the breakfast crew arrived,” says Klaude.

            I look around a little confused. I gesture towards all the longboarders. “You mean all these guys?” I ask. 

            “Yeah. There were only like three guys when I got here, and now look.” 

            Thankfully, there’s a little current pulling north, so the crowds get displaced while we paddle to keep our position. Rick and Klaude venture further south to sit with the crowd while I remain in isolation. Some rights actually come my way that hold. As usual, I can always get turns going backside. I still can’t believe that there’s actually some shape this morning. Even though it’s small, it’s big enough to have fun on. My weight distribution is more towards the back of the board when I drop in. My rear foot is firm on the stomp pad, and my board cooperates when I climb the face for a top turn. I get a second turn and bog out on the third. From the way things looked at dawn, I didn’t expect this. 

            Klaude gets some rides too. I see him paddling back from shore, so I know he got some distance. Initially, he said he wouldn’t be out for a while because the red tide messes with his sinuses, but it’s already 0830. I think he’s surprised at the fun conditions as well. Just when we think that the waves shut down, we paddle towards the inside. Klaude says, “Look at this!” I turn around, and a left is sneaking up on us. “It’s coming right for you,” he says. The section behind the shoulder is about to closeout, but I paddle in right where the peak is still open. I’m staring down the line of an open, long left. A guy towards the inside wants to drop in but backs off when he sees me coming. I pump and do my best to top turn, but it’s really sluggish. I don’t catch it all the way to shore, but the late take off was really fun. When I paddle back, Klaude says, “Man, you were in the perfect spot for that. That was clutch.” It’s the cherry on top for the morning. Even though the surf report was poor to fair, 1-3 ft, it ends up being a fun little session. Klaude heads up the hill ahead of me. I try to wave to Rick before I leave, but he’s too far away. I catch a tiny left back to shore and join Klaude up the hill. The post surf energy is good. It’s barely 0900, the day’s still fresh, and we’ve started it the best way possible with a handful of waves. Klaude thanks me for having him over on Saturday. “We need to check out Gardena Bowl,” he says. We’re starting this ritual to eat at new Hawaiian restaurants after our sessions down south. Unfortunately I’ll be out of town again next weekend, so he says he’ll save it for when I get back. Now I’m home with three tacos in my belly and a cup of green tea. It’s only 1100, and my day is already fulfilled. Finally, I get a good session surfing local, despite the expectation for nothing. I love it when things work out this way.