A WEEKEND WITH DONNY DUCKBUTTER: PART II, SUN 22JAN2012 EVE

Loc: Palos Verdes

Crew: Al

Time: 1630-1800

Conditions: Low tide, glassy, consistent, 6ft with occasional 7+.

    

     It’s 1500, but I hit the snooze button. I’m still tired. I get up, change, walk to the kitchen, and drink a glass of water. Al sits up on the couch and says, “I heard your alarm. . . . I was hoping you wouldn’t get up.” He squints and rubs his eyes. I grab my 3/2 Rip Curl wetsuit that I haven’t worn since August since it’s a warm day. On the way to El Porto he says, “I just found the sweet spot on my pillow when you woke me up.”

    

     Driving down 45^th St. we can see big lines moving in. “Holy shit. I’ve never seen Porto like this,” says Al. The parking lot is still empty with just a few people hanging out in their cars. I don’t know how the surf was this morning, but upon seeing this it had to be good. The wind’s onshore, but it’s light enough not mess up the waves. The ocean looks like a big, nonstop set, just one wave after the other rolls onto shore, but that’s the problem. The tide is too low. We watch it for a while. No one’s out there. 

     We drive to Rosecrans which held good shape on low tide when I surfed there on Thanksgiving, but that was just a four-foot day. These waves coming in are an easy six feet. I can make out the shoulders as the waves break over the shallows, but they’re too fast. It’s 1545, and we’re running out of time. PV, local, PV, local? Al’s not stoked. He’s standing next to me with his hands in his pockets. His face lacks expression. I turn to him and say, “All right, Al, check it out.”

     “What?”

     “I’m gonna make an OG call. We’re going somewhere else.”

     There’s a pause in the conversation as we’re standing there. I’m waiting for him to counter my suggestion, to say that we shouldn’t even bother. He reaches for the car door, opens it, and says, “All right, but we need to hurry up. It’s gonna be dark really fast.”

     We take the coastline to PV. I’m on a mission, raging, tapping my foot impatiently at the stop lights. It’s 1552, and we’re passing Hermosa. “It’s a long way,” says Al. In my heart I know it is. We shouldn’t have slept in so long, but we have to check it out. I’m so unsatisfied with the morning’s surf. Calling it a day is unacceptable. I’m hell-bent on paddling out. 

     Somehow we make it to PV fast. We walk off and check out the surf in different spots. Al’s scared of heights, so he looks through a fence next to someone’s house. I walk to the edge of the trail to check the surf. Daylight’s burning. I can make out about six guys in the lineup, but the surf doesn’t look so great. We are so far away that the waves look like whitewash, but we’ll only know for sure if we go down. I storm back to my wagon and open the rear hatch. I’m half way in my wetsuit when Al looks over and sees me. Even though he’s wearing his sunglasses I can see his eyebrows rise as if to say, “Are you fucking serious?” He walks up and says, “You’re joking right?” I give him an expressionless stare as I zip up my wetsuit. “Okay, we’ll go paddle out,” he says. 

     All I’m thinking about is the window. In a rush, I lock up the car and start jogging down. Evening pedestrians and hikers perch at the top of the cliff, enjoying the view. The rocks on the trail are sharp and hurt my feet. Fuck, should’ve took my slippers. Al has his booties on, so he leads the charge no problem. At the base of the cove I still can’t see the waves; they’re breaking far. All I can see is a little bit of face that turns into whitewash. The tide is dangerously low. Rocks are exposed all over the inside. I scout the water to see if I can find a deep channel we can get to. I tell Al to be careful as he trails behind. Once I’m in waist deep water I paddle carefully, extending my fingers on the bottom stroke to feel for any obstacles. Once I feel comfortable, I take my leash from my teeth and tie it to my ankle. Al’s much farther back taking his time. 

     I learned my lessons on duckdiving over reef in Bali. When the whitewash comes I let it roll over me. Making my way further out, I start to do shallow duckdives. Despite the long paddle I feel good. There’s already something special about this session. I don’t know if it’s because Al is with me or because there’s some underlying connection with the ocean where I just know it’s gonna be good. I see the first signs of shape once I’m half way to the lineup. A small four-foot left peels on the inside. The shoulder is gentle and slow—inviting. I paddle faster as I approach the bottom of the wave and turn around just in time to catch a five-foot left. The section builds fast, but I still pull a half-turn by stomping on the tail and rotating my torso clockwise. I see Al paddling over a wave as I kick-out. 

     This place is so deceiving. The waves looked horrible from the cliff, but in the lineup the conditions are pristine. This cove can be anywhere on any coast. The dark, shadowy cliff looms in contrast to the low lying sun’s orange beams. The glassy water reflects a red, soiled brown but turns yellow and gold when it’s traced out to sea. I look at Al, but I don’t say anything. I just smile. I’ll let him figure it out for himself. 

     He says, “Dude, I saw you catch that first one!” He doesn’t sit wide like me, but he immediately goes to the middle. He gets his first wave. It’s soft and slow, and he kicks-out unscathed. Just then, a set comes out the back. I paddle out to meet it, but it breaks too far out. The waves are unpredictable. The inside can be good, or it breaks so far that nobody gets it. I get the last wave of the set. I have to be honest; This is not the wave for turns, at least not for me. There is simply too much face to work with for a thin board. The wave’s an easy six feet, maybe just a bit bigger, and the whole time I’m trying to pump to make it to the shoulder, but it’s impossible. It turns into a game of “beat the section.” I race behind lips about to fold, as I take the highline just under them to get across. It’s not a fast wave, but the size creates speed, and I eject, full body flop, out of the wave. 

     On the “in between” waves, I watch Al paddle into a left. “Yeaaah, Al!” I yell, but I see him fall on the pop-up. When he resurfaces I say, “Noooooo, what happened?!” I point at the back of the wave, and it’s still peeling away. That would’ve been a long one. Al gives me that look. It’s a smile mixed with some “fuck my life.” This time Al paddles towards the top of the wave and gets the next monster. I can’t see him from the back, but he takes it all the way to the inside. 

     It is indeed a thin crowd of about eight surfers. For some reason, the other surfers paddle closer to Al and I. Twenty minutes ago we had the spot to ourselves. I recognize that one of the guys surfs Porto. I’ve named him The Rastafarian after all these years. I say, “Hey, what’s up, man? No shape at Porto huh?”

     “Noooo, not right now, but it was good this morning!”

     “Yeah, I see you at Porto a lot.”

     He says his name is Wagner. I introduce him to Al and tell him he’s from Santa Cruz. They both sit in the lineup and talk about Steamer Lane. I’m stoked that Al’s met a lot of mellow people on this trip. 

     For the remainder of the session the waves are nonstop. I even catch a right that Wagner backs out of. He hoots me on as I disappear below the lip, but it already starts to close before I can top turn. As I paddle back, Wagner’s throwing me shakas. 

     There are a couple set waves that I have to race for. When I turn-and-go at the last second, the drops are a little throaty. It doesn’t matter that this wave is soft, just the size and late drops alone clench your anus a little bit. Al’s with the big boys at the top of the wave; I see he’s confident entering the realm of strangers. I choose to gamble wide. 

     It’s almost 1800, and I realize that it’s just me, Al, and a grom towards the inside. “How do you like it?” I ask.

     “Ohhhhh, dude . . . it’s beautiful. We scored. I love this spot.” 

     “We should probably catch one in soon. It’s getting dark.” 

     What I really mean is that I’m getting a little freaked out. This spot is too remote for any passerby to see you in trouble, and after this evening’s score I think we shouldn’t press our luck too much. I notice that the grom is gone, and I see people walking back up the trail. The residential homes above the cove have their lights on, and our isolation makes everything seem darker. My nervousness causes bad decisions. I scratch-out on the small waves on the inside. I paddle out a little further but wipeout from going too late. I want to work my way closer to shore, but I see another macking set in the faint horizon—the finisher. I’m in the impact zone, duckdiving waves with barely any light. By the third duckdive I signal to Al that I’m done. There’s no need to be greedy; I’ve had my fair share. 

     We catch the whitewash in, barely able to make out the dark boulders that lurk underneath. It’s a painstaking task trekking over the rocks, but there’s something good within each sigh and each exhale. There’s positive residue after this session, but it just might be Al. “Dude,” he says as he puts up his fist. I put mine to his. “We fuck-ing scored!” He’s radiating in the dark, and honestly . . . he can’t shut up about the session for the rest of the night. He calls John on the drive back to Gundo, bragging about the giant lefts. Al tells me I’m an idiot for not making this my regular spot. “Matt, you need to come here so that they know your face. If I lived here, I’d be here every day; I wouldn’t even look at Porto.”

Dinner with the Germans:

     I’m not sure how much justice that nap did me earlier, but I’m fading fast. I want to go straight to the bar for a beer, but Al insists that he freshens up first. I guess. . . . I like to wear my saltiness like a badge of honor, like my ridiculous neck tan. I take pride in tough, crusty hair, bloodshot eyes from being in the water all day, ashy skin that’s coated from the ocean, remnants of Vertra that never came off, and the same outfit for a week until it smells like a shrimp’s asshole. These are the things that I love about surfing. 

     We get caught up watching the 49ers lose when I get a call from Boris the Blade. He’s having a barbecue, and my Argentinean, childhood friend Sebastian is already there. Since Al’s from Ecuador, I’ve been meaning to introduce these guys. 

     I can barely keep my eyes open when we reach Boris’. I haven’t seen Seba since sushi night. Boris’ German neighbor Matthias joins us too. It’s a wonderful reunion, but what’s better is how Al is hitting it off with everyone. I really did show him a good time. Fuck the bars and Hermosa. Dan’s party and Boris’s barbecue randomly worked out in the mix. We sat at the dinner table eating and exchanging stories for about two hours, laughing our asses off to random tales about dirtbike riding and Iraq. Al brought up how the AC was on my side of the room. Every time he’d fart, I’d smell it before he did because the AC kept blowing and recirculating it on me. I tried to get him back by shitting in a Pringles can. I uncapped the lid when he came in the room, but the AC still gave me the worst of the brunt. We then switched to childhood stories and how in third grade I was already spray painting penis art in the alley. Leaving Boris’, Seba makes the promise to Al that he’ll be surfing the next time they meet. 

     As we drive off, Al says he misses this style of life. “That’s how it was in Ecuador,” he says. If you’re hungry you just go over your friends house and eat; open his fridge, like family. He helps me realize how lucky I am. Not only do I have an awesome surf circle, but I also have great people in my life outside of the water too. 

     We go to The Lighthouse in Hermosa, but what’s left of the Sunday crowd are a bunch of drunk scallywags; they must’ve been there all day watching football. Guys stumble, propping up on the bar, barely able to stand. A couple hogs feast on nachos on the tables outside. Two old Asian ladies have so much make-up on that they look twenty-one from far away. Once the karaoke and dancing starts, I tell Al that I need to get out of this place. 

     I throw in a Japanese surf porn that Dais gave me for Christmas. It’s almost midnight, and we’re eating warm brownies with ice cream on top. For Sunday, January 22^nd, 2012, this is the perfect way to end the day.

The Final Skunk:

     We planned to surf with Francis and Khang in the morning, but the weather’s gone awry again. I wake to the same scene as Saturday: wet streets and pouring rain. “We can still check it,” says Al. I make the call that it’s not meant to be. A three day vacation with only one day of surf, we accept this. I tell him that we need to at least grab some food before he goes. Dan calls and says he’s down to meet up. We drive to Gardena, and Pho’s one of the best things you can eat when it’s raining. Our chit-chat is low energy, and there’s a sense of finality in the comments made. We say by to Dan and Al loads his car for the drive home. One more serving of brownies and ice cream, and then it’s goodbye until the next time.

A WEEKEND WITH DONNY DUCKBUTTER: PART I, SUN 22JAN2012 MOR

Loc: Upper Trestles

Crew: Al and Kevin

Ran into: Khang, Dais, and DK

Time: 0700-0945

Conditions: Initially started as an offshore, glassy, clean, high-tide morning but turned side shore and choppy.

21JAN2012:

     It’s just past midnight on Saturday morning when I finally lie down. It’s a mixture of emotions. First, I’m bummed that Lauren will be gone the whole weekend because she’s going to the 49ers game with her coworkers, especially since she never has time to do anything with me anymore. We’ve almost been together for three years, and I’m afraid she’s hit that wall where she’d rather spend her free time wherever I’m not. It sucks, but this is reality, and my relationship is failing. Her boyfriend’s a surf bum, and maybe she’s having an epiphany about that. I guess it’s understandable. Women want security, a guy with a plan. Me? I go with the flow—a full time student, surf lover, on the verge of graduating and applying for graduate school. Can I blame her for being turned-off and losing interest? 

     Second, Al is on his way. We have a full roster for tomorrow’s surf. Not only am I excited that my battle buddy’s coming down, but he’s going to meet my whole crew. It’s going to be a good day.

Los Desperados:

     It’s exactly 0552 when I’m awoken by a text message. It’s Klaude, and he wrote, “Man, that’s some rain coming down.” 

     What the fuck? No. I know he’s not saying what I think he’s saying, but that’s just the SS talking. I know exactly what’s going on here. I stumble out of my bedroom, in my blue Forever Lazy, through the living room and pull apart the blinds. Rain . . . motherfuckin’ rain. Al won’t be here until about 0700, but that doesn’t matter. I lie back down and hope for the best. 

     I get a call from Klaude a little later. He says, “I’m at Porto right now, and there’s not one guy out.”

     “Is there size?” I ask.

     “Yeah . . . there’s size, but . . . it’s really stormy.” 

 

     Al arrives a little after 0800. He’s been on the road since 0200 and says that there were accidents on the freeway the whole drive down. I let him know the situation’s not looking good for surf. Just as we’re planning breakfast, Klaude calls and says he’s checking out 26^th with Khang.

     So here we are at the 26^th St. lot with only a couple other cars parked here. I introduce everyone to Al; if we’re all not surfing together we’ve at least met up for the morning patrol. Khang says he’s down to surf Trestles tomorrow, so I hand off my state parking pass and agree to meet. 

     There’s still the issue of breakfast, and even though the DRC has a strong “earn your breakfast” policy, we make the exception because Al’s here. We three head off to Metro Café to get him acquainted with the best pancakes in town. Klaude’s an OG here; this is his spot. Ron’s working, and he also knows our waitress and just about everyone else. Al’s surprised at how well we’re treated when we walk through the door. Even without the surf, the energy here starts Al’s trip on a good note. We try to convince Klaude to come to Trestles tomorrow, but he has to stay local to tend to pressing matters.

The Hunt for Chupacabra

     We drop Klaude off at his van, unsure if we’ll surf together this weekend. The onshore wind’s still howling, and my initial instincts say to just go home and wait it out. Al says, “Matt, we need to get wet today.” I don’t understand how he’s doing it, but for being awake as long as he has, we have to at least try. 

     We’re back on Vista Del Mar passing Dockweiler; it’s still really windy. We drive through Porto and pass Parks again, and it’s all the same. Either way, we have a lot to talk about. If there’s anything that soldiers are good at, it’s bullshitting. We spent nearly a year in Iraq staring at each other’s crusty faces as roommates, so this drive is nothing. We cruise past Redondo and stop at Torrance Beach which is still windy. Seeing PV in the distance, I have a feeling that the conditions there aren’t much better. 

     We discover a Pagoda that overlooks Haggerty’s and a paved walkway that leads down to it. “Look, look at that peak right there,” says Al. Hmmmmm, I see it; it’s a little left, but the wind is still so brutal. We don’t see anyone catch any rides. I can see it in his eyes. He’ll do it; he’ll suit up and paddle out right now.

     “Let's check out The Cove,” I say. This view is always breathtaking. Our shoes get caked in mud as we approach the cliff. There are surfers down there, but the conditions are just so unwelcoming. We drive to the trail, walk half way down, and take a look. The wind produces scattered peaks everywhere. White wash covers the entire length of the long paddle out. We’re both over it. Defeated and dry, I suggest we go back to the house and check again later.

Surf Bums On-call:

     I throw in Lauren’s surf movie Year Zero, and it only makes things worse. We watch the Hobgoods get deep, slashing carves on insane lefts and Dion Agius go for broke on his airs. 

     Rick calls and asks to swing by. I’ve told Al a lot about Rick, my surf mentor, so it’s great seeing them meet each other. Sometimes Rick can be longwinded, but I’m happy for the interaction today. He shows us his favorite surf forecast sites, what to look for, and what we can be expecting for tomorrow. 

     It’s past four o’clock, so we tell Rick we have to go out for an evening patrol.

     Back at the Porto lot it’s a gorgeous evening. The sun’s low, the sky is clear, and the horizon’s turning into a dark orange. Everything’s fine except the fact that the wind has barely died, and the waves are still stormy. We watch one guy paddle out and catch a right. The current is so strong that he’s drifting all the way to Rosecrans. It still looks rideable. 

     We watch a guy play with a professional kite. Instead of a reel it has handle bars, and the thing is gigantic. The wind is so strong that the kite drags him on the sand until he’s forced to let go. He eats shit a couple times until the lifeguards tell him to stop. “Let’s just wait for tomorrow,” says Al. I pause in silence. I hate letting this day go to waste. We had so many expectations. I never wanted day one of Al’s trip to end this way. We drive off and stay dry to surf another day.

Hermosa:

     Being in a serious relationship, my days of going out and clubbing and bar-hopping have been over for a long time. My penis has been decommissioned, docked, and only remains in operation to occupy one port. However, since Al took me out in Santa Cruz, it’s only right to show him a good time. 

     Our first stop is Sharkeez in Hermosa. If we can’t surf, I’d at least like to show Al some ass. Unfortunately, all the tables are taken, so we have to sit at the bar where the only ass is the guy bartender’s. Two people sitting next to Al leave, and then two huge Mexican chicks sit next to him—wooly mammoth status. The one sitting next to Al turns and starts staring at him, but Al keeps his gaze straight forward. I know him, and I can feel his uneasiness. The chick says it’s her birthday, and she high-fives both of us. She says, “You guys look like Jean Claude Van Damme and Jackie Chan!”

     Al puts his hand over his mouth, turns to me, and says, “Ohhhhh noooooo, duuuude! You got downgraded, bro!”

     Sadly, I’m not surprised at hearing this. It’s not the first ignorant or insensitive comment I’ve heard about my slanted eyes. She’s a fat whore anyway, so who gives a shit. “Really?” I ask her. “Jackie Chan? You gotta at least give me Bruce Lee. Jackie Chan’s not that hot.” I can tell she’s into Al, so I say, “Hey, this guy has a sexy six pack. Here, take a look!” I reach for Al’s shirt, but he shoves my hand away. Unaware, he’s caught by surprise when the chick tries to lift up his shirt too. I grab his package and tell the girl to go for it. When she reaches, Al jumps out of his chair and says he has to go to the bathroom. I follow him up there and say, “Dude, what happened?”

     “Matt, oh my god. You’re a fucking asshole. We’re getting out of here through the back.”

     I convince him that they won’t see us leaving out the front, but I tap the girl on the shoulder on the way out, and she harasses Al, asking him to stay.

     The next stop is at the Watermans a couple bars down. It’s not as crowded with plenty of chicks to look at. We’re a lot mellower here. Al orders us a round of beers. I’m a serious lightweight nowadays, and on my third beer I’ve already reached “I love you, man” status. We laugh about the chicks at Sharkeez, plan tomorrow’s surf, and talk about last weekend in Santa Cruz. I turn around and notice the table full of White girls behind us is checking out Al. Fuckin’ guy. I look at the waitresses waiting for their drinks, and they’re looking at Al too. Too bad for them Al’s penis is decommissioned . . . just like mine.

Chinese New Year:

     Randomly, our friend Dan—who also served with us in Iraq—calls and invites us over his parent’s house for dinner. We head on the 105E towards Gardena and have dinner with Dan’s parents and some older Chinese people. Despite the lack of surf, this day has turned out well-balanced. Al met my friends, he met Rick, I got to show him around, we grabbed a couple beers, he almost had his junk grabbed by a fat Mexican chick, and now we’re here eating home cooking at Dan’s. It’s obvious that we’re a little buzzed, but we blend in well with the other guests; there’s no holding back our energy, even though we’re probably talking too much. 

     Back at the apartment we plan for the next day. His cousin Kevin is visiting a friend in Westchester, so we’re planning to pick him up by 0500. From there we’re going to Uppers to meet his surf mentor John. Rick said it might not be that big there, but we’re hoping for the best.

21JAN2012:

     I have a hard time sleeping. Lauren and I had a texting argument back and forth. I called to say goodnight, but she said she’s at a formal dinner and that it would be too rude to pick up the phone. I’m pissed. It might sound archaic, but from the friends I grew up with and man-culture I’ve been around, if your lady can’t pick up the phone then something’s wrong. 

     I don’t fall asleep until around 0100, but I still manage to wake up at 0400. I eat a banana and brew some coffee. Al’s a little slow too, but we’re both on schedule with packing our gear and heading out. We scoop up Kevin and hit the road right at 0500. I wonder if we’re making the right call. Rick’s finding’s yesterday showed a forecast that downgraded the size in Churches. Also, the south wind is a risk. It’s supposed to be very light, but it’s still a gamble. 

     We drive through the military gate at 0600. Al’s surprised that it only took us an hour. It’s still dark as night when we park in front of Churches, but I start changing anyway. A hint of pink permeates the sky over the hills at San Onofre, and I can finally see the Churches lineup. It’s high tide, but clean, three-footers roll through on the sets. It’s not big, but it looks fun. The wind is offshore, and the water’s still glassy. 

     We’d probably already be in the water, but Kevin is missing the middle fin for his thruster, so Al hesitantly lets him use his sweet potato. Middles isn’t working, and Lowers looks small; that’s usually a bad sign. The Lowers pack is sitting towards the inside. “Maybe it will get better when the tide drops,” I say. John’s already in the lineup when we reach Uppers. There are only a handful of guys out. Al gets to catch up with his mentor that he hasn’t seen since August, so the trip is worth it regardless. The waves are about four-feet but mooshy and fast. I get a couple rights but can’t get any turns. I look at my board, and the GoPro mount bothers me. 

     Al paddles into a wave, and the guy on his outside yells at him. I’m a bit confused because Al had priority. The guy turns to John and says, “Hey, tell your friend he can’t do that! He can’t back-paddle like that!” I’m not sure if he’s using the word correctly, but I think he’s upset because Al just caught a wave, came back, paddled around him, and caught another wave even though the guy was already at the peak. 

     John talks to Al when he comes back. “I’m not even going to say anything,” says Al. I’m feeling tense in the water, and there’s bad energy now, but then I remind myself that it’s Al we’re talking about. He’s beat guys into submission before; he can handle himself. 

     Kevin gets the longest ride of the day on the sweet potato, and everyone else has a high wave count. I’m not having a good session. I’m still distraught over the bad communication with Lauren last night. It’s affecting my surf. 

     John leaves to go to Church at 0915, and he takes the conditions with him. As soon as he’s gone, the winds swing south and create texture all over the water. The once-clean waves are knocked down and spilling. We’re over it. Al and I talked last night about the conditions being better in the South Bay.

     Walking on the sand, Al spots a chick by Lowers that just walked out of the porta-potty. “Hey, check that out,” he says. The chick’s board looks familiar. . . . It’s Dais. 

     I introduce Dais to everyone and say, “Hey, Al thought you were a chick.”   

     “Yeah, I turn straight guys gay,” he says. 

     He said he had to take a shit, and it couldn’t wait. He points out Khang and DK in the lineup. We wave. Lowers looks rideable, just not clean. We’ve been out since 0700, so I tell him we’re heading back.

Grub:

Slow down with that Tapatio!

     Al’s a picky eater, but I take him to La Tiendita in San Clemente, my new Mexican Food spot for down south. I stick with the machaca while they order tacos and burritos. Kevin’s just as handsome as Al but younger and buffer, so he orders a side of carne asada nachos as well. Al, being a picky bitch, doesn’t like the quality of the meat, so Kevin and I are left to tackle the nachos. After we eat, we drop off Kevin at his house in Orange.

     Back at The Gundo we take an hour long nap, planning to check the surf in the evening. It’s 1400, I barely slept, did a lot of driving, and I’m beat. My warm, soft bed doesn’t care that I’m salty. I wistfully fade into a coma. 

THE NEW SWELL: FRI 20JAN2012 MOR

Crew: Francis

Time: 0900-1100

Conditions: Offshore, high to mid tide, inconsistent, 2-3 feet with occasional 4, mooshy, and slow.

     So none of us have surfed since Sunday because of the lack of swell. I would have to say that local surf has been fairly decent since Thanksgiving. In other words, there has been a pulse of swell somewhere. Regardless of shape, if surf hasn’t been good local, it’s pretty much been only a drive away. However, the swell this week has been flat and around the one-to-three foot range with poor conditions. According to Surfline, this Friday the swell’s supposed to pick up again, and we’ve been itching for that to happen.

Welcome Home:

     The last surf I got was in Santa Cruz, so I was going a little stir-crazy in the house, for a minute there, finding other stuff to keep me occupied. Finally I can be myself again; I can be human.

     Driving down Grand Ave. I can see the waves breaking in front of the lot. This is usually a good sign; if the waves are breaking here then Manhattan Beach must be breaking decent. I can’t quite make-out the waves by the jetty, but as I pass El Porto I can see scattered peaks. I call Francis, who’s still at home, and tell him that the morning surf looks to have some potential.

     Street cleaning is on Friday, so I circle around for a good fifteen minutes. It’s okay to park at 0900, but it’s only 0830; I really want to just paddle out already. I get that weird sense that something’s off, and then it hits me; I forgot my fucking wetsuit again. I go through my loud, audible “Awwwww fucks,” and drive my ass back home to grab my shit. On a good note, it’s 0850 when I get back, and I get the best parking by the lifeguard station. Francis parks behind me, and we make our way to the water.

     Local knowledge will tell you that the sand bars are just a hair better at Porto, and for this morning it makes all the difference. The waves here are a little mooshier and inconsistent, and then again . . . it beats having to feed a fucking meter. Don and the locals are just north of the tower, but it’s still a thin crowd. The tide is high and about to start going out, so expect the surf to get better. Towards Marine, we eye a sand bar that has a couple guys on it. We go there.

     A nice left rolls in as we warm up, but once we reach the lineup we’re greeted by a long lull. A couple pulses push through, we paddle for them, but they are so mooshy that they break towards the inside. We move around and sit in different spots to try our luck. I finally catch a couple rights, but I can’t seem to set myself up for a good turn. Partly because of the rust and partly because of the conditions, I’m only trimming on all of my rides. Despite the mediocre surf, I’m feeling pretty mellow. I’m not upset or cursing my performance, but I’m not super-stoked at the same time. After recent experiences, I’ve been working on my attitude in the water, and I’m just going with the flow and taking everything for what it’s worth.

     Even though the surf is slow, Francis gets a long left all the way to shore, a three turn wave. Even going right, he throws a “one bucket minimum” out the back, so I can’t blame the conditions entirely. My best ride is a left where I’m able to get one semi carve. I know this carve that I do; it’s so half-ass. Instead of a full arch off the top, using mostly rail, it’s more of a tail push which points my nose to six o’clock. It’s my foot positioning; I’m too far up on my board. Francis tells me I got a little spray off of that, but I know I could do better. . . . Work on it.

     Even close to mid tide, the conditions don’t improve like we hoped. They actually get worse. The inside is a little consistent with white wash, and now there’s onshore texture on the water. Walking back to the shower, we both joke that it’s at least a nice day. Regardless, there’s a swell a’brewin’, and it’s only gonna get bigger.

     Later at home, Khang calls and says that he and DK paddled out at Porto. He says it was crowded, but it was just “all right,” so if Porto was better then it wasn’t by very much.

     Before going to bed, I get confirmation from Al that he’s driving over tomorrow morning to catch the morning session and spend the weekend here. There’s a frenzy for surf. Khang, Klaude, Rick, Dais, Shan, Francis, and I are all communicating about what time we’re gonna meet up. I don’t realize that there’s a chance of rain until Klaude brings it up in conversation. He says, “They say it’s pretty much guaranteed to rain here.” It hasn’t rained in so long that I can’t fathom it. The Surfer Syndrome (SS) has me thinking, how bad can it be? Maybe the rain will miss us or we’ll have a good rain session. Yup . . . how bad can it be, indeed?