Location:
Churches
Crew: Rick,
Francis, Jimmy B, Jantzen, Jordan
Conditions:
2-3 FT+, gloomy, onshore, choppy, inconsistent.
Pre Blog:
I hadn’t surfed for eleven days. . . . The
last time I surfed was in the middle of helping my mom move, and that session
sucked balls. The following weekend I had work, and to top that off I had my
final school projects to deal with. Finally . . . Thursday was my last true day
of school. Summer session starts on May 29th, but until then . . .
Donny Duckbutter’s coming back to town.
Cheeks:
I’m tired. It’s 1015. I should’ve left my
house fifteen minutes ago, but it took so long to print everything for my
portfolios. I take the freeway exit and make all the green lights, but when I
reach campus all the parking’s sealed off for an event. That’s odd. I park the
whip with ten minutes to spare. Just three classes from 1100-1545, that’s all I
got.
Everyone in class sits with their
portfolios in hand, and the professor just wants us to come up one by one. It
was my first semester of upper division creative writing, and everyone’s been
really cool. I’m surprised at how many chicks are in this major. I was one of
the few sausages in class . . . a wrinkled, weather-beaten sausage at that; my
shit’s been through wars! Battle scars!
JN is a grad student, and after she turns
in her packet she says, “You should come hang out with us at the bar until the
next class.”
The bar . . . The campus has a bar, and
I’ve never set foot in it once. “Sure!” I say. Why not?
“Okay, turn in your packet next. We’ll save
a spot for you.” She smiles.
Wow . . . could it be? Will I actually have
friends at school? Don’t get me wrong, I have a lot of friends outside of
school, but . . . I feel so old on campus. Whenever I’m done with class it’s
straight to the car. Also, there are just too many camels in tight-tight yoga
pants walking around. It’s too much for an old, veteran perv for me to handle,
so I do the honorable thing and go home to jack off by myself with one hand on
the mouse with the trashcan in front of me.
I walk through the double doors and there’s
an ocean of students getting drunk. Why didn’t I ever come here before? I catch
my classmates just as they secure a table. It’s JN, JJ, FG, M, K, all chicks. I’m
hyper, so I order two Fat Tires to start things off. They’re so nice. They’re
already in the graduate program, and their letting me in on the drama: who’s
who, who’s cool, who to watch out for, and what classes to take.
“JN,” I say, “thanks for inviting me, and
thanks for the add on Facebook.”
She rushes her swig and sets her drink
down. She covers her mouth and swallows. “Oh my god, Matt. I have the funniest
story!” The whole table listens. “The other day, my gay-guy friend was going
through my phone, and he was like, ‘Who’s this?’ I was like, ‘Oh, that’s Matt.’
He was looking at your pics and was like, ‘Oh my god, he’s so fuckin’ hott. He’s
gay isn’t he?’ I told him I remember you mentioning a girlfriend then he said, ‘But
look at his pictures, he has to at least be bi. Hook me up, JN!’”
We all get a good laugh about that. I think
about my pictures. Yes, the military humor can easily fool one into believing
he is seeing homo eroticism at its finest, but no . . . they are just pictures
of real mean and what real men do, and what real men do is act overtly fucking
homosexual. The guys who are homophobic . . . those are the true gays. After
everyone’s done laughing, I turn to JN. In a serious tone I say, “Do you have a
picture of him?”
#
I have a pretty nice buzz going on. I’ve
never been in class with a beer buzz. It’s fucking awesome. This definitely
needs to become a ritual of some sort in the future. There’s this petite, dirty
blonde that sits across from me in class. She has the whole semester. She’s
tormented me with her huge boobs and short shorts. She would constantly sit
with her feet on her chair, showing off the bottom of her round, tan cheeks. I
only talked to her a couple times because those were the days that I was in a
relationship. I approach her while my beer-confidence is running strong, and I
get her phone number (Sorry, I had to omit the dialogue. I sounded RIDICULOUS.).
It’s the first phone number I’ve gotten in over THREE YEARS.
#
We’re back at the bar, but this time K is
now replaced by H. I tell H that I play MW3 on PS3.
“Oh,” she says, “what’s your KDR?”
I pause. “KDR?”
“Yeah, kill-death ratio?”
“Oh! Ummm, you know, I really don’t know,
but . . . on a good day I’m like 20-17.” My eyebrows raise with an unsure
smirk.
She nods her head without changing her expression.
“You’re probably in a clan, huh? I bet you’re
one of those 50-4 people.”
She smiles. “Yeah, I’m in an all girl clan.
We usually just take up a spot and kill everyone that enters.”
#
I’m on 405S still buzzing, still tired by
the four hours of sleep, and still trying to keep my eyes open. My phone rings.
It’s Francis.
“Matt, traffic’s really slow by Westminster.
I’m trying to get off the freeway but I can’t. You should try to avoid this
area.”
I thank him for the intel and take PCH to 55N.
It’s a peaceful drive. The ocean over the north side of Huntington Pier is
choppy, but I can see some peaks trying to work through.
#
Rick, Francis, Jimmy B, and John H are
already drinking when I show up. Even though L.A. was sunny, South Orange
County is overcast with strong onshore wind. John H hands me a Coors Light when
I walk up. He’s plastered. He complains how the surf’s been shitty all day. I
get introduced to Jantzen who’s John H’s friend, and Jantzen says that he’s
been waiting for the window to open up, but it never did. Of course, Rick and
Francis are already talking about suiting up.
The
Session:
The cool air blasts our faces on shore. Francis
and I lead the charge, paddling out at Churches at the same time. The wind is
cold, but I’m surprised to find that the water’s the warmest it’s been in a
while. The closer I get to the lineup, the more the water seems to steady, and
the roar of the wind begins to calm. It’s always better in the ocean.
The wind is knocking down the waves, so
they’re spilling and crumbling early. Soon Rick, Jantzen, Jimmy B., and Jordan
(Manhattan Beach grom shredder) joins us. It’s an empty evening with no takers
all day according to the early campers. Little two-footers crumble by, good for
a little down-the-line pump and maybe a close-out carve.
At the end of the session, the wind dies a
little, and some random sets start to pump out the back. A random, clean three-foot
right comes my way. Its surface is light blue with white-wash giving it a
marble-like quality. I pop-up right on the shoulder and shoot down the face
with speed. I don’t know if it’s from watching too much ASP Tour footage, but I
bottom turn, climb the face, compact my body, and do a carving cutback down
into the pocket. It doesn’t lag like my frontside carves, and I’ve never done a
rebounding turn like this with so much speed.
Jantzen lets out a “Wooooh!” as he paddles
over the shoulder.
Even though the cutback was sharp, I lose
balance in the pocket and fall while trying to redirect. Still, it’s a new
feat, and that sensation alone carries me over for the rest of the night.
Francis and I follow up with a cold beer in
the hot showers. We clank cans over the concrete separator and lather ourselves
in bubbly Irish Spring. Back at camp, the Jimmy B family has fish tacos ready
for us. Jantzen and John stay up drinking. When I get up to leave, John says, “You
guys are the youngest guys here. You should be staying up!”
I smile and make a tactful exit. Solid surf
in the morning . . . I’d rather save myself for that.
