FUZZY, FRI 25MAY2012 MOR

Crew: Francis

Time: ?

Conditions: 4-5 FT, semi consistent, uncrowded, warm.

     This entry is titled fuzzy because I’m so behind on my blogs that I can’t fucking remember shit. This is terrible. Just school and work lately have been taking up most of my time. Here’s what I can recall:

#

     It’s the day of my military reunion camping trip at San Onofre. I should be there right now, getting my usual pre-camping surf session at Trestles before I set up the tent, but the surf down south is dismal. I reserved the sites over two weeks in advance, and the surf this weekend is small. Not only is there no south swell, but there is wind and rain forecasted somewhere in there too. Well, like a captain goes down with his ship, I stand by my decision, never succumbing to a faltering thought of cancelling. After all, I haven’t seen most of these guys in over ten years.

     Local is the call. Why? Because the surf local has been surprisingly decent. As much as I’ve written off the South Bay before, I’ve had nothing but good sessions this week. The plan . . . is to surf at 26^th St. and then head down south.

#

     The only reason I might be more consistent that Francis is because I’m a bum. He has a full time job on top of school, and also shares his time with his woman. Despite the everyday commitments that beckon him, he has surfed with me the most out of all of my friends since I met him over a year ago.

     And . . . this is where things get fuzzy. The surf is similar to the days before, but something happens around nine o’clock where people just leave. The wind’s a little onshore, and it’s choppy, but it’s still rideable, and sets are still coming out the back. Only five people share the peak in front of 26^th. One of them is a chick riding a twin-fin fish. I paddle up and talk to her, but I can’t remember her name for the life of me. I think it’s Erin, and she’s from Lawndale. She says she just got back from visiting Maui, so we hit it off right away. What I’m most compelled by is that it’s a brutal session. It’s not small, the inside is consistent, and it’s hard enough to keep the crowd extra thin. And yet, there’s a chick out here, riding a twin-fin fish. I’m not saying that females can’t shred, but I only know one that does: super grom ripper extraordinaire Jordan. My other female surf buddies wouldn’t even be able to make it to the lineup today.

     I can’t remember any significant rides, but I do catch a handful of rights and left, good enough to call it “single shot city.” Francis leaves, but I hang out to talk to the chick a little longer, meeting Francis at my house later.

Locked and loaded

Carne asada tacos. So simple . . .  and tasty!

 

#

     Only a small handful of my old battle buddies from my old scout platoon showed up, and even though I’ve seen most of them within the last couple years, it was the first time they had seen each other in over a decade.

     Once we were done eating tacos, we surrounded the bonfire and lit some cigars that Castillo was nice enough to buy at the PX earlier that day. With the light San Onofre breeze pushing against our faces, we stretched out our fingers near the fire pit, smoked, drank, and talked shit about the guys not there.

     “Where the fuck is Cabrera?” asked Canales.

     “Well, I tried,” I said. “He said he was coming today. No answer.” I leaned over with a log, repositioning the fallen tepee.

     Castillo turned to Rastaetter and said, “Remember Neubauer? I wonder what happened to him.” He turned back towards the fire, still holding his boyish smile, the same familiar one he wore in Utah when he was beardless and still had a head full of hair.

     The wind seemed to stop, and I felt the silence creep up the back of my neck. I knew what would happen next.

     “Didn’t you hear, Craig?” said Rastaetter.

     Castillo released his grin and returned a blank stare. “No,” he said.

     “IED. He was killed in Iraq.”

     The fire crackled on, releasing small sparks into the light plume of gray smoke. Silence followed.

     “Are you serious?” Said Castillo.

     “Yeah,” said Rastaetter.

     All of our heads lowered without a word. Even though we were all staring into the fire, we all saw something different. 

A.I. BOARDSHORTS, THU 24MAY2012 MOR

Crew: Francis

Time: 0845-1045

Conditions: 4-5 FT, semi consistent, crowded, cold.

     Yesterday was hot. In fact, I was fucking burning in my wetsuit. I debate on trunking-it for the first time this year.

     The tidal window’s a little weird this morning, so I head out a little late. When I park, I can see some lines coming in; it looks fun. Even though the sun isn’t blazing this morning, my intuition tells me that the water’s warm. I didn’t grab my boardshorts, but I check the spare tire compartment and find my emergency boardshorts and rashguard.

#

     Here I am. I’m tired and yawning in my Billabong A.I. boardshorts. There are only two other guys in shorts, and one of them is an SUP guy. I have my red rashguard on, the one I’ve had since I was a barney and the one I wore in Bali. With my DMS under my left arm I approach the water, thinking that this could be an epic session.

     My calves go cold first, but it’s bearable. Once I’m on my belly paddling out, cool water starts to creep up my back. A wave comes. I duckdive. HOLY FUCKING, CHRIST! My body’s electrified with cold energy. If I was asleep earlier, I’m motherfuckin’ wide awake now. I’m so cold that my arms cut through the water like chopper blades; I’m fast. The morning jolt sends me to the middle of the pack. Within the first couple minutes a set approaches. An Asian guy on my inside scratches but pulls out. I already have momentum. I paddle and kick with an unbound sense of freedom that I haven’t had in a while. There’s no restriction around my shoulders or back muscles. My feet feel weightless in the air as they recoil for the kicks. I pop up, staring down the line of a fast, marbley left. Sliding down the face, the wind makes my sleeves flap. To think I surfed liked this for a month in Bali.

     I get a deep bottom turn, come up the face, and get a nice, little top-turn off the lip. I pump and set up for a second one before the ride ends. The cold is nothing but a memory. I’m exuberant, paddling back to the lineup with a purpose. Back in the pack I feel confident in my trunks. Suckers, I’m thinking. Pussies . . . all in their wetsuits. It ain’t that cold.

     Again, another wave. Even though it’s crowded, I’m on another one. A guy watches me as he paddles over the shoulder. I check turn off the lip and reenter right in front of him. I feel so loose and light. I get my second turn on the inside section, putting these A.I. shorts to work!

#

     Fuck my ass, why the fuck is it so cold now? I look at my watch. It’s only been a half an hour. Everyone’s calm in their wetsuits, bobbing in place and waiting for the sets. While I, I’m paddling to the left and right and through the pack, moving just to stay warm. Cool as cucumbers, the wetsuits don’t move. I envy them. I’m an idiot.

#

     After that second wave, my luck runs out. My teeth are chattering so hard that I wonder if I’m wearing them down. I paddle all the way to 30^th St. and back to 26^th, just to keep the blood flowing. Every time I have a wave, someone is on it. I look like I’m aggressive, trying to go for everything, but I’m just plain freezing.

     Back at 26^th, I finally run into Francis. I tell him about my debacle. He laughs. The crowd thins out, and just like yesterday the waves start to turn on for us. We have it good for the next hour, sharing the spot with one guy, but the wind turns on, and even though it’s juicy it’s getting choppy.

     I tell Francis I can’t take it anymore and head back in. Even though the boardshorts were a bad call, I still got in a solid two hours, but I think I’ll keep the wetsuit around a little bit longer. 

WELCOME BACK KHANG, WED 23MAY2012 MOR

Crew: Khang then Francis

Time: 0700-1000

Conditions: 3-4 FT+, inconsistent, sunny, warm, fun.

     I’m supposed to meet Khang at first light, but it’s already 0630 when I stumble out of bed. I’m tired. I could easily pull the sheets over my head, shut off the alarm, and go back to bed. What’s one day of surf? I could sacrifice a day, right? Does it really matter that I gave my friend my word that I’d be out there in the water with him right now? He’ll understand. I can see the text now: “Sorry, bro. I was sooooo tired. Couldn’t wake up. You surfing tomorrow?”

     I think about it . . . and think about it. A sliver of light blue sky is visible through the shutters. I think about Khang out there, looking back to see if I’m on the sand. . . . Get up.

#

     There’s an open parking spot on the hill at 26^th, in front of the park. Easy parking is a bad sign. The rough, flaky skin around my heel scrapes against my wetsuit as I pull it on. When I get to the sand, there is a sea of people. Some guy in front of 26^th with long hair waves at me. He’s next to someone with a shaved head. It’s them, I think. I wave back, do a half-ass warm up, and paddle out.

     I get closer and closer with each stroke. Khang catches a closeout that fizzles towards the inside, but there’s a problem. It’s not Khang. It’s some other sexy guys with long, black hair. We look at each other, telepathically communicating. He gives me a look that says, “I don’t know you.”

     And I look away in a sheepish manner, thinking, “Oops.”

     It’s crowded where the Khang imposter is surfing, so I paddle north, where I finally spot him. He’s on a blue fish. We give each other a hug in the water. I haven’t seen him since The Battle of Bruticus Maximus, the battle that we fought and lost horrendously (http://elportosurf.blogspot.com/2012/02/smile-now-cry-later-sat-sun-25.html). However, after tearing his knee up, I’m surprised that he went from crutches to surfing again in three months, a speedy recovery. He’s just gotten back from Texas. “How was it?” I ask.

     “Good!” We pause for a moment and look over the horizon. The wave’s too small. “It’s a different way of living out there. Over here people work to survive. Out there . . . there’s money to be passed around.”

     “Yeah?”

     He talks about his brother’s lush apartment and how it costs the same amount that a studio costs over here. “It’s tempting,” he says, “but . . .”

     I already know what’s coming next.

     “We got this. . . .” He holds out his hands. We both look into the blue sky. A seagull flies overhead. The next wave looks mooshy, but he turns around and scratches into it. It’s racy, but down the line, close to shore, he hops out the back without his board.

     I get the next right, forcing two backside turns. They’re ugly, but they count. When I paddle back I say, “But there’s the gulf, right? There’s surf out there.”

     He breaks his gaze over the ocean and looks at me. “Yeah, but that would be like ten hours away.”

     “Yeah, huh? You’d really have to make a weekend out of it.”

     He nods.

     I see a bump in the distance, but there’s a bigger bump behind it. Being a selfish surfer, I keep my secret. When the first bump passes, a peaky, five-footer forms out the back. I paddle out to meet it, but I’m too deep, so I let it pass. I turn around and Khang’s nowhere to be seen. Fucker, I’m thinking . . . he got it.

#

     He has to go to work, so he catches one more in. The tide’s come up, and it’s slowed things down. I make my way towards 26^th, and just when I think about leaving I see Francis in the lineup. “You just missed Khang,” I say.

     “Yeah, I know. I saw him.”

     Francis brings his smile, and he also brings the waves. Sets start coming in around four-feet. This isn’t supposed to be happening. We’re both exchanging waves, mostly rights.

     “Francis,” I say, “I’m so fucking tired.” I’m smiling, but my back muscles are still burning from yesterday’s session and from all the surfing as of recent.

     The onshore gets stronger, but the sets are still coming in. The water’s choppy but still with size and shape. I get the next monster right. Francis is on the inside watching, so I draw an aggressive line for a critical bottom turn. The speed forces my knees to bend, but I hook the lip too high. I whack it, but I go over it, left behind.

     Francis paddles up. He reads the frustration on my face. “That was a good setup,” he says. 

#

     The wind makes the shape even worse, but we’re satisfied, having caught a good window. Francis comes over for cereal and cup o’ noodles. I can’t help myself, so I also make a batch of dark chocolate brownies before we hit the PS3 for a couple hours. I meet with my friends for dinner in the evening. I hope it’s the beginning of a good summer.