THE RELEASE PT.3, SAT 12MAY2012 MOR

Location: Churches

Crew: Francis, Jordan, and Rick

Conditions: 2-3 FT, clean, glassy, inconsistent.

     Last night Rick set up a tent for Francis and I. He doesn’t want us sleeping in our cars. It’s nice of him. Francis and I wake up to Rick’s voice. He’s on the phone. “Firing,” he says.  I don’t know who he’s talking to, but I unzip the tent and stumble out. Rick’s holding his phone to his hear. He looks at me and raises his eyebrows. I look out over the ocean. Finally, it’s fucking clean. No wind, just glass—overcast glass. A little two-footer breaks on the south end of Churches. It’s small, but it’s clean and rideable. “You better get out there before it turns into a zoo,” says Rick. 

     With quickness, dump out yesterday’s sushi, suit up, and grab my board. Francis pokes his head out of the tent. “Clean,” I tell him. I’m rushing. Jantzen sits up out of his sleeping bag (he’s sleeping out in the open) and lifts his beanie as I move past. He looks out at the lineup. It doesn’t look impressive, but I’m just stoked at the conditions.

     Four longboarders are at the bottom of the wave. Two of them catch some decent rights. A three-footer breaks in front of me. I duckdive it. I’m thinking that this is the day I’ve been waiting for: clean conditions, down the line waves, glassy, and no wind. And then the lull starts, a very long one. The longboarders I just invaded are sitting stagnant as well. Nothing is coming. North Churches, next to the top of the wave looks good, but there’s a surf contest there, so we can’t get any of that.

     By the time everyone else paddles out, I still haven’t caught a thing. It’s too inconsistent, too small in between the sets, it’s . . . disappointing.

     “Don’t worry, Matt,” says Rick, “let’s do a run to Oceanside.”

     I nod.

#

     Francis and I tough it out the longest. We’ve been in the water for two hours. I can’t recall anyone else getting good rides, all I know is that I didn’t get any waves worth mentioning. Francis and I head in and shower up, hoping that this afternoon has something better in store for us.

THE RELEASE PT.2, FRI 11MAY2012 MOR

Location: Lowers

Crew: Francis & Jordan

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, sunny, hot, light south wind, textured, inconsistent.

     It’s a rough night sleeping in the back of my wagon. Back at the house, my military inflatable pad is somewhere in my closet collecting dust, unused. I wake up constantly, turning over on my side, meeting shoulder bone to hard surface. Still, despite the rough night I wake up feeling rested.

     Light from the overcast morning illuminates my cabin. I look at my watch: 0530. Shit, I’m late. I push open the door and swivel onto the sand barefooted. An onshore breeze hits me in the face. There are only a couple guys out. I had hoped for a clean morning of surf. Fuck the size. I’m stoked if it’s at least three feet and clean; you can’t ask for too much. The waves are crumbly again, weak, choppy, and 2-3 FT. The low tide exposes the rocks for a long walk to deep water. I turn around and see Francis’ truck door already open. Rick’s already up too. As much as we all want to surf, we wait for a better window, maybe when the tide comes up some.

#

CHURCHES:

     It’s 0900 and still . . . the conditions have only improved by a fraction, but we’re all prepping our gear like soldiers before battle. Rick, Jimmy, Jantzen, Francis, and Jordan are all changing and putting wax on their boards. This camping trip isn’t supposed to be like this. There is supposed to be swell, at least good shape and good conditions. But nothing is guaranteed. Every session is like a spin at the roulette table despite Surfline and Magic Sea Weed.

     The Church sesh is uneventful. At best, I get a couple rights where I walk it out and ride the nose like a longboarder. Jordan does the best out of all of us, pumping all the way to shore or in this case the rocks. She’s pretty ballsy to do that because I’m too worried about dinging my board to go that far. Jordan leaves after an hour.

     A half hour later the sun comes out. Francis turns to me, squinting from the rays and says, “You like go Lowers?”

     I don’t respond right away. With these dismal conditions, I’m not sure if it’s even worth it. If it’s anything like this, the crowd slapped on top of it will make for a perfect shit sandwich. “You really wanna go huh?”

     “Yeah.”

     “Yeah, fuck it. One more.”

     We catch our last meager rides, leaving Jantzen, Jimmy, and Rick behind. I want to tell them that we’re going, but I’d hate to make them go all the way there if it’s not good.

#

Lowers:

     We spot Jordan at the main peak when we’re half way through Middles. We perch on the sand a little south from the outhouses, bicycles, and people filming. We’re a little unsure at first, but after we watch a 3-4 FT set roll in, we do the cobblestone dance and paddle out.

     I sit a little wide as usual, hoping that something swings my way, but there’s no luck. There’s a long lull, but every time a set comes, it’s an easy four or five waves. The wind even dies a little.

     My surfing inactivity catches up. I either scratch out, or I can’t make the sections to get down the line. Waiting for waves to swing wide works sometimes but not today. I have to paddle into the lineup if I want some.

     Francis paddles up to me and says, “I think that’s Kolohe Andino.”

     “Who?” I turn around.

     “The guy in the red wetsuit. Every wave he gets is an air, and he sticks everything.”

     We spot the guy in the red O’Neill wetsuit disappear behind the peak and then fly up over the wave, disappearing again on his landing. “And I think that guy’s Nate Yeomans,” says Francis. He motions towards the peak.

     Nate’s wearing a black and white wetsuit. I know for sure that it’s him. He’s talking to a couple people at the peak, going for both lefts and rights. Every time he goes left he makes the sections and sets up for a full arcing carve. He attempts a backside air going right, but doesn’t stick the landing.

     “Oh wait,” says Francis. “That can’t be Kolohe. He’s in Brazil right now.” We laugh, but we still don’t know who the grom ripper is.

#

     Francis and I are sitting out far enough to be in place for the bombs. We do a headcount: eighteen. A big set breaks on the outside, and Francis gets position. He drops in with his eyes wide on a four-foot set wave, going right. His single fin is fast. From behind, he reemerges and hits the lip on shoulder before sliding back down again. I see him catch a number of these.

     I’m stuck in my own world, misreading the crowd, pulling out of lefts when the guy on my inside goes right, which is followed by an internal rant of how fucking stupid I am. I hear my brother’s voice in my head, “Always go for it. You can always pull out later.”

     Francis and Jordan are having a conversation behind me. “Yeah, I can’t believe I landed that,” she says, “that was sick.”

     “Yeah, I saw that,” says Francis.

     They’re on another level.

#

     We’ve been in the water for three and a half hours. I’m weak, tired, and performing worse as the minutes pass. Jordan heads towards her scantily clad friends on the sand while Francis and I head back. Even though I didn’t perform well, I’m exhausted. I turn to Francis and say one word: SUSHI.

     He smiles. “Ho’, got me excited now.”

     “Man, you have no idea.” I shake my head. “Don’t even eat right now, bro. We gonna go in there STARVING to death. All you can eat!”

     I’m over the session. With the advent of uni and hamachi on deck, it’s a happy walk back to camp.

#

     We stay true to the ritual, drinking ice cold Coors Light in the showers. Back at the site, I tell Rick that I promised Francis a sushi run before he goes back to Oahu, and that we’ll be back tonight.

     I don’t take Francis to the well renowned Zenko Sushi because they shut down from 1430-1700, so I take him to Randy’s old spot, Hana Sushi in O-Side.

     I explain that I haven’t been there in a while, but I don’t tell him I’m worried that it might be out of business. Lucky for us, it’s still there. “Dude,” I say, “this place always has fuckin’ hot ass chicks.”

     As soon as we open the door, we’re greeted by the Asian hostess that looks like an import car model. She has dark, long black hair and wears it Charlie’s Angels style. Her skin is light, and her dark eyes are round, a Filipina maybe. Her C-cups are firm, showing a sculpted line between her blouse. “Welcome to Hanas,” she says. “All you can eat?”

     I puff up my chest and say, “Yes,” in my deepest voice possible.

     Even the other chicks that work there: Latina, white, fuckin’ SMOKING HOTT. I’m rubber-necking it the whole time, damn near turning in my seat to get the rear view. The cash register is behind us, and their asses are just a bite away. Francis and I look at each other. “Mmmhmmm. I told you. . . .” 

     There are a couple changes from the last time I ate here. First, there is now a two hour limit stated on the order sheet. The sushi orders are limited to five orders per item. However, some items are now added to the AYCE list: soda, ice cream, and fried banana. Despite the limits, we are consistent the whole two hours. 

     During the drive back, we only chuckle and let out a couple small laughs. Sushi always tastes best after a draining surf session. 

THE RELEASE PT.1, THU 10MAY2012 EVE

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 29^th, 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.