THIS USED TO BE MY PLAYGROUND, MON 06FEB2012 MOR

Crew: Fransauce

Time: 0830-1000

Conditions: High to mid tide, offshore, 5 ft+, WALLED.

     I haven’t seen Francis for a while, so when he said he was surfing this morning, I had to join him. Shan hit me up too, so I told him where we’d be at.

     I have to drop off my sister at the airport for her annual trip to Maui, so I head to 26^th right after. I see Francis’ truck parked by the lifeguard station. After circling around for parking, I finally change and make my way down the hill. Even though I’m far from the ocean, I see Francis on his board with the red trim; it’s so easy to spot. He’s going frontside, pumping furiously down the face of a fast, racy wave. When we meet up, he tells me about his recent trip to Pacifica. Apparently, the water’s twice as cold over there and the waves twice as big. The crowd’s not too bad, which isn’t a surprise because a good wave hasn’t come our way yet. To our north a big right seems to be working. I say “seems” because waves always look better wherever you’re not sitting. Even to the south, the left by Marine looks better. None-the-less, we stick to our guns . . . or should I say, I stick to mine because Francis drifts south, and I don’t see him for the rest of the morning, but before he left he said, “I don’t think I’m gonna stay out here much longer.”

     I try . . . I really try to make the best out of things. There is size; that’s definitely not an issue, but maybe there’s too much size? It’s a shame that this sand bar can’t hold 5-6 feet. The walls don’t look like they have shoulders, but I want them so bad that my mind tells me I have a chance. On every wave that I pop-up on, I can only go straight. On the way back out, a three-wave clean up set comes through. It’s been a while since I’ve took some on the head like this. My brother would be ashamed, but they are so dumpy and easily six feet, that I ditch my board and go under. I usually try to duck, but I’m right in front of the lip. 

     Everyone has the same look on his face: the disappointed lowering of the brow, the look at the watch to kill time, the pointless paddle a couple feet over, and the aimless gaze at the sky. Nope, the surf/shape gods aren’t answering today. On my last closeout, I figure it’s not worth another go-round. I love surfing, and I need to be in the water, but sessions like this do nothing for me.

NO CROWD, NO PROBLEM, SUN 05FEB2012 MOR

Loc: Huntington Beach

Crew: Shan

Time: 0800-1030

Conditions: High to mid tide, mixed conditions with walls and shoulders, 3-4 ft, inconsistent, and EMPTY!

     Gas isn’t cheap nowadays, so I’ve cut down a little on the surf trips. However, I planned to surf HB on Sunday since the swell was increasing another foot. Even though Manhattan Beach was supposed to be bigger, I didn’t want to deal with the bigger crowds. Also, I’m tired of riding walls; I need some turns in my life.

     I send out the bat signal Saturday night. Klaude says he’s staying local to coach a basketball game. Khang and DK are in San Diego for a Super Bowl party. Francis is up north. Rick can’t go, and Dais is going to Santa Barbara with his girlfriend. Cheryl shoots me a text, asking where I’m gonna surf. I extend the invite, but she says, “Thanks for the offer. I think I’ll stay local. Huntington’s waves are so fast.” I missed Shan’s call on Friday, so I call him to see if he’s free.

     It’s 0715 when I pick him up. He’s living in his RV for the weekend that’s parked off of Rosecrans. I can’t remember the last time I surfed with Shan, but a lot has changed since then. We catch up with each other. He tells me about Veronica, and I tell him how Lauren and I are doing. He also fills me on his photography travels. Over the last couple months he’s surfed Honolua Bay and Pipe. 

     Turns out Shan bought an RV, the ultimate SBV (Surf Bum Vehicle). He says he’s taken it up north and surfed different spots along PCH, but that he hasn’t surfed in three weeks. I admit that I contemplated buying an RV when I was in Iraq, and in a way . . . I’m jealous. And then again, I do like space. There’s something about cooking eggs and bacon, butt naked in a big kitchen, with your balls hanging out that spells: FREEDOM.

    

     I brag about the state parking pass that I bought, but as we drive closer to the entrance, we notice that all the lots are packed with cars. They’ve even put a LOT FULL sign on the street. The state employee tells us there’s a marathon, and that all the lots are closed. So far for the parking pass. 

     Keeping stride, we park a couple blocks away. There’s no rush because we need the tide to go down. It feels like an easy Sunday. Like last week, there’s only a faint hint of offshore wind. The sun’s out, and it’s warm. Shan still ops to put on his booties and gloves. I imagine what my brother would have said at the sight of that. 

     My expectations are low. Even though we’re not at the water yet, I have a feeling that it’s not as congested as the South Bay. As soon as we hump over the sand, we see a vast and empty lineup. There are a few heads at the river jetties and a few dots north. The lot closure and marathon interferes with parking so much that it keeps the surfers away. We watch the water for a bit. The peaks are scattered, not making one spot standout more than the other. Unfortunately, the waves don’t have their peaky, defined, HB signature because they’re a little walled, but they still have corners at the end; you just need to be in the right place.  

     When we get to the lineup we notice we’ve drifted. “Watch the current,” I tell Shan. He hasn’t surfed for three weeks, so he’s in for a workout. 

     The tide keeps the waves from standing up. My timing’s off on my first attempts, scratching-out because I’m not deep enough, and then there’s a lull. “It was bigger when we first got here,” says Shan, but I have to remain optimistic. I’m sure there’s something. It’s inconsistent, but the first pulse comes. I get on the shoulder for a decent left. No turns yet, just trimming. A half-hour later is when the window starts to open. I get the jump on an outside wave, and I’m right on the shoulder before it jacks up. It’s four-feet, and four-feet at HB is fast. I do a small turn and set myself up for a carve. The extra foot makes a difference, as I’m bracing a lot of momentum going back up the face. I start my downturn onto the shoulder, but it’s a little too vertical. I lose balance from the speed and fall backwards, keeping my feet on the board. It looks like a deflated layback snap. Only if I knew how to shift my weight better, the potential for this rippable wave is unreal. 

     Shan and I spend most of the morning apart. I use the current as exercise, staying in front of our assigned tower. Other surfers pass by, letting the current take them. Shan’s trying. He’s paddling, but every time a wave comes our distance increases. I let him have a couple. I pass up my priority and tell him to go. He scratches out or waits too late. “I’m still trying to figure this place out,” he says. When I first surfed here I got my ass kicked, plenty. This is a different wave, so I understand. 

     The offshores are helping. I catch a right which is a pure wall, but the wind is holding it up. I climb the face twice, doing shallow little hacks on the lip. 

     My wave of the day is a really long right. No bullshit, like five baby turns all the way to shore. I don’t want to exaggerate. It’s just under four feet, and my turns are small because I keep expecting to bog out, but I don’t. Usually I try to put a little English on my backhand to throw a little spray, but I’m more surprised that the wave is pushing me down the line and that I’m not stalling over the lip. It’s a lazy effort on my part, probably due to having the place to ourselves. In a way it’s refreshing—no crowd, no pressure, no rush, just fun.

     At about 1000 the wind switches to onshore, but it’s still light. It’s the lowering tide that affects the shape. Walking back to the car, we see surfers just arriving. Shan and I are lucky we caught the right window.

     We head up the street for some chicken pho that’s only $3.50. We also order a side of spring rolls, and the bill is barely over ten bucks. Shan spots since I drove. When I drop him off, he invites me in his RV for a beer. I awake hours later, naked, with a sore anus. Actually, that part’s not true.    

     Klaude calls me later and says he got a couple long rides at 26^th. Rick says that the shape was good at Porto, but that it was a zoo. Right now, what I need from surfing is isolation and peace. HB gives me just that. Also, the shape helps. It was a good call.

THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY, SAT 04FEB2012 MOR

Crew: Solo

Ran Into: Whiffleboy, Wagner, and the WHC (minus Rick)

Time: 0730-0900

Conditions: High tide, walled, 5-6 ft, crowded.

     I went to 26^th first to take a look, but something turned me off. Not to sound negative, but lately I’ve felt the need to surf elsewhere. I haven’t had a good session there in a while, and I can’t blame everything on the conditions. Guys like Roy, Don, and the other local rippers get their fair share, but I’ve struggled. 

     I stopped short of pulling into the El Porto lot when I noticed an open space on 45^th. The tide looked high, but there was a lot of water moving around. A surfer caught a little left on the inside, and that’s all I needed to see.

     It’s the meters that changed everything. I used to surf here all the time. The Tanks was my favorite spot. At first they changed the price to ten minutes for a quarter. When they started giving tickets at 0800 instead of 0900, I got cheap and started surfing 26^th. I felt rejuvenated as I made my trot down the hill, reminding me of old times. The sand bars here have to be better, I thought. 

     The high water line nearly touched the rocks. It was a classic, crowded day. There was no chance at surfing 45^th, so I picked a channel just north of the tanks. 

     I felt like a newb in unfamiliar territory, as a couple guys watched my paddle to the lineup. I’m harmless. I caught my first wave which was a racy left. There was no chance for a turn. It looked like it would open, but upon popping-up, the section was already closing out. My second wave was the same. I noticed Whiffleboy in the lineup, but he was in shouting distance. I’ll wait until we’re closer, I thought. A minute later I heard him call, “Matt!” I turned around, and he was right behind me. We caught up El Segundo style which involves rubbing the heads of two penises together . . . okay, that’s not true, but for some reason that line came to me. 

     We caught up and asked each other how we were doing. He said he surfed here yesterday, and I told him about me getting skunked at PV. I invited him to surf HB with me on Sunday, but he had family plans. 

     Both of us caught similar rides—all racy, struggling to get to the evading shoulder. It was consistent enough to be generous. I noticed the bump from the next set and said, “Go for it.” As he took off, I thought I saw a bump further in the distance. As I paddled further out and over the next wave, I saw the juicer out the back. Best of all, it had a tapered, left shoulder, the first one I saw all morning. I heard a couple “Woooooos!” for the wave. I don’t know how I lucked out, but I found myself magically in prime position. 

     I scratched and kicked until I started my slide. I was stoked and ready for some carves. The wave was close to six feet, so I started my bottom turn just below mid face and carved off of the shoulder, and that’s when it happened. I couldn’t set up for my next turn because the wave started to stand up; I wasn’t ready for this. I heard someone yelling at me from the inside, but I failed to comprehend. I was losing the race, as I pumped to keep up, and then the lip started throwing out, leaving a hollow, unoccupied tube. By the time I realized I should pull-in, the lip had already shut me out. 

     Resurfacing, I had a feeling that I totally blew it, but I still wasn’t sure. I saw the next one come in, and it was another barrel, but this time Wagner was going down the line. Before he had a chance to pull-in, some guy dropped-in on him. After I duck-dived, I resurfaced again to see Wagner paddling up to the surf offender. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he looked pissed. He had murder written all over his face. Wagner cocked his hand back like he was gonna punch the guy, who was in fear, holding one hand up to block and trying to use his board as a shield. Wagner scared him enough that he paddled-in. 

     Back at the lineup, Whiffleboy came up to me and said, “I was yelling at you to pull-in!” and that’s when it was confirmed. Fuck my ass. It was another missed and wasted opportunity added to the list of blown barrel rides. I sat in silence, brooding. I turned to Whiffleboy and said, “Yep, that one’s gonna haunt me for the rest of the day.”

     Luckily Wagner distracted me from my own woes. He couldn’t let it go. He was loud and voicetress, telling his friends what happened. When he paddled nearby I told him I saw the whole thing.

     He said, “Yeah, the fucking guy looked at me, right in my fucking eye and still went. What the fuck!?”  

     Jesus H, I thought. He was so angry that it could’ve been mistaken that he was pissed off at me. After he went away Whiffleboy said, “And you know what’s funny? He’s part of a Christian surf group.” I guess everyone has a line that shouldn’t be crossed, and for Wagner it’s: don’t fuck with my waves. 

     I saw someone else trying to get my attention. It was Gary. He pointed out Tripp, Dave T, Jimmy, Manny, and John. Rick was at work. 

     I waited desperately to avenge my mishap, but my missed barrel was the last wave I caught with shape. 

     Sitting in the lineup, Wagner yelled over everyone to get my attention. He said, “You see that monster way out over there?!” I gave an awkward smile, still wondering why he was addressing me. I looked out and saw nothing. He continued, “You see that bump?! Thirty-four seconds!” Everyone followed his cue and started paddling. Reluctant and confused, I slowly paddled as well. “Count it down!” he said. 

     Twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-three. . . . Sure as shit, everyone started scrambling to get to the outside of this huge, macking wall that was heading straight for us. 

     “What’d I tell you! What’d I tell you!”

     After the set, I sat on the outside in disbelief. He paddled to me. His face was serious with anger, and then he broke into a smile and laughed, tugging my calf. “Man, I’m still trying to figure out how you did that?” I said. “I’m over here trying to see what’s out there.” 

     “I’ve been surfing for twenty-eight years!” 

     Whiffleboy said he had family plans for the day, so he took his last one in. I bullshitted with the WHC for a bit, but I risked getting a parking ticket, so I paddled to 45^th and caught a closeout. 

     Today was a reality check. I think we all know the formula. It looks easy, right? We know what to look for if we wanna do an air, and we know when to pull-in and hunker down in the tube. We’ve all seen it a million times, whether it’s a surf flick by Kai Neville, Taylor Steele, or a live webcast from Pipeline, but the reality is that most of us don’t know how to apply that knowledge yet.