Location: LOWERS
Crew: Al, Cheryl, Sebastian, and Al’s surf mentor John
Conditions: Sunny, clean, calm, glassy, 3 feet, consistent, uncrowded.
Rick has to head back to LA, so he’s trying to get as much surf as possible. He says, “Let’s grab some beers, head over to Churches, and paddle out again.”
I’m thinking there’s no way. Don’t get me wrong. I admire Rick’s surf stoke. The only person that comes in second place stokewise is Francis, but we literally just got back from O-side.
It’s another sunny afternoon with a steady south wind. We’re at the picnic table drinking beers, when I reach for the Pringles can and knock over my beer which spills on Cheryl’s pants. I apologize over and over again while Al makes me feel like a dick, commenting on how I’ve created this awkward moment. Asshole. . . .
Rick leaves, and Cheryl suits up to attack the San Onofre lineup. I don’t blame her. The waves look fun, but I’m hoping that the winds will die more as the evening approaches. Francis drifts in and out of a minor coma in the beach chair next to me while the rest of us sip our beer, repeating the makings of yesterday.
Al’s surf mentor John shows up with his little son Adam. In the meantime, I ask Seba if he’s ready for an evening session.
“Man, it’s too fuckin’ cold,” he says. “I’m cool just hanging out here and drinking beer.”
“You sure? I can wax up your board right now. I ain’t trying to pressure you, but we can get you on a couple waves today, guarantee. The water’s not that cold.”
When Francis wakes up, he has to go. “I’ll try to be back tonight with Klaude,” he says.
Cheryl’s back by now, staying in her wetsuit. John suggests surfing Lowers. He says that it’s small but A-framing, and that there are only a dozen guys out. On a day as small as this, a dozen seems like too much, but he and Al barely get to hang out, so I want to be a team player.
The four of us start our trek to Lowers, but Churches is already looking good. As we hoped, the wind died down, and the little two-footers give a glassy reflection as they stand-up and peel. Their shoulders form down the line, good for at least two turns. Cheryl and I look at each other while the other two continue pace. I know what she’s thinking. Here we are going to Lowers where there are a dozen dicks, and we’re passing up an empty lineup. What are we thinking?!
Middles isn’t doing anything; it’s a lake. As we near Lowers I can see more black dots which surpass the dozen-dick estimate. A wave swings wide and breaks south of Lowers. “That’s my spot,” I tell Al. He and John head straight towards the main pack while I sit off to the side.
MADE THE WHOLE TRIP:
My mood is shot. Yes, Lowers is in fact going off. It’s consistent, breaking in one spot over and over again. Peaky three-foot A-frames are being split by rippers on both sides. There’s a guy on a short green board in a full suit and hoodie throwing the tail out. I count the heads. “One, two, three . . . eighteen.” There are eighteen motherfuckers out on a two-three foot evening at Lowers. How the fuck am I going to get in there? I watch John catch a right. He looks good, stalling on the high line and then dropping in with speed. I hoot him on as he passes. Al too, he catches an inside right, cracking a bit of spray out the back.
“Wow,” says Cheryl. “It’s so good over there.”
“Yeah, but it’s just to fuckin’ crowded.” I paddle further south. “I’ll be over here.”
I’m over it. I know myself. I hate crowds. I’d rather surf a shittier peak to myself than compete for waves. A random peak shifts wide, and I have it to myself. I get two turns on a soft, pumpy three-footer. It’s the first legit wave that I’ve caught in a while. It’s classic, looking down the line seeing the building shoulder. It’s how Trestles should break every single time. I see Al as I paddle back. I raise one finger to indicate my ride.
With a mouth full of metal, he smiles back and paddles over. He whispers something, using his hand to shield his voice.
“What?”
He shakes his head and paddles over closer. “Nathan Fletcher,” he says.
“What? Who?”
“The guy with the hood.” He tugs down on an imaginary bill, as he says “hood.” Al paddles back into Lowers.
On the next wave I watch Mr. Fletcher on a right, backside. The wave is barely three feet, but he leans back into the curl and gets a baby barrel while doing a rear handgrab into the face. Yeah, that has to be him all right.
I’m sitting wide, and no waves are coming. By now the wind is nonexistent. Again with the classics. The sun is low, reflecting off of the glassy surface like it’s an indoor pool. From San Onofre all the way to the horizon is nothing but blue sky with a few, scant streaks of white. It’s warm and quiet, with only the white noise that good waves make. The ocean is no longer blue, but a bright orange from the big orange in the sky. Even the sand and vegetation behind me gives off a hint of orange. I watch another A-frame roll by. I have to get in there.
I sit at the top of the wave next to two guys. It’s so consistent that they split the next peak, leaving me to my lonesome. The second wave of the set is just as big, and I choose to go left. It’s my first time officially catching a Lowers wave. Not just at Lowers, but I am at the top of the break on a set wave. I feel the tilt before I drop. It’s so easy; there’s no pitch. As the wave moves towards the inside it stands, giving a walled section for speed. It looks like I’m gonna miss the section, but I pump, reach the face, bottom turn, shift to the tail for a quarter carve up top, and redirect the nose down the line—marvelous. I repeat. The face is so dark, blocked out from the sun’s rays by the back of the wave. I kick out, look at Al. I try not to grin. I can’t help it.
Back at the peak, I see a guy next to Cheryl. My word, it’s Sebastian. I paddle away from my spot to sit next to him. “Guy! I thought you said you weren’t gonna surf?”
“Yeah, I know. I just wanted to paddle around.”
“I wish you would have told me. If you wanted to surf we would’ve paddled out over there where it’s easier. Did you wax your board?”
“A little.”
I feel the top of it; it’s too smooth. I take a closer look. There’s barely anything on it. “Fuck, there’s no wax.”
“Don’t worry, dude. I just want to sit around.”
I’m a little torn. He’s my boy, I love him, but man . . . I just got a good wave. I’m hungry for more, but I don’t want to leave him. I give him a few pointers, a crash-course on duckdiving, how priority works, and then a wave swings wide again. “Hold on.” I paddle for it.
I see John flying down the line on the next wave. A minute later Cheryl paddles up to me and says, “I think Sebastian almost ran over John.” I see the both of them on the inside.
John says, “Hey, I’m sorry. I told your friend to watch out, but I didn’t know it was Sebastian.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’s all right.”
Sebastian’s arms are awkward with his beginner’s paddle as he approaches.
John looks at Sebastian again and says, “Sorry, I didn’t know it was you.”
“Nah, it’s cool,” he says. “I’m a total Barney.”
“Matt,” says John. “You need to take advantage of the peak!”
“Just go, Matt. I’ll be fine,” says Seba.
Paddling back to Lowers I see the pack has thinned out. Surfers are doing the cobblestone dance, heading towards shore. I do my count, “One, two, three . . . ten.” I catch a right this time. I see Cheryl paddling for a wave as I’m coming back. She stands up too soon and misses the wave.
“Oh my god, it’s so good right now,” she says.
“Go to the top of the wave, Cheryl! There’s room!” I still hang out with Seba in between waves.
Back at the lineup, Cheryl’s sitting in front of the pack, and she catches a right. It’s a slow roller, an easy three feet— a set wave. I watch her disappear then reemerge on the high line. She takes it all the way to shore.
When she comes back she says, “Matt, I just caught the wave of my life!”
It’s a first for us. We both got our first official Lowers’ waves. The sun is down. I count seven heads in the water. Cheryl’s on the shore.
Al says, “I’m catching one more in with John.”
“I’m staying here as long as possible.”
“Really?”
“Hell yeah. How often do you get to surf Lowers with just a couple guys out.”
“Okay, me too then.”
There’s etiquette in the lineup. The Oakley surf team is there in their Oakley wetsuits, shredding. I’m at the top of the wave with one of them. As the next wave approaches I say, “I wanna go left.”
“Go for it!” says the stranger.
My frontside carves still need some work, but that’s not even important at this time. I’m so in the moment. Stress free waves at Lowers, easy lefts to die for, carvers, soft open faces that say, “So what will it be today?” Carve is all I can do. Bottom turn, top-turn, arch, and redirect. That’s the sensation I’ve been missing. Just having that speed on the top of the face and transferring it onto the tail and arc; there’s that moment of fluidity in the motion, meant to be, life, this is what surfing is about.
I see Al and John walking back. The ocean is no longer orange; it’s silver. Churches and San Onofre is almost pitch-black. I can see the lights from the nuclear reactor. The remnants of the sun’s rays give off a light blue, leaving the water a metallic tone. Still, waves are coming in; there are four of us. On my last waves size doesn’t matter. I squint, trying to see if the bumps in front of me are worth paddling for. I tell myself that they’re too small. I paddle anyway. I drop in surprised, barely able to see the white spill. I’m riding a black, smooth stone, but my rail melts into its surface. I can only tell it’s the face when my board disrupts the water’s integrity—a splash here, a splash there. Two guys remain in the darkness as I make my exit. Looking back one more time, the waves are shadows and the rest a faint of silver. It’s a session I’ll never forget.
