A WEEKEND AT TRESTLES 2012 (Part II): SEARCHING, SAT 24MAR2012 MOR

Location: North Oceanside

Crew: Rick & Francis

Conditions: Gloomy, offshore, low tide, tiny.

     Last night, Rick suggested that we check out O-side in the morning. I know Rick, and if anyone’s a master of dawn patrolling, it’s him. I wake up at 0600 in the fart cabin. Someone turned off the heater in the middle of the night thank goodness; I was roasting in my fart sack. I open up the trailer door to a cool, offshore morning. Rick’s already boiling some eggs on his Coleman stovetop. “Matt, you want an egg?” he asks.

     “No thanks. I ate a lot last night.”

     “You know, Matt, they say it’s not good to eat so much in one sitting. It’s not good for your stomach.”

     I know he means well, but I still wave off the egg. I grab my wetsuit, and Al walks up as I’m about to change.

     “I don’t think I’m gonna join you guys,” he says. 

     “Of course you’re not!” My reply is a little snappy. 

     Al looks at me in silence, I sense that he’s feeling guilty.

     “Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s a gamble. It might not be that great. Besides, Seba’s in there too. I’ll let you know what it looks like.” I return to the picnic table and find three hard boiled eggs in the pot.

     Francis takes one and says, “You gonna eat?”

     I know the other one’s for me even though I told Rick I didn’t want one. I grab it and start peeling it, delighted to find how soft and warm the yoke is.

     Once we’re on the road, Rick retells his tales about surfing down south when he was younger. I’ve heard these tales a million times, and for Francis this has to be his second. O-side’s just as gloomy, but the offshore wind is much lighter. Only two guys are out surfing. We watch until we see an outside set just under three-feet peel through. It’s small, but it looks good.

     “Well, that’s all I need to see,” says Francis. 

     We change and head back to the sand. We follow Rick’s lead and try to pick the right sand bar. Another peak A-frames and gives some nice, lined-up faces. “Oh my god!,” I say. Now I’m high stepping, making silly faces at Francis, and laughing. “If I can get one turn this morning I’ll be happy!"

     I’m the first to hit the water, freezing in my 3/2. I paddle out, way out. I turn around and see my other two battle buddies, but they stop short.

     “I think you’re too far out,” says Rick. 

     We’re stoked, waiting for the set. So we wait. And wait. And wait some more. I have no idea what happened. Those nice peaks that we saw earlier are nowhere to be found. Every time a bump surfaces, we all call it out and paddle for it. We scratch, and then it breaks past us towards the inside. Rick is the first to get a good ride. He catches one going left all the way to shore. 

     When he resurfaces I hear him call out, “I got a little barrel!” Again, from the inside he catches another left and gets one hit off the lip. 

     Rick and Francis trade off a few rides here and there, but I’m struggling. Every time I pop up, the wave is already running away, so I mostly go straight. Still though, the wind’s off shore and the conditions are clean, the only problem is the lack of swell. 

     The nice, outside waves break too far away from us. We point them out at the Jetty and to our north. Rogue, three-foot lefts peel where we can’t reach, a joke from Mother Ocean.

     The best part about this session is the showers. They are empty, and the water’s piping hot. Rick brings his cooler over and hands me and Francis a beer. The three of us are posted in there like it’s a sauna, letting the spray of water sting us with post-surf Budweisers in hand. We stay in there so long that Francis’ wetsuit fills to the point that it looks like he’s wearing bell-bottoms.

     Rick offers to take us to one of his favorite spots in O-Side for coffee. According to him, this is another low-key spot that must remain nameless at all costs, so I’ll keep it that way in his honor. In front of this coffee shop we can see the surf, and Rick is right about keeping this place off the radar. Despite the lack of swell in North O-side and San Onofre, clean, three-foot peaks A-frame and line up with smooth, open faces. We can’t believe how good it is here, and it’s not even crowded. For shits and giggles I take a couple photos and text them to Al, writing: Firing the whole time, too tired to keep going. 

     Rick wants to continue the grand tour and check out a local surf shop, but I tell him that I’d like to return to our guests, especially since Cheryl and Silverton are on their way.

     When I see Al back at camp, he says, “How was it?”

     “Dude. . . .” I shake my head and fake my tiredness. “It wasn’t like, big, but it was an easy three feet. Just consistent, down the line.”

     He looks like he’s listening attentively and says, “Cool,” and walks away. 

     I wait another ten minutes before telling him that the pic was from somewhere else, and then he spends the next five minutes telling me how much of an asshole I am.

A WEEKEND AT TRESTLES 2012 (Part I): When there’s no surf, there’s always beer, FRI 23MAR2012

Location: Churches

Crew: Al, Rick, Francis, Sebastian

Conditions: Sunny, onshore, low tide, tiny.

Pre-blog:

     I’m trying to make it an annual ritual to host a campsite at San Onofre. Exactly this time last year, we had a DRC camp trip and scored on some good surf. Unfortunately, upon reserving this camp site two-and-a-half weeks in advance, the forecast for swell and weather did not look good. It would be a gamble on the surf, and a challenge to see how the weather would affect our stoke. 

Day 1:

     It’s 0530. We were supposed to wake up a half an hour ago, but we were up late loading up the wagon. On top of that, Al, my roommate from Iraq, had a grueling drive from Sunnyvale to El Segundo, so he needs more rest. 

     Rain pelts the window as soon as we get on 405S. Tail lights from the early morning commuters race in the same direction. “Al,” I say. “I’m sorry if the surf is gonna suck this weekend.”

     “Dude . . . it’s mother nature. C’mon.”

     We catch up on our lives, what’s new, what we’ve missed, and our personal struggles. The conversation stays strong until we arrive at Churches. The wind is strong offshore, creating some chop, but worst of all . . . it’s flat. One lone surfer walks towards Middles with his longboard. “Al, we’re going to O-side.” 

    

     It’s a gloomy morning, but dry. The wind makes it even colder. The overall ambience is unappetizing. We arrive at North Oceanside and step out for a look. There are some scattered peaks, and the two-footers look good enough to change into our wetsuits. “Look at that one,” I say.

     Al is silent.

     “What do you think?” I ask.

     “Pfff. I don’t know.” He stares out, trying to morph the conditions into more than what they are.

     “Hot showers?” I nudge him with my elbow.

     “Yeah, hot shower. Definitely, that’s the deal breaker right there.” He laughs. “Why are we rushing? Let’s just go grab some breakfast and let the tide fill in?”

     I’m an anal son-of-a-bitch. I need my surf like a patient needs medication, but I’m suppressing it. This isn’t a one-man trip. I learned from Klaude: the homies need to have a say in it too. Breakfast . . . I oblige.

    

    We cruise through the harbor and pier. I can see the potential here. Even this scant swell is producing some lines on the horizon, but the waves are too small. There must be a good reason why my brother listed this place as his favorite Cali surf spot. 

     Oceanside is a god damn ghost town. I’m so used to Manhattan Beach where the Yoga MILFS and early morning fitness nuts litter the sidewalks, but here . . . it’s desolate. We find ourselves in Longboard Café. It looks more like a sushi bar with their black and white colored tableware. Small flat screen TVs are mounted along the walls. Fuel TV’s Red Bull Mentawais plays above us, showing Michel Bourez’ aggressive barrel riding. I order the egg sandwich, he gets the country fried steak, and we each get a stack of pancakes. I take a mental note to come back here. 

     It’s 0942, and we’re staring at Churches again. Al says, “Fuck, it was bigger this morning.”

     “Well . . . maybe we can check-in early?”

     The camp attendant is nice enough to give us the site, despite the official 1300 check-in time. I can’t stop moving, trying to unpack until Al says, “What are you setting up for?”

     I shrug, falling victim to my anal retentive instincts to keep the ball rolling.

     “Dude,” he says as he hands me a beer. “Just chill out. You said Seba’s coming with the trailer. We don’t NEED the tent. Just chill out and relax.”

     Two dudes under an umbrella in camper chairs, red cups in hand . . . we’re looking like a gay couple. You see, Al and I are used to this. In Iraq we shared a room the size of a walk-in closet. What I’m trying to say is, we are fucking pros at bullshit bantering. About two hours fly by with us talking shit to each other and laughing without purpose. “Let’s have a competition,” says Al. “Let’s measure our dicks and see whose is bigger.” 

     “Okay, how about this? Let’s sit in the tent back-to-back, jack off, THEN turn around and compare.” 

     He’s quiet. Fuckin’ Al. He has a big dick. He already knows that his dick’s bigger than mine. There’s always that guy with the big dick that can’t shut up about it and wants to let the whole world know. I can’t compete with eight-plus inches—no way. I have a homeboy named Boris AKA The Blade. He’s HUGE, but he never talks about it. Instead he lets “others” talk about it. That’s the way it should be done, not by self advertising. It’s a worse travesty than giving yourself your own nickname. You have to earn it. 

     I drunk dial Francis. He’s about ten minutes away. Rick calls. “I’m at the PX,” he says. “What kind of beer you guys want?”

     When they arrive the sun comes out, and now this two-man gay party is an official sausage fest. I’m already buzzing pretty hard; the both of us are. We hand Francis a beer, and when Rick shows up we’re ready for more.

    

     

     Rick makes us load up and drive in front of Churches so we can drink and watch the waves. It’s a good call. The four of us have never been together in one spot before. I’m stoked. Rick hands Al his new yellow fish. They hold out the board and pour over the dimensions. Rick hands me one of his boards to try out, and then we all paddle out at Churches. 

     It’s about 1445, the wind is light onshore, but it’s still choppy and small. The beer buzz has me feeling good, and the sun on my face, accompanied with my buddies, outweighs the conditions; I’m happy to be here. Rick gets the longest rides out of all of us; Francis comes in second, while Al and I barely get any distance. Al walks off to surf Middles by himself. I tell the guys that I can’t let him go alone, so I start to trail after him. He’s a small figure in the distance, skipping Middles and moving on to Lowers. I don’t like the idea of splitting our group up. Even though he drove all the way from up north to be here, Rick and Francis took time out of their schedules too. I turn back around and return from where I just came.

     Al returns after we’re all showered and cleaned up. He says that Lowers was barely three-feet, but it was A-framing with only ten guys out. “It was working,” he says. 

     We make a food run, grab some carne asada, tortillas, cilantro, green onions, and black beans. I’m stressing out because Sebastian still isn’t here with the trailer, so we’re cooking in the dark. When he arrives, it’s a bitch to back his trailer in, but it’s close enough to government standards. Once inside, I cut up the meat and vegetables, lay out the food, and we all feast. I must say, having the trailer is a fucking luxury. I’m so used to tenting it and eating in the dark, but this shelter from the elements makes a huge difference.

     

     Rick decides to sleep in the tent because . . . he’s just hardcore like that. Thanks to Seba, the rest of us have our own sleeping quarters. It’s a night full of snoring and farting; the trailer smells like straight ass, a good start to any camp trip. 

BOBBER, THU 22MAR2012 MOR

Location: HB

Crew: Solo

Time: 0745-0945

Conditions: Sunny, offshore, high tide, swampy.

     I’ve been trying to surf HB before school on Tuesdays and Thursdays. This makes sense to save money on gas, seeing as how it’s so damn expensive nowadays. I do my best to wake up early, but it’s not early enough. Even though I leave the house before 0700, I still hit traffic around the 605 interchange. Still, I reach my favorite surf spot in HB well before 0800, which means I can surf for about two hours. 

     I can see the exploding sprays of whitewash from the parking lot. This is good. I start screaming to myself in the car, “WOOHOO! OHHH YEAH!” as I drive past the few cars in this vast, empty lot. As I’m suiting up, a car full of groms pull up. They’re standing on top of their SUV, checking to surf too. I’m surprised at how there’s barely anyone here yet, but I’m just thinking about the score: out there . . . there are waves, and I’m gonna have them . . . all to MYSELF!

     I start my trot over the sand, passing a dawn patroller walking back to his car. Once I see the ocean it has a severe case of morning sickness. The tide is on the high side, making the inside swampy. The sand bar where I usually surf wants to break, but the waves roll through and break towards the inside. It’s still a clean morning, and I’m hoping that this dropping tide window will help.

     You know that there’s a severe chance of getting skunked when you’re the only one out there. A few guys to my north paddle in. At the river jetties, I see no one. The city truck patrols the sand behind me while I paddle south to where I think I see a wave. This is not happening. . . .

     I decide to sit on the inside where I catch a closeout. Occasional waves break on the outside, but they do not line up. The groms I saw earlier join my misery and mimic my frustrations. A couple other guys join me; one of them actually gets one hit off the lip. Wow, it’s more than what I can say for myself.

     

     It’s a little past 0900, I’ve been here for well over an hour, and still, I spend more time bobbing like an orange turd in a river than catching waves. Dropping tide my ass—nothing. That’s it . . . that’s the end of the story. Fucking nothing. I can’t remember the last good day of surf that I scored. And then again, I haven’t been paddling out as much. I’m long overdue for some good waves. I think about Klaude and G of the OC. They’d rather be out here getting skunked than sitting behind a desk. I feel them. However, it’s hard to be one with your surfing identity when you leave the beach without that sensation of riding a wave.

     I arrive at my 1100 class, salty and browned, but surf stoked I am not.