Saturday, April 7, 2012
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
A WEEKEND AT TRESTLES 2012 (Part VI): LAST OF THE MOHICANS, MON 26MAR2012 MOR
Location: Lowers
Crew: Francis, Michelle, Al
Conditions: Clean, offshore, sunny, warm, inconsistent, weird, 4-5+ ft.
It’s 0545, but I still wake up with ease. Sebastian didn’t have bad gas last night, so I don’t have Argentine farts in my breath. I climb down and hear Michelle rustle around in her sleeping bag. It’s cold and wet when I step outside. There are patches of dark clouds with patches of light, and the wind is offshore but strong. I wonder if the forecast for a clear morning is off. My towel and wetsuit are still damp, so I jump in the wagon and put the heater on, throwing my wetsuit on the floor board. After drinking the whole weekend, I definitely feel like shit this morning. Light drops of rain fall against the windshield. It’s so easy to go back in the trailer and fall asleep, but how can I? It’s like going to Disneyland and not going on any rides, like going to Amsterdam and no smoking any weed, or like going to the porn shop without rubbing one out in the video booth.
Al walks up to my window. I roll it down. “Where’s Francis?” he asks.
“What, I thought he was sleeping next to you.”
“He’s not there.”
“Oh . . . he’s probably in his truck.”
I step out to change and see Michelle looking at the waves. I tell her I’m going for it and that I’ll meet them in the water. I’m expecting the wind to change, so I need to paddle out while it’s still offshore. It’s light out by the time I walk up to Francis’ truck. His windows are foggy, but I see him in there, so I knock on his window. He waves at me but doesn’t open the door. That’s odd. I figure he’s really tired, so I continue my journey.
It’s a disappointing walk. Yesterday, everyone was talking about how today would be it: post storm surf, south swell, clean, lined-up waves. The surf is jumbled at Churches. Middles is just as disappointing. The SS kicks in. I try to build the waves up in my mind, telling myself that that little, tapered shoulder is good for some turns, but I know it’s not.
Lowers is empty, and no one else is on the sand with me. Only at Uppers I see a couple guys. Another surfer stands on the sand with his board in hand, going through similar contemplations. How could Lowers be completely empty? I hate to say it, but if a couple guys were out, my attitude would be: Oh hell no, I ain’t gonna let them have it to themselves.
The wind dies even more; it turns calm. The sun comes out; it’s warm. But the waves . . . the waves are scattered: swinging wide, inside, outside, and so peaky that they look like traffic cones. There’s the initial drop, but the shoulder tapers away so much that it bogs out. Lowers never breaks like this. It’s already past 0700, but I’m still staring at this spot, not accepting that it’s terrible. I walk a little south to north middles and see a couple rights that look better. I paddle out there.
Even at Middles, the attraction of Lowers is too much. I find myself heading in that direction. When I see a couple guys on the sand checking it out, I get territorial; I have to make this spot work. It’s a frustrating start, scratching out on my first attempts. My first left is peaky, and I’m sent down the line with speed. The shoulder mooshes out into nothing, but I still try to carve it. It was like turning on a flat surface. Skateboarding, but it was still fun.
Francis appears to my south first, and then Michelle and Al join us. We comment on the conditions: clean, but breaking really weird. Francis is the first to get a legit wave, a right that he catches all the way to shore. So does Al, and Michelle and I catch a couple boggers. She’s charging on the peaks which actually have some size. She’s one of us.
About three more guys join us, and despite the weird waves, one of them is still making it work, throwing spray out the back for a couple turns. I get a couple waves with some pumpy, connecting sections but no carves.
Francis says that he needs to head in to get ready for his job. The wind shifts to the south anyway, so I let Al and Michelle know that I’m catching one in. We wait for them on the sand, but they’re still going for more.
“What happened to you last night?” I ask Francis.
“Oh. Al was snoring too loud.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
We walk the soft, muddy trail, careful not to sink. “You should’ve just woke his ass up. That’s what I used to do. He’s cool with it.”
There’s no breakfast feast. Gary and Seba are cleaning up the trailer, and I down seven mint Oreos with milk for a quick snack. Michelle and Al return and get cleaned up. Francis leaves, and now there are only four of us left to enjoy this sunny morning. Despite the winds, the surf cleans up, and Old Mans has some fun looking lefts. The sun’s shining even brighter. It’s Sebastian, Al, Gary, Michelle, and me sitting at the picnic table.
I turn to Michelle and say, “So, I’m gonna see what your shit looks like. We have to go to the drain station and dump out the trailer.”
“I didn’t shit in the trailer.”
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
“Oh. . . .” I turn to Gary. “Did you shit in the trailer?”
“No.”
I turn to Al. “How about you?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, I’m gonna see what YOUR shit looks like.” Although this is no accomplishment, because I’m quite familiar with Al’s shit.
It’s time for goodbyes. I thank Gary for helping to clean up and wash the dishes, and we talk to Michelle about a possible surf trip up north in the future. When they leave, Al and I go to the dump site with Sebastian to drain the poop. The tank is almost empty, but the drain hole starts to overflow. The water looks like tomato soup with a few orange poop-nuggets and toilet paper floating in it. When Seba picks up the drain hose, a log falls out. Al starts cracking up.
We thank Seba again for everything, and follow him to the El Toro exit where he waves goodbye. On the way home, Al and I stop by Hokkaido Seafood Buffet in Long Beach and eat for at least an hour and a half for only $10.99 each.
Back in El Segundo, we’re dead tired. We take a nap, and I wake to him getting ready at about 1930. The Travel Channel’s No Reservations plays on the TV. This episode is about Venice. I’m still groggy, feeling lazy on my couch. We give each other a hug, and I ask, “When you think you’ll be down again?”
“I don’t know, maybe not until next year.”
It’s too soon to ask. He needs to get back to his life and so do I. His footsteps clomp away as he walks down the hall and down the stairs. He has a long drive.
I sit back on my couch, staring at my phone. Kind of like my brother traveling alone, he enjoyed the company of Tim and his friends, but when they left, he was by himself. Now it’s my turn. I’m blessed to have good friends, and even though the surf wasn’t epic, this trip was more about the company and helping to establish new relationships. Everyone got along, and the energy was good all around, but typing away in this lonely apartment there’s still something missing.
A WEEKEND AT TRESTLES 2012 (Part V): HUNKERED, SUN 25MAR2012 EVE
Location: San Onofre
Crew: Francis & Michelle
Conditions: Choppy, jumbled, stormy, 5 ft.
After the morning session, I grabbed some eggs, chicken sausage, green onions, tortillas, and started cooking breakfast. Even though everyone was nice enough to offer help, I didn’t want anybody in my way. Michelle brought some chili from home, so I let her throw some in a pot. Within an hour, we had a full blown trailer party going on. It was Sebastian, me, Al, Klaude, Francis, Michelle, Cheryl, Silverton, and Gary. There was more than enough food to go around, and everyone was full, allowing me to dust off what was left. Michelle also came through with the Irish car bomb cupcakes and chocolate brownies. I kept a good eye on the weather to see if it would in fact rain. I got texts from my friends up north where the storm already hit.
The wind started to pick up, and gray skies were pushed our way. Before we knew it, we were bombarded by the storm. Stepping out of the trailer was met with strong gusts of cold wind and rain. Even though we came to surf and enjoy the campsite, this was one of the highlights of the trip. We had plenty of beer to go around, food, and music. There was strong conversation into the whole afternoon. The fridge constantly opened and closed, beers were reached for and passed about, meeting thirsty mouths. Even though it was a little crammed, we all fit inside. I crawled under the trailer into Sebastian’s crotch, where he farted right on my forehead. Al drank to the point where no one understood what he was saying, and I had to translate. Francis just had that glazed look over him, chilled and relaxed as always. I’d say it was into that five o’clock hour when things started to slow down. Silverton was racked out across Cheryl’s lap, and the beer was getting low. The weather never ceased or let up, and then I started getting into my demons. I thought about all the homework that I needed to get done, moving out next weekend, what was Lauren doing at this very moment, and I worried for my guests. Sebastian was leaving in about an hour, and we’d be crammed up in a three-man tent, bracing the weather conditions.
Al looked at Francis who opened the fridge. “Francis, can you grab me one?” he said.
Francis took a deep peer into the shallow compartment. He grabbed one for himself and gave one to Al. “Last one.”
Klaude and I talked about the weather forecast. “I need a second session,” he said. “I’m staying to the bitter end.”
I watched Seba open the fridge and stare into it for about ten seconds before he shut it, and then he said, “How we doin’ on supplies? Looks like I’ll be staying here another night.” Sebastian’s heart is as big as his stature. He called his boss and said he wouldn’t be coming in tomorrow. “I can’t leave you guys in the rain,” he said. I’m lucky to have him as a friend.
From there I barked out orders. I organized a cleaning and resupply detail. We restocked with food and alcohol, and on the drive back was the most welcoming sight ever. Over the horizon, past the clouds, was bright orange sky, and then the wind died. We stood outside, grateful that the worst had passed, but even better, we had a window for surf.
The Show:
Francis comes back from doing a recon by Churches and says that there’s a peak working over there. The main problem is that we barely have an hour of daylight left. I look at Michelle. She’s contemplating. I ask Klaude if he’s down for a second sesh, but he says he has to hit the road. Cheryl and Silverton are also packed up and ready to go. “Where do you guys wanna surf?” I say.
Michelle and Francis bring up the Churches option, but when I suggest the choppy peaks right in front of us, Michelle says, “I’m down for that too.”
I turn to grab my gear. Michelle gives a sigh which translates into: I can’t believe we are doing this.
Even though Klaude and Cheryl are leaving, they stay to watch us surf. I’m the first to hit the water. I really don’t expect much. Even though the weather has cleared, the ocean is still stormy. It reminds me of choppy, evening surf at El Porto. We’ve been drinking all day, and it affects my performance. My heart races more and more with each duckdive; the waves are a little bigger than they looked from shore. The peaks are so scattered and random that I tire myself thinking about my strategy. My people are on the shore are watching. I want to give them something to “ooh” and “aah” about. The next set is big, a sloppy five-feet at least, but I’m too far out to paddle into it. I don’t see Francis or Michelle anywhere. The current pulls me north, so I paddle against it. My frustration builds when a big wave forms right in front of me. I feel like I’m late, but I go anyway. I dig-in my left rail a couple feet down the face before the wave morphs and pitches me forward. I ditch my board completely, and feel it sling into the air as I plunge below. I resurface unashamed; it was actually fun. I can’t see reactions from the shore, but I have a feeling they appreciated that one.
Francis tells me he got worked paddling out, and Michelle waited for a channel to open up. They are both to my north, but I try to fight the current back to the camp site. I still can’t catch anything decent, while Francis takes a couple with ease, getting at least one turn on each for some distance.
Daylight burns out quickly. Michelle’s on the shore walking back to camp, and Francis is making his way back in. I catch a closeout and ride it straight. I turn around, pondering on a last wave, but the site is unwelcoming. Roars of whitewash roll in, one behind the other. At least I got a monster wipeout.
Klaude’s on the shore, ready to greet us as we stumble in. “Good job,” he says. He’s smiling and patting me on the back, looking more stoked than we are for the evening rush, but his look says it all. He wanted to be out there, he would’ve been happy to catch some storm slop with us, side by side, like brothers in arms, but we understand. He has to leave, already behind schedule. Cheryl and Silverton bone out too.
Francis and I stay loyal to the ritual, and drink a couple MGDs in the shower. When we get back to the trailer, the weather starts to change again. What we witnessed was just a mere lull, there are darker clouds ahead. We still have time to bonfire while Michelle volunteers to cook. As soon as we go in for dinner, the rain and wind picks up again.
The whole day’s activities catch up to everyone. Sebastian passes out, so I play with his belly button while he sleeps. Al doesn’t even want to drink anymore, Gary and Michelle seem to be holding up strong, and I’m trying to get everyone to eat as much as possible.
Michelle makes pasta with chorizo with a garnish of cilantro. I warm up some of her chili and put some tortillas in the microwave to make sure everyone’s full. Afterwards, it’s on to mint Oreos and Chips Ahoys with bunny tracks ice cream. Michelle’s friends from a San Clemente campsite show up to say hi, and then it’s time to go to sleep. It was a long and brutal day, but thank Sebastian we got shelter.
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