THE RELEASE PT.9 (double sesh), MON 14MAY2012 EVE

Location: Churches

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 4-5 FT+, strong onshore, inconsistent, choppy, sunny.

     I wake from my nap at 1630, debating on what to do. I circle around the decision back and forth. I tell myself to start writing, catch the evening session at Lowers, and just watch game 2 on Wednesday. Then I tell myself, enjoy the full experience of being out here. I can both surf and catch the game. The thought of having a cold beer in town while watching Kobe ball on the Thunder does sound appealing. The wind is so strong that it looks like “victory at sea” conditions, but if I want to catch the game, the second session must happen now.

CHURCH BOMBING:

    

     Only few are willing to brave the conditions. Brave or stupid, choose one. I sit at the bottom of the wave with a couple guys. I saw some shoulders here earlier, but the lull is hindering that. Again, I’m at the top of the wave. The bumps rolling through look like they’ll break but they roll past and break on the inside. I expect nothing on this session. This paddle out is more so I don’t hate myself later for not paddling out. Just when I think that things are going dead, my heart drops as I catch the site of the oncoming set over the horizon. It’s a thin crowd. Thin . . . and we’re all fucked. We paddle towards the outside. I duckdive the first. The wind is so strong that it knocks the wave down in a fashion that leaves a long, trailing rapid of white wash. I go under the violent wall that approaches, get washed around, and lose my board. I struggle with the second one as well. I’m still padding as hard as I can, getting close but not close enough. All I can do is watch the waves build and prepare for darkness. By the fifth duckdive I’m worn out. One more wave, and I’m panting on the outside, sitting by myself. Everyone else is taking their last beatings. It’s funny how things look so dismal from the shore, but it’s a whole other story in the lineup. I learn my lesson: patiently wait on the outside for the set.

     Unfortunately, the sections are too long, so the waves don’t line up all the way to the inside like they should during aclassic Churches’ day, but still, the drops are fast and good enough for a couple turns. Regardless, I kick-out before the rides end because the paddle is far.

     I can’t remember any significant rides. I go left on some waves that are short lived. The rights are better, but this whole trip hasn’t had carves in abundance. At 1800, I head in to clean up for the game.

I had a hard time catching the sets for the pics, but there's a surfer going right for a sense of scale.

There's a longboarder about to hit the lip if you look closely.

     Someone in Camp Pendleton told me to go to Humphrey’s Sandwiches in San Clemente because they have TVs, and it’s mellow. I drive there and order the prime rib sandwich which is fucking delicious. I’m the only one in there. The two young guys that work there look like male models or the wolf guys from Twilight, but they’re cool as fuck. The manager there is smoking hot. She has long, curly brown hair tied into a pony tail. She bends over, moving stuff from the cabinets. Her butt is so round in her black, stretchy pants. Every time she turns around, I turn back to the game without getting caught. Only if she knew that every guy is a pervert. At least I am, and you . . . you sitting at home reading this. You too are sick.  

     The place shuts down at 2000, so I call my buddy Sebastian, who suggests that I go to Dukes to watch the rest of the game. It’s an empty night, and the bartender is a petite brunette with gigantic boobs. When it’s obvious that the Lakers are gonna get blown out, I head to Jack in the Box for churros, chicken nuggets, and a java shake. I’m not even hungry, but I like to eat crap when I drink. I can’t help it. Somehow, alcohol = junkfood.

     Back at the beach, I force myself to eat everything. I go to sleep buzzed and full. Fuckin’ Lakers. . . .

THE RELEASE PT.8, MON 14MAY2012 MOR

Location: Churches to Middles

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 5 FT+, glassy, clean, inconsistent, sunny, warm.

     My breath smells like rotten pizza, so I walk to the bathrooms and brush my teeth before I start my morning. I drive back to my favorite spot under the tree in front of Churches. It’s just past 0500, and the ocean is so dark that I can’t tell if it’s good or not. I open the box and eat the last slice and then gulp some water down. Even though it’s only sixty degrees, it feels colder. As the sky to the east turns light blue, I see the first signs of life from the ocean. The water is glassy and smooth. There’s something desolate in its appearance. It’s Monday . . . there shouldn’t be a crowd.

     There isn’t a cloud in the sky, and I begin to suit up as the sun peaks over the horizon. I hear white-noise from the inside while I change behind the car. I walk around and see the first set break. The right-hand peak at the middle of the wave is peeling, as well as the southern-most peak at the bottom, both unridden. Three longboarders start to paddle and head to the top. I lock the car and warm up.

#

     Whenever I paddle out at Churches, I start at the bottom of the wave and work my way to the top. Also, it’s easier to paddle out from there. The San Onofre state parking lot starts to fill, and I can see longboarders making their trek in the distance.

     Nothing breaks at the bottom of the wave. Actually, it seems that nothing is breaking at all. Longboarders are even scratching out at the middle of the wave. I make a gradual approach until I’m all the way at the top amongst a small group of dawn patrollers. Upon seeing that first set of the morning, I had text’d Rick, Francis, and Klaude that it was “firing.” I wonder how accurate that is now, as nothing’s breaking. A small bump approaches, concealing the horizon as it moves through. As soon as it passes, a monster bump appears on the outside. Oh fuck. Our group turns into a clusterfuck of paddling and clamoring. Everyone’s caught by surprise. I duck dive the first, second, and third wave. Still, the waves are coming. I put myself in position for the last five-foot wave. It’s big, but it’s fat and mooshy, but the drop is still fast. Instead of carving off the top, I pump, trying to get some distance on the ride, but the wave doesn’t line up, and I top-turn under the lip before it closes.

     When I resurface to paddle back, no one’s at the lineup. Everyone’s scattered, and fighting through the whitewash on the inside. This is a good sign. It’s not gonna be a flat day.

    

     Even though there are some juicy sets, they are a bit inconsistent. What I don’t like about inconsistent days is that they allow every surfer to get into position. No one catches waves and everyone waits in place. But when the waves are consistent, they shift everyone. I love those days.

     I try to predict the sets, and paddle towards the outside after every hump, hoping to see monsters on the horizon. My predictions are off most of the time. Sitting in the lineup almost becomes a game of who’s psychic and who’s not. On the next crawl to the outside, a random wall starts to build. I know I have it. I crept to the outside in the most unsuspecting manner possible. It’s a clean peak with a smooth, glassy face. Those on the inside watch as I slide down, but the wave’s a little soft, not meant for nasty hacks off the lip. Still, I try, turning but making sure I don’t go over the top on accident. I pump, trim, walk the nose, and fall on the spin.

#

     There are some set waves that have more punch. I manage to get one good turn off the lip before a wave closes, but I can’t tell if I get spray or not.

     The morning’s weird: long, impatient lulls which bring you to the verge of paddling in, and then a five-to-six wave set that breaks far on the outside. So many of us are caught by them. On the inside, two chicks are getting pounded. A younger one on a short board turtle dives under a roaring wall of white. After a couple seconds, her board gets spat out from the top. An older longboarder chick next to her completely ditches her board. She slides off, pinches her nose, and dives straight under. I’m thinking how dangerous this is for the both of them, especially because they’re so close. Even though the shortboarder’s hot, I paddle by her without even looking. I’m turned off by her inability to punch through and for her failure to at least attempt to do it right. You don’t turtle dive a shortboard. . . .

     Back at the lineup, the sea calms. The shortboarder chick is back on the shore, going home defeated. The morning crowd thickens, so I decide to paddle towards Lowers.

     I’m just outside of Churches and entering Middles when I get caught too deep for a peak. Surprised, I paddle outside to get one of the set waves. I haven’t surfed Middles in a while, and I’m surprised that something’s breaking here. It’s my first left of the morning that’s a good four-feet. As it meets another section to closeout, I bottom turn and carve the face before the lip comes down. I fall after the carve. I know in my heart that this should be a layback snap. I need to learn how to come out of these.

     I’m thinking that Middles has turned on, but another lull hits, so I head straight to Lowers.

#

     I expected a thin crowd for Monday, but it’s the most crowded I’ve seen Lowers since Thursday. The top of Lowers is working like a machine. Set waves are coming in at five-feet. Even the inside of Lowers is consistent, but there are so many goddam surfers. The lineup is colorful with red, pink, and green wetsuits. Nothing is breaking wide. It’s all one big A-frame. Anything breaking wide is an illusion with already someone on it from the top. I stop my headcount at thirty-eight because people are still filing in. I sit wide and eventually sit closer to the main pack, but it’s too competitive. It’s the biggest mistake of the trip; I catch nothing here. I tuck my tail between my legs and head back to the cliffs north of Middles. There are some waves here, but they aren’t lined-up as nice. Most of them are long, racy peaks without faces to work with. It’s 1000, it’s sunny, and I’m burning up in my wetsuit. I’ve surfed for four hours; I’m starving. 

#

     Walking back to the wagon, I see a set working at Churches. I should’ve stayed there. Yeah, the lulls were long, but it was still working when I left. Bad move. The conditions are still clean. I grab my phone and snap a picture in front of the wagon. The lowering tide took away some of the size, but it still looks fun.

     

     After I clean up, I head to La Tiendita for some Mexican food. I order the machaca plate which is only $5.95 and a horchata. It’s a lot of food for a good price.

     Back at the wagon, I have another decision to make. Tonight’s game 1 of the Lakers versus Thunder series. 

     “You can’t miss game 1,” is what Klaude said last night. “It’s gonna be epic.”

     I debate on pulling an evening session at Lowers or catching the game. Under my favorite spot under the tree, I crack the windows and lie down for a nap. Full and exhausted, I fall asleep.

THE RELEASE PT.7, SUN 13MAY2012 EVE

Location: Lowers

Crew: Solo

Conditions: 3 FT, light onshore, consistent, sunny.

     The first thing I do is reorganize all of my surf junk in the back, pushing it to one side. I lay down the extra sleeping bag that I brought for Francis as some cushion, put down a pillow, and scoot my sleeping bag to the side. I’m tired. Even though I didn’t surf that long, the early wake up and beers have me in nappy-poo mode. The sky is a pervading blue outside my wagon. With a slight crack of the windows and cool shade from the branches above, I’m comfortable enough to fall asleep. It’s a scene I’m gonna have to get used to. 

     1800 is go time for the evening sesh. At this time of the year, it always is. It’s perfect because the wind starts to die, and there’s enough time for a solid two hours of surf. Also, you catch the sun going down and get to see the transition from day to night. Surfers leave the lineup as darkness grows, leaving only the surf fiends to themselves.

     I drive my car back to where I was parked earlier. What was a campsite filled with life and abundance is now desolate and empty. Even the family that the E-Z Up toppled onto is gone. I suit up and start my walk. I’m not too sure what this evening entails. Today’s afternoon wind is definitely stronger than yesterday’s. The strong onshores part my hair to the side as I walk the path. No one joins me on this walk to Lowers; I’m solo on this lone road. The possibility of leaving lingers in my mind. I could just go home tonight. It’s not the same being out here without Rick or Fransauce.

     Churches is crumbling because the wind is so strong. Clear across middles is nothing but chopped-up texture. The integrity of pure flatness is only disrupted be the bobbing black dots at Lowers. There are no A-frames, and everyone is just sitting. There aren’t any waves, I’m thinking. But then again, if there aren’t any, there wouldn’t be surfers there.

     I sit on the sand at the same spot where Francis and I sat a couple days ago before we paddled and surfed with Jordan. Looking out at the shore, I see a bird swimming over the inside whitewash, going over the marble humps. I think about perspectives, about what different people are doing right now and what they are seeing. Rick’s probably at home, looking at his living room, sitting on the couch, and relaxing in front of the TV. Francis is with Nicole, enjoying their time together in their apartment, probably making dinner or watching a movie. Everyone else is in their comfortable surroundings doing comfortable things. But I . . . I’m caked in Vertra, sitting in the sand, draped in my wetsuit with my board across my knees. I see cobblestones and a bird kicking across the water that knows this place better than I do. I see the horizon but can only feel the wind that beats against my face, making me cold. The sight of the choppy ocean makes me shiver, but just then, a set breaks at the top of Lowers with surfers going left and right. I guess it would be nice to be at home. I’d have a beer right next to me as I’d pound away on the PS3 controller, blasting fools online on Modern Warfare 3.

     I walk out over the medium tide and duckdive my first wave. The splash of the cold water is intense, but after a couple seconds it’s all the same. My rear delts burn as I paddle my stick through the choppy surf. The wind and the chop are no longer disturbing. I love it here. This is my perspective.

#

     The paddle to the lineup is taking longer than expected. I keep looking at the shore, trying to get in front of the porta-potties that serve as landmarks. The tail of my JS got cracked during yesterday’s session at Lowers, so now I’m on my backup board: the 6’1 potato chip DMS, the board that I only use on dumpy days when the surf is rounder. I feel that the loss of foam is affecting me, I could use an extra push.

     When I get to the peak, three Japanese guys are sitting at my outside spot, and then I realize that it’s because of the way the waves are breaking. Maybe it’s because of the wind, but the typical A-frame peak is breaking long, making two tight peaks with a saddle in between. Surfers must sit wide on both sides, if in the middle, they must make a couple sections to get to the face.

     I’m patient. I wonder if the wind will die, as it’s still strong, but the peaks push through the chop. The next set scatters the Japanese guys, and I paddle forward to take their place. The waves are unpredictable. They look like they’re gonna break late, but there’s that last second pitch where it’s steep enough to slide down. I’m too deep for the next wave. The spilling lip shoots me down so fast that I slide down the face on my belly, trying to recover in the flats. As soon as I pop-up, one of the Japanese dudes is right in front of me; he’s in my line. Stepping on my tail and shifting my weight to the right, I miss him by inches.

     Paddling back to the lineup, I’m prepared to get dirty looks. It’s an embarrassing way to make my entry.

     A couple people leave, so I do a quick headcount. “One, two, three . . . thirteen.” That’s not bad, not bad at all. Thirteen at Lowers when the peaks are wide is minimal.

     I move to the top of the wave in the midst of quiet, stone-faced, unwelcoming characters. I’ve learned to be patient, holding the trigger on the first set wave.

     Let the others scramble, let them get out of place, for there is never one, always two or three there are.

     I catch my first right within view of the Japanese guys on the shoulder. The different feel of the DMS has the balance off, but I do a bottom turn below the lip, recover, pump, and then kick out. On this evening, the lefts are working better than the rights.

     As the sun goes down, the Japanese crew leaves. There’s now half the crowd. I catch my first left, but it’s lined-up like I’ve never seen before. Instead of a building shoulder, the whole wave is set up like a three-foot quarter pipe; the lip of the wave draws a drooping laundry line all the way to the end. It throws me off a little. I’m pumping, but the lip doesn’t end. I push my tail into the top to disrupt the wave’s integrity, leaving little carves of displaced water. This quarter-pipe configuration is fast but fun.

     I’ve never been a top dog at Lowers, but with the fading light, only three of us are left. One of them is Brazilian. I only know this because he’s speaking in Portuguese, and I know he’s speaking Portuguese from all the Brazilian porn that I’ve watched over the last decade. The other guy has been scratching out the entire session. He’s on a fun board. On every set, he’s passive, not chasing down the waves, and not competing to get into place. He’s let other guys go and stayed in place or got worked on the inside, but still . . . he’s one of the “Last of the Low-hicans.” I admire his dedication. Surf stoke starts from somewhere, and this place and moment isn’t a bad start.

     The Brazilian guy catches his last wave in, and it’s just me and the Low-hican. Surfing in the dark makes me nervous. In the rare event of something catastrophic happening, you’d be fucked out here. I take a look at him floundering on his board. My life would depend on him. I turn, and catch a left to the inside. I’m glad I stayed.

#

     The campsites were packed over the weekend, but everyone’s gone. So many sites are vacant, and the hot water from my shower is the only noise in the bathroom. It would be nice to have a battle buddy. There’s no “beer with a hot shower” ritual tonight. I put on my dirty clothes in the cool night air and head to San Clemente in search of grub.

#

     One thing’s for sure: I don’t know this town. I go online and find a review for a Korean taco truck that’s in some parking lot five miles away. I drive there . . . nothing. I’m really not in the mood for Denny’s or Tommy’s, definitely not in the mood for KFC or anything fast food related. I pass a neon sign that says OPEN, and above it is a sign that reads 2 For 1 Pizza.

     I walk in ten minutes before they close. They have a pretty good deal: $7.00 for a two-topping medium pizza with a medium drink. How the fuck can anyone go wrong with that? When I open it, I’m disappointed. It reminds me of the cheap ass pizza I had in downtown Las Vegas. At the slightest tilt, the cheese and everything on it wants to slide off. There’s no firmness in the slices. They droop and bend at the lift. None-the-less, I’m so fucking hungry, and this piece of shit pizza is tasting goooooooood. 

     I park a couple shops down next to the pipe/bong shop and give Klaude a call. Klaude’s energy is always good. I have to touch bases with him at least a couple times a week to talk about life. I’m over the top, being loud, and cursing while grease and cheese drips down my chin. I put on too many red peppers, so I’m sweating bullets the whole time.    

     “Yeah,” he says, “the swell supposed to pick up. You might score tomorrow.”

#

     Back at the beach I save a slice for the morning and put up my towels to block out the lights from the outside. I brush, floss, hydrate, and set my bed as good as possible. It’s my first time being out here alone like this. If this isn’t a true surf bum experience, it’s the closest I’ve ever been to it, and . . . I think I like it.